Spoken

We often see trauma, something to scrape a heart, tiptoeing

ripples. It reminds us, where memories soar, condemning a

conscience. I watch you in my absence, lost in my study, and

ever congested. It’s an anxious miracle, to want for life,

afraid of life. My world: Is it isolated, where I see a sandbox,

as opposed to a suffering soul? Indeed, I’m there, dying,

crying at a circus. How to carry it, the heaviest rose, a

timeless pain? We walk a poodle, to raise a vulture, something

eating at a lining. I couldn’t speak, and I wouldn’t speak, and

art was raging. It’s near a furnace—my life, staring at a hand,

one to live unknown. But find comfort, where rain is a gift,

indeed, a job to do! I’ll float a storm, to grip a prayer, kneeling

at a portico. Its everso complicated, to find it there, screaming

at faces. It doesn’t escape, featured in psyches, an all life

cinema. So I commend you, where I dare evade you, falling to

a shaggy carpet.    

More to Fly

Unravel her soul, strata for strata, and witness art, and witness

tears. Pass a remedy, a sky of love, a sagic wand. I see her in

tank tops, denims and tennis shoes. There she is, typing a novel,

wiping pain, lunged into a battlefield. It takes courage, to

overpower hurt, chiseling an outcome. Such endeavor, a sober

journey, feeling an influx. Flee not a complication, found, and

clawing for success. I’m pitching flames, love, ever to watch a

storm. Let not a day perish, where art wasn’t touched, a restless

night. Launch a force, absorb a texture, and get lost in practice.

Indeed, muse and be free, if only for a moment, grapple for

freedom. Venture every crevice, a mind of ideas, but narrow it

down. Tackle a beating heart, extract primal chi, piercing starry

waves. This is life, untamed in our fervor, to cushion an impact.

Unbolt and touch clouds, to wander vineyards, plucking plums.

Take notes, and pull minds, exhaust a text. Review, fully

enamored, enlove with creation. Purchase a trestle, and wax it

with literature; and count symbol to symbol, to set a tone, where

Spirit reigns supreme.   

Battlefield

I’m twice-born, a passport to hell, gripping and grieving life.

Speak of happiness, a crooked design, as coquettish as a

kiss. I love it in degrees, the eyes of a child, to soon feel

pressures. What am I: a fleet of wishes, a jaded muscle, to

spoil a longstanding dream? I’m a cedar-chest, filled with

hopes, speaking to grandmother. I’m something more, a

golden cross, socially crucified. I’m, too, a teacher, to touch

regrets, proud to earn an A. It’s more the aches, the roots of

angst, crawling through pits. I thought of life, to want a

forbidden, mourning forbidden. How would I give, a broken

soul, fraught with wants, and desperate for life? I was too a

dream, a fastidious stream, narrow and judgmental. But I’m

twice-born, a purple aroma, a sky-blue sorrow. Every fiber,

a sudden glance, everso dusty, and filled with demons. We

feel this way, a dusky moon, damn near astonished. I’m

disheartened, feeding pigeons, and gripping clumps of grass.

It’s was ever a sun, a fabric of happiness, chasing a rainbow.    

Seesaw Rivers

I can’t escape it, a thought to linger, to feel malaise. So I’m

uneasy, to witness pain, grieving long-distance. I remember

this feeling, to grip a pillow, and die this feeling. I can’t

conjure long-term joy, away from your eyes, pilling lemons.

A dresser becomes a bolder, where a mirror, points and

mocks. So envision makeup, a miracle, effacing woes. I

couldn’t imagine, the detriment, of forcing silence—a stifled

voice. I look at birds, confined to chirping, wingless in a

winged world; and squirrels and ducks, a touch of simplicity,

striving for depth. Oh to hear you, a bit reserved, a product

of circumstances. If only perfection, to yield pride, and die

with every texture. But life is fixed, a bag of trail-mix, to toss

away raisons. I was tossed, love, and so willingly, fully

unaware. It becomes natural, to dislike pain, to protect a

broken heart. To live is to see, despite a slant, a world of

injustice. But it helps little, to feel infraction, longing for a

friend. So we write to feel, to google swans, found in love.     

I feel malaise, and see a portrait, an image of a teenage girl.

