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It does not fool me –
a visceral understanding
allows me to see through this veneer:
of stones solidified by struggle,
and cemented into place by insecurity.
Painted with patterns of positivity,
it deceives passersby so well
they never once think
this façade is framed by a fortification,
and just beyond that barrier
wanders a soul, tangled
in a maze of its own making.
This fortress fabricated from fear
is possessed by the spirit who haunts its passages,
and makes of it a prison,
but this confinement was not crafted consciously.
Tattered by trauma, the body became a bastion,
walls within which the mind withdrew
to dwell, like a shadow in a shell.
And just as I see through the false front,
I hear the stifled screams beneath the laughter.
You’ve become raveled in your refuge,
and though I mean to rescue you,
I will not destroy your defenses,
steal from you this sanctuary
and leave you naked to unknown elements –
no, I know this stronghold is a shelter,
Late night, Early birdA caffeine induced Insomnia,
I forgot what morning feels like,
I'm the first customer.
A shot of espresso in a cup of coffee
to forgot I'm tired
and a cigarette to feel normal.
It's cold, I'm shaking,
not sure if there's a relationship,
and here it is:
Early birds are trying
to get a head start
populating the roadways,
I want to tell them,
hey, man, hey!
the worm is a myth.
Fish Eye ViewIt’s not my fault
you expect a fish
to walk on land like you,
but maybe it is my fault
for taking the bait,
letting you yank me into the air
to deal with the questioning criticism,
“Why can’t you just breathe like everyone else?”
I know, you tell me you care
but I’ve swallowed enough worms
to know what that means -
You care what others say.
You care about the comments,
about how I have fins instead of feet.
You care about a perception of me,
because when you look
down into this pond,
you see a distorted reflection of yourself.
You don’t know the schools I swim with,
you don’t know the depths I live in,
so you don’t know
what’s beneath the surface.
So here’s the situation:
either I’ll live to be
a disappointment in your eyes,
or I’ll suffer to be
a disappointment in my eyes,
and guess whose eyes I care more about.
I’m sick of this suffocation,
so take your hook out of the water,
and stop trying to save me
Used to beSober used to be “normal”, but now it’s “not drunk”. Drunk used to be a destination, but now it’s a way-point. The shelves of brown liquor used to be an adventure, but now it’s a road map. The clock used to be fifteen minutes ahead, but now it’s as good a time as any. It used to be the future, but now it’s tomorrow.
It used to be a glass half-full, but now it’s ice. It used to be one drink, but now it’s another. It used to be a pleasure, but now it’s a tolerance. It used to be a cigarette, but now it’s a filter. It used to be today, but now it’s tomorrow.
Imperfect MachineMaybe from the dust of stars,
which span from one side of the universe to the other,
you were conceived to be a beacon of hope,
with a guiding light, dissolving the darkness of human life
to see what is and what could be,
to help others discover their own internal benevolence,
to make the world a brighter place,
And maybe you were meant
to be above and unfettered by this reality,
to give the clouds their silver lining,
but you were dragged down to this earth
by one who did not comprehend or appreciate what you are
and, injured and confused, you lost your way.
So maybe from the ebb and flow of existence,
which spans from the beginning to the end of time,
I was crafted like an imperfect machine
and sent after you, following a dimmed shimmer,
to see you for what you are,
to help you understand and believe,
to make you embrace and be,
And maybe I was meant
to stumble onward with faulty parts
and attempt to fix other broken creations,
learning to work with dysfunctional tools,
having a purp
Something about Spring in CaliforniaSomething about Spring in California
makes me want to
quit my job
start a new romance
write about Spring in California
So I did,
so I will,
so I am.
Something about Spring in California
makes me want to miss my exit,
so I can keep driving down the freeway
with the wind rushing through my open window,
even though I finished my cigarette
several miles ago
makes me want to get a drink
when the sun goes down,
so I can stand outside the bar
in the warm twilight and share with strangers
my feelings on the weather
makes me want to cut ties
with the world of responsibility
lose the feeling of my feet
on the ground, and float until my head
is in the blue, blue, slightly cloudy blue.