She lives in feelings, keen with logic, buried in what ifs. I

watch a cinema, where all is perfect, and cats are shooting

dice. We laugh and yell, over steak and onions, proud to feel

a river beating. But our drums are unsteady, sorely affected,

staring at a windowsill. Our skies are bleeding, if only a

segment of life, bound to a world of what ifs. There’s only

so much, to witness destruction, amidst a voiceless room.

Know that I stare, peering at confusion, concerned of a future;

and never could lie, a part was played, where forgiveness

gave up a ghost. We live partial, searching for a payoff, where

altruism is voiceless. We could imagine, a faultless world,

where children take precedence; but faultless would find fault,

intolerable of the faultless. Its mere design, for life is partly

drama, where trauma is a thunderbolt. I speak to unlock, a

world of wisdom, to heal but a fraction; where to see, is a

soul conflicted, trekking through struggles.

Cotton Candy

It’s mythical to see you, my dear beloved, asearch for something

pure. But every gesture a caveat, where hearts roam freely, and

pose as enigmas. It’s deeply surreal, to thumb a palm, staring

into windmills. There’s a tinge of saintly, a laconic expression, as

complicated as jigsaw thoughts. I come with ambition, a sage’s

soul, partly embarrassed; for love impassions, a nonchalant aura,

immortal in its implications. I’m soon exhausted, to claim a star,

to gambol with joy. So instill a soul, where ripples bleed, longing

for a soothing whisper; for we cuddle flowers, to paint a vision,

mourning impasto pains. I envision you, running to luminosity,

sheltered by a storm. Anger colors disposition, fixed in its

expression, tearing open a teal sky. But ever a stippled love,

trekking dot to dot, suffering upon a spectrum. It was dearly

ballet, word to verse, rehearsing lines. We played it coy, applying

arithmetic, stranded in a dessert. I envied your smile, to keep it

secret, fueled by your laughter. Such was symmetry, a touch of

gold, a need for wildlife. It was ever a venture, a fey aroma, loving

us faintly.  

Vase

I’m pregnant with love, to ponder a newborn, to touch a tiny

finger. It’s a beating heart, to irrigate a passion, an imperfect

soul. I drift and move, ever to feel, a flagrant poetess. She

lives a metaphor, filled with fragments, tipsy and staggering.

I shivered to read, a magnet voice, on the fringe of being wild.

Every art is melodic, moving apace, pulling its reader. I

venture ablaze, to touch a temple, a majestic fane. Cry my

daymare, a woman’s angst, as proud as a pyrrhic victory.

I’m pregnant with love, to map a psyche, lost in sable eyes.

Oh my agenda, to scrape a Prime Mover, to dispel a passion.

But what if—a passion of spells, to un-chill a nervous

obsession? It’s a screenplay, and everyone’s an actor, bent

on hell; for it lives, a myriad of passions, clashing with

something normal. I rupture—to count syllables, where a spark

sprouted a shelter. It’s mystic, love, to dine with fears, warm

enough to kiss. Tape a rhythm, a glint of gold, as bold as,

“Stay the night.” Otherwise perish, strangling firewood,

daunted with screams.  

Trees are Growing

Gaze upon stars, my love, for a fever burns. It’s us, my love,

found and free, pitching obscenities. I love you more, where

a tear fashions a smile, and fey touches a heart. We died so

young, semi-abandoned, counting footprints. I love you more,

where pain is counseled, and love implodes. We’re a vault

of bright lights, absorbing volts, and filled with passions.

How torn a past, fraught with dreams, yearning for ideals. I

push you to achieve; and you push me to live; for I’m holding

on, but proud to love, a sculpture of God’s. We’re miracles,

even breathing petals, beatifying turmoil. Every meal’s a

portrait, deeply affected, where scars fashion resilience. It

was ever our lives, molded by fate, and saturated with Spirit.

I’m enflamed, counting stars, wrestling a ghost. You move

forward, a warrior of prayers, filled with quasi-visions. Let

us soar, crashing clouds, a soul of pressures. I love you more,

where wounds heal, often a silent storm. It’s eternal our hearts,

found in an afterworld, pleading matrimony. 

Love IV

I give you one vow, the root of love, to transcend an ocean;

for paradise is love, a stage of hypnosis, ardent and

overwhelming. We elicit love, abscond with hearts, and

fail the many facets of love; and still, ever this love,

sailing frequencies, to perish this love. So genteel a

thought, captured in unreality, where you dance hung-over,

for we never play pretend. Love’s a maestro, to dictate

through wands, ever rapacious—for neural ecstasy. I light

a lamp, and pardon pain, where all is addiction. It’s a

fairytale, even a wildfire, the mysteries of a poet. You

vomit and scream, to ruin a blouse, standing mid-room

spellbound. We unmask, lie and dine, to pass out with a

fever. You give me love, where others set sail, found in a

darkroom. Your art is grand, a train of metaphors, published

in multiple magazines. It’s opalescent, and ever dreamlike,

courting a dry-spell. In love, it’s nearly surreal, to stand, lit

with pangs, feeling something quasi-religious.

Wingspan

It’s morning, love. I’m fresh for a ritual, awestruck, wiping

tears. A candle burns, a reed speaks—such rhapsody. I’m

near a heart, pondering something chaste, quilted in diamonds.

It’s easy, love, to count your soul, as radical as love. I see

you in moments, a living tent, an upcoming novel. So

research, love. Become an opus, a mystic nib, a parasol for

souls. It’s fast moving, to catch a tear, smiling through a

storm. Such prestige, to seal a pit, and walk a friend. I love

you come darkness, ever this life, captured in a photograph.

Our hearts, a gallery of trinkets, a fever of night-waves. I feel

you, sorting through dreams, affected by reality. It was ever

our souls, constructing life, where we yearn to see. Reach a

skylight, love. Croon a seraph. This is our days, a bucket of

differences, a sea of similarities. How to atone, tugging clouds,

staring at mirrors? I live it in a forest, conversing jaguars,

pulling at owls. It’s a miracle, love, to ever bear witness, to feel

mystic hands. Through it all, nurse a passion, live an anthem. 

Broken

I’m a fission of parts, a poet broken, lost in rumination. I

raise your name, a perfect stranger, founded in turmoil.

It’s a windfall, and a sudden downcast, to ever compose.

Music is dying, the texture of dolor, a speaking manikin.

It’s ever sublime, and ever received, an alchemic dream.

I like you becomes something special, a meeting of wills.

But tomorrow is bruised, a writer’s nib, a woman’s

passion. I couldn’t forget you, ever immortal, a spirit’s

halo; and never forget me, a broken poet, growing wings.

It’s unphysical, a meeting of souls, an amulet vision.

I’m a fission of parts, a mystic tunic, found in rumination.

Something’s pictureless, raging and moaning, drifting

a mental sphere. It’s ever your name, a tender leaf, a

fabulous rapture. It’s more the rain, a spirit’s nectar, a

sudden inrush. Such splendor, for a broken poet, a

thousand pages of doctrine. I’m awestruck and shattered,

nibbling sickness.      

To Want

To want for more, a greater self, adrift a daydream. I need

for life, the rarest gem, to utter a perfect sentence. We edge

a passion, a deadly fringe, totally awkward. I’m soon to

laugh, left alone, hosting auditions. So many classes, a

featured atmosphere, forced to engage. Life is gentle this

way, quelling insecurities—for a greater good; and look

at her: a wordsmith, standing stalwart, gesturing with

palms and fingers. I stare in awe, sifting knowledge, a

walking robot. Days are moving, a scythe to soul, ever a

hermit. It’s an urge to long, lost in composition, chiseling

every segment. But life is uncooked, as raw as an

introduction, where walls form fortresses. Once so gentle,

prior to fear, a fever for others. I’ve grown aloof, deeply

absorbed, open to like-willed souls. Art is a paradox,

fraught with murky ponds. It’s a spear, even a fiber,

driving a vision, a need for understanding. 

Change

Unfasten love and sidereal motions. I scream so heavy. I

water so gently. A side of me is death, tearing mountains,

afraid to blink. I’m low enough, composing love, blaring

Adele. I never knew, a ton of years, seducing misery. She

cries my name, yanks a heartstring, pulling at fingertips. I

love her music, afloat a dream, as coquettish as love. I’m

dying a newborn, twisted in life, a mystic blizzard. Such

abandon—and reckless thoughts, holding it together.