So I did,
so I will,
so I try.
Free Coffee and Forgotten PensCoffee at the bar – I mean, its not good, but it’s free and that’s a helluva lot cheaper than at the café. Free, like this pen I found on the ground outside the café, and I’m just happy to discover it works. It works, unlike me, because I quit my job to be a writer, so that’s why I like things that are free, like dive bar coffee, and forgotten pens. But back to the coffee; it tastes a bit better then you throw in a shot of whisky. The whisky isn’t free, but hey, they don’t serve Irish coffee at the café – I mean, they probably from upon it, but they know me, and if I brought a flask and kept it subtle, they probably wouldn’t care, but I don’t like diluting good coffee, but I have done it before. Let’s move on.
I quit my job because it was killing me. It wasn’t stabbing me in the chest or slitting my throat, but I’ll put it this way. This is what I thought when I decided, months in advance
Pre-AlcoholicA pocket full of black, narrow, chewed-up
straws with the trace residue of
gin and tonic from the dive bar where
they call me Caesar, where
men shooting pool bet five bucks
a game on a slightly slanted table, where
friendships are formed over a cigarette;
Half-gnawed ebony plastic tubes
when I reach for my wallet
symbolize the transition I knew was coming
from black coffee at the cafe
because it was never really about
the cappuccinos, just as it's not about
the cocktails, it's nothing more
than consuming a beverage at a location,
wearing away the novelty of an atmosphere
in search of inspiration to translate
into words etched in dark ink.
So, here's a compromise:
I'll get a cup of coffee,
with room for whiskey.
Why is war a perpetual element?Why is war a perpetual element
of our coexistence?
Words like gunshots, wild
from behind the barricades of our ignorances;
Insecurities planted like landmines
awaiting an innocent misstep;
Threats lobbed like bombs,
causing irreparable damage.
When can we put down
these weapons of love?
Disengage, disassemble and diffuse
these articles of destruction,
repopulate our minds
with thoughts and feelings
not deafened by the din of combat
so we can hear one another -
We can reach one another
with these arms.
Maybe... Perhaps...Maybe ... because our encounters are given as numbered...
Perhaps ... there could be no poets in the world, but there will always be a poem for you...
Maybe... I want to eat you and fill me of you because I don’t know when I will have you again…
Perhaps... where my heart burns and rests, I will find you, my beauty...
Maybe... because there is no map to the place where we go...
Perhaps... because all of your kisses are stolen…
Maybe... Darkness and light are the work of one mind, features of the same face, blossom of a single tree...
Perhaps... Something special for you, whispering to the foolish hearts like mine...
Maybe ... because you decided to not stay with me...
Perhaps ... I have to resign myself to run away with you...
Maybe... As long as there are eyes that reflect the passions of the eyes who look at you...
Perhaps... The eyes can’t fit on the face of the world, and the eyes do not fit into the earth to admire your beauty...
Maybe ... Suddenly I found
love poem for a pianistyou make me think about
how heavy negative space can be.
the space between your fingers,
the space between notes,
the space between us
in this small, soundproof room;
every empty millimetre
in my chest
She + She"I like how our feminine gazes cross, from dawn till twilight
This honeyed voice of her, every time
She says she's deeply fond of me. Mellifluous sounds.
The way we roll up in the green watered grass, innocently
Our burning hands melt under our youth's sun beams.
After years of wandering, I'm conviced
I finally found how I should live.
Her arm around my pleased waist."
said Laura, with an indelible grin on her chubby face.
"I especially liked our fortunate meeting
I remember everything, every purple clouds among morning mist
Sprites sowed seeds of love on my path.
When I saw her, one word bolted in my stunned mind,
This stunning aura of her, just left me speechless
Spring butterflies in my stomach,
Each new sapphire moon with this girl is a gift."
said Charlotte, tightly holding her darling's hand.