If not for love, the fairest impulse, and my heart is gone. I

see her, hiding worries, where I guide this nightmare. Has

it happened, a slight transition, a feyic shift; for something

lives, enlove with depth, tugging at an inner prison. It’s a

mirror, a seraph’s coal, something organic. I get lost,

clawing back home, waving at a psych. I can’t escape, a ton

of change, a land of crops. Coffee is but reason, to spark a

cigar, craving something long gone; for it was comfort, a

mother’s words, a familiar harvest. I sing a new song, to

nibble a new fruit, to reap a new self.  

Fabulous

To see you, gliding a thought, an ardent vision. I get lost,

to titillate a soul, captured by introductions. Your name, an

aphrodisiac, hard won and overtaken. We welcome waves,

close to touch, and breaking down. How low the pavement,

warring fair beauty, screaming, “My Wellbeloved.” Tie a

covenant, sailing wildflowers, dying to glow stars. You’re

a symbol, speckled in jewels, crying, goodbyes. I found

you in pain, gripping silk, to crochet a miracle. It was fire

to life, a sea to quake, a tender wound. I love you in Prada,

sipping champagne, in knee high boots. Our tempo—is

allergenic, a ghost to sneeze, wheezing softly. It’s erotic—

this dance, where nothing is concrete. But you’re a gemstone,

parasailing, and tiptoeing pain. I’m spellbound, staring at a

phantom, a mind haywire; for light to date, alive a myth,

as winsome as mindstuff. But still, forever lingers, a nightly

whisper, even a linchpin. So irrigate a soul, where words

form statues, as torn as history.  

Love III

It’s your nectar, love, holding me close. It’s a feeling, love,

driving a soul. How does it feel, love: an unborn color,

both yin and yang, even fennel scars? It’s so humid, athirst

for more, falling into orgasms. We’re nearly foolish, and

sorely vexed, dying to get closer. My irk and smile, a

tornado within, to intuit my hurt. I run to karma, to jaunt a

passion, melting morning dew. I’m weak, my love, everso

strong, and panting softly. You discovered me, drenched

in actions, to ignite a comet. Such an appetite, nibbling at

a soul-print, a young symphony. I feel you here, typing

gently, constructing sentences. You write through me, a

poetic temblor, to polish forevermore; indeed, every word,

a keystone, lunging into a future. I’m gravid, love, with a

want to give, carving a porcelain vase. It was ever your

name, speckled in spotlights, serenading souls. I called

you, where others failed, ever to ensoul love; and you

answered, crying my heart, while singing apparitions.   

Lovelock

I topple into thoughts, weakened by my fears, strengthened

by your presence. I rarely measure up, taking this for

granted. The grass is evergreen, cities ever bright, to stand

on your shoulders. Our artful souls, caught in rapture,

walking mercy. You give it grace, pitching coals, a pyre

high. The gall of my name, plucking a floret, trekking a

sylvan; and such vim, dancing eyes, gems pulling a sun. So

bright a garret, to ponder love, and samba pain. I lament my

voice, harsh in the winds, digging a grotto; but you forgive,

something so lightly, keen to blow a kiss. I catch and ponder,

a mystic gesture, tracing your eyebrows. I’m sated in your

heart, to heave and wheeze passions. Our spell is mythical, a

lover’s well, filtered by bias. We flirt and jest, off-centered in

sorrow, alive and flaming in strengths. Such trenchant rain,

and piercing intellect, a fire of seduction. What to give: a

wealth of angst, a city of love, and ever my faith. Nothing

matters, neither pure nor mire, but only our souls. 

Out of a Forest

If you knew me, would you love me? I ask, pruning a

thicket, drinking vinegar. I’ve sorely wept, scraping hell,

only to soar through abyss. Could you love me, ever privy,

mulling over demons? I ask, ashamed to ask, tugging at

sullen hearts. Every symbol’s a dream, a phantom’s soul,

cultic in wavelengths. But I grieve, to live a façade, the best

of thoughts. I speak not, freely unspoken, a portrait smile.

If you knew me, would you love me: broken, mourning,

and chiseling away at shadows? Of course, it’s ever your

love, an opus texture, intoxicating stars. You see, and grip,

and grip, and see. It lives surreal, to mine for treasures,

where soul senses a black cloud. Every tinge, a bending

compass; every change, a yielding miracle. I watch, a set of

swelling eyes, ecstatic for love. Such reality, tearing into

life, a treble bass. I hold you forever, a boundless love, as

sacral as confirmation; for it was ever this soul, screaming in

terror, searching for a photic voice.    

Possessed by Self

I shouldn’t be angry, to see self, possess power, away from

self. It’s a paradox, a high vs. low, where extremes rupture.

Something was altered, a fallen manic, nearing a field of

dangers. I cry purple, yanking a russet sky, reaching for

teal tulips. I love it in jasmine, a beautiful rugby, striped

with grays. Every art a fang; and every soul an art. Fangs

become treasures, and souls become wings. I’ll meet you

in waves, to prune a heart, exotic as opal plums.

I shouldn’t be angry, to till soils, ever possessed, an element

of self. It’s a hydrant, a broken seal, lashing out into a city.

So play a guitar, strum a tear, in a vineyard of drums. Indeed, 

something lives, ever in focus, a fist full of flowers. I love it

in turquoise, a woman’s blouse, spotted with daisies. Every

night a day; and every core a sun. Nights become gems, and

suns become cosmic. Indeed, I’ll feel you in pains, to scrape

a star, as moving as ocean blue.           

Torch

Life is triumph, war to war, grieving in silence. So probe a

contour, a mental disposition, staring at toys. I moved one,

to capture years, the pains of a clown. A woman watched,

faint in trance, stalking through a childhood. I nodded,

and walked away. I left her slanted, peering into sludge,

living through a kite. But we’re wingless, ever to freefall,

landing near friction. I gazed as a child, reaching into

chaos, far beyond my days. I knew that pain did damage,

genetically disposed, bouncing freely. It spoke a language,

a rapture of kettles, where even smoke rained in heaviness.

A person grips strength, draining a cactus, enduring for

years; where one offers help, a group of months, pouring

out turmoil. Tools are acquired, where heaviness remains,

haunting a branded future. I see it this way, to give all, know

all, and suffer the same; for genetic is genetic. But I ponder

such therapy, where pain is reveled, ever explored in segments.   

Lumber Seal

It’s a different experience, more than heaviness, it’s a sense

of intelligence. It’s me, in me, a touch of strangerhood. I

puff a cigar, engulfed in presence, where silence is haunted.

Sleep is controversial, ever a storm, pushing froward a bed.

There’s shadowed contempt, to gnaw and claw, buffing a

tomb. I need right now, where only future is offered. So I

pray a distant event, tilling raindrops.

Something offers happiness, a set of events. I want for joy,

where a feeling’s rejected, unable to part sludge. What for

pastime, struggling each sentence, consecrating freedoms.

I reach for soils, roots within self, careful to maze through

mirrors. It was ever this time, a tempest wind, where coffee

fails to stimulate.

To ponder at length, a howling hawk, heavy in this station.

Even stillness is awkward, something probing me, a me that

feigns to be me. I bear an element, girded in malaise, ever

seated at my being. It’s rearing sorrow, a house of

melancholia. So I spark a feeling, to face daybreak, searching

for an upsurge.

Engine Oil

I reach for fate and life, ever bathing in ink, script to soul—

and soul to script. It’s deeper than dungeons, a tragic

beauty, rifted in alleluias. We’re anxious for glory, a

mirror’s stranger, popping, drinking, or smoking. I met

you while facing death, astounded at meeting death, a

terror for mining death. Such pensive days, fraught with

paradox, heavily heated in sadness. We claw a chimney,

for metaphorical soot, two in a half dozen stressing

passions.

Delusion so simple, a must escape, peering into valleys.

It’s so naked, a mixed perception, from cradle to grave.

How close our panic, sorely unbolted, climbing endless

staircases? I mumble, condemn self, and set sail skyward.

It was ever your style, such midnight glory, where I ignored

retribution, indulging anxious contemplation.  

Remembrance

Leave us not torn, my Lord. Rather open us to glory, where

fever permeates our chests caves. We gnaw upon camel’s skin,

bright eyed with fervor, trekking through heaven’s crevices.