"A dyke? Meeeh it shouldn't exist, th
RosesRoses are read and violets are blue
I gave my entire heart over to you
You took it from me and dumped it in the trash
I should've known; beauty never lasts
Roses are brittle and violets will wilt
All I did was try and ask you for help
You took me under your wing and crept into my heart
Then you made sure to take your time in ripping me apart
Roses are dead, the violets are too
How did I ever convince myself to trust you
Still, it was nice to think I had a friend
To bad I was just a toy to you in the end
when you came into my life,
your brightened it so much.
your first kiss eased my pain
and began to set my soul right.
your touch soothes my worn nerves,
bringing my anxeity down with love.
your soft words bring me inner peace,
giving me the strength to continue on.
your embrace smothers me with love,
letting me know that you really care.
never leave me, always love me true.
Just as much, honey, as I love you.
GoodbyeRight now I don't want to remember,
And I hope I won't regret this,
But I know I won't want to forget this
Those final hours, and that lingering last kiss
Was the type of moment dreams dwell on,
No I won't forget this:
If that was the last time I held you,
And thought we'd have time,
The last time I tasted you,
And felt your skin slip against mine,
It's the type of goodbye
Writers write about,
Singers sing about,
And dreamers dream about.
Well, I'll scribble about missing you,
And about wilting flowers;
I’m always looking for a story, darling,
And 'goodbye' may be the best of ours.
Love calls, homeLove,
I hear you calling me home.
my heart is bleeding, alone.
Should I pick up the phone?
My love is calling me home.
And, he's calling me home.
Loud SilenceMy tongue cannot convey as much emotion as my hands can.
My hands can dance a dance of love & ecstasy, as I caress your beautiful skin.
My hands, they can express how much you mean to me with a gentle stroke of my thumb over your knuckle.
They can scream in anguish and displeasure as I pull my hand from yours, my futile attempt to
shield our awkward affection for one another from your eccentric, pushy family.
They can experience a euphoric sensation as they, ever so slowly, part your silky hair, silent pleasure emanating from my fingertips.
And they can aid in my eternal struggle, -to express my love for you and all you stand for, with a simple squeeze of your smaller hand.
our home bigger than the universe
a walk on the shores
on a quiet evening
and your hand rubs mine
in shades of crimson
melting across a vast horizon
the wind is beginning
to brush its chills
across my cheeks
the touch of your fingers
bring warmth inside me
that is manifesting today
counting every silent breath
I remind you of love's true lessons
that I follow thoroughly
into my veins gushing
like chants of a holy book
at the cusp of twilight
I hold you
in the image of my god
I am devoted
toward the presence of your soul
into my life
and I honor the oneness
of us together
blessed under the ecstasy
gifted by the divine
the whole of me belongs
but parts of me are divided
for the service of the ones
who need me
as much as you do
my home lies in your arms
but my world is extended
toward healing broken minds
and mending shattered hearts
that have been ignored and hurt
I want you to understand the plan
is higher and larger
than a universe dispersed
between you and me
Jack and CokeIf ever you asked me
to compare your kisses to a drink,
I would say,
Jack and Coke on the rocks.
But not the room-temperature-2-liter-bottle
kind of coke,
or the syrup-and-seltzer-water-from-a-nozzle
kind of coke,
I mean the go-down-to-the-7-eleven-and-buy-one-of-those-12-oz-glass-bottles-made-in-Mexico
kind of coke,
because your kisses are so sweet,
they must be made from pure sugar cane.
And they hit my mouth so cool,
but go down so warm,
and that bubbly sensation
mixes with the whiskey
so sweet and so smooth and
so, maybe it's too easy to drink, and
so I ask for another and another and
so you have to cut me off
because I get carried away
in the intoxication
of your kisses, like
Jack and Coke on the rocks.
And that is what I would tell you,
if you ever asked me
to compare your kisses to a drink.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More