It was ever a miracle, something scarred, molding a miserable

and broken wretch. Let the skies be opened, where doves

descend, and glory permeates. We come to partake, eager for

knowledge, radiating Christ. It was never our love, prior to

Love, but ever a gift: so withdraw not, my Lord. Let the gates

be opened, that angels may soar, from soul to earth; for the

kingdom is firm within, so come, make a place for us. We’ve

used a front door, my Lord: found upon a floor, my Lord,

kneeling for face and sword, my Lord. Is it not from womb—

our names unknown? What have You fashioned, Lord, ever to

forgive, else we perish Your crucible. If not for the Lord, death

would have swallowed us up. It was earth, covered in darkness,

and then there was light. It’s more than miracle, my Lord, a

fulgent beam, permeating gridlocks. 

Destiny’s Wheel

To freely fly, adrift a cloud, soaring through galaxies. I net

to cherish such a feeling, freefalling centuries; and there you

are: statuesque, beauty to my eyes, pleading your love. I

cry mahogany, fading into lilies, punctured by love. We

stand so nameless, more than strangers, aloof to paragraphs.

I argue for fate, often so cruel, to love you engulfed in

blackdamp. We rupture through futures, a wheel of

possibilities, laced in amore, and hummingbirds are gazing,

lilting imagination. I venture a city, to journey through

brown eyes, a trancelike fever; and there you are: picturesque,

honey to my taste, yielding your love. We love eternal, addled

by reality, refusing to gainsay love. I catch you, to jiggle dice,

betting all on a lucky four. I struck a ten, and thrice an eight,

only to land on love. I’m certain to unsure, and sure to

uncertain, riding destiny’s wheel.  

Asleep

Ever cryptic this faith of concrete webs grieving towards

nets. Upon impact we fractured—spread in fragments ever

to piece particles of fever. I mystic through eyes to

cultic this life, where padded greetings turn to fire. There’s

something there, an inward séance, a bouquet of stemmed

deaths. So many charades, a kettle of tears, nibbling roots

of a poison tree. I dared to mingle where terror tore a

mirror, transforming passions into frequencies. She

trekked nightmares ever to cascade souls, reaching for the

voices of mermaids. I’m something of a seashell more to

wrap in waves lunging towards a life-sound. We wake in

silence even to glisten weeping alchemic high-falls. I’m

there to scratch souls, ever to be searched. Our hearts torn

in surgeries, nestling ash, scribbling a midnight sermon. It’s

asleep mystic, raging through pathways, an abstract river.  

Presence (Memoir)

Its intrusive silence found in presence haunting its subject. I

gaze as pixels form images, as gravel forms portraits,

retiring drumsticks; for drums have lost bass, affected come

midnight, where pigeons rest upon windowsills. Steer

sorrow related to woe a fraction of a person consumed with

presence. A world is making joy, a phase yet to come,

facing a daunting task. It’s closer to majesty—closer to

silence; where sightly a heart wrenches wildly for an outcome.

I rue not a moment tackled by woe, pitching pennies in a

pond. I rue more a complication grounded in turmoil, cast

upon light. I wade through friction tottering upon conviction,

enlightened enough to suffer. It’s more a memory slipping

into night, where facts become blurry bruises. A foundation

has come forth, saturated with presence, affected by darkness.

We weave a fortress come daybreak settled in souls peering

into facades. It becomes obvious sipping a cup of coffee,

realizing a tint of company. Light dawns upon mind: “I feel

haunted.”    

Anxiety

Wrestle we must, caught in design, unable to break free. We,

therefore, muscle anxiety, reaping energies. I’ve fallin’ this

place, divided from self, melting into pixels. I must muse

beauty, a delicate ladybug, flying freely blinded. How to

mimic composure, as opposed to underlying turmoil? There’s

an entity, mocking my mirror, probing my person. It’s me,

lost in me, awaiting a burst of me. I can’t scribble it away,

pining over colors, flipping through pages. Initiative is needed,

a week’s retreat, drenched in prayerful articles. I speak,

undergoing a transformation, attached to anxiety. Moments

intensify, followed by comfort, where thought ruptures

energies. Ever we watch, accustomed to fey, moving millennia.

Traffic is presence, a silent strength, a flickering rain. I pause

as a gesture to self, calculating rhythm, tugged in several

directions. Its lively taboo, this life of lights, grounded in

electric dust; where clocks vacuum silence, crawling into

psyches.