Writer

whenever one feels 
oneself boxed in
creatively whenever atall
one becomes patterned
one must break oneself
apart and excise all
pride and leave it aside –
and then set out again
frightened and unknowing
as ever toward the
language of silence
in the very direction
of truth toward which
one pointed oneself
in the first place…
only this way
one remains
a writer.

Paint with Words

Let me paint you a picture with my words

And show you how I see this life

Let me paint you a picture with poetry

And help heal away the strife

Let me give you an image in your mind

One painted with songs, the sweetest kind

Let me give you my words to paint a portrait

And show you that words are artistic too

While painting you an image out of sonnets

I do the thing that poets always do

Giving you a picture, a photo from my lips

Dipping into what makes the poems slip

So let me paint you a picture with my words

Let me raise my voice and sing you a song

And paint this image that's in my head

For I don't know if it'll last and for how long

I will paint as I write this poem

And then I will finally show you my home

Dreams and Wishes at 11:11

I have fallen asleep imagining the phantom caress of your fingertips.
I have drifted off underneath the moonlight, imagining stars in your eyes
and the aurora borealis above our entwined fingers.
I have slipped into slumber feeling the way your holy Soul moved within
my very own ventricle chambers, where I keep my tears,
locked safely away from prying fingers. I have dreamt.

Short, sweet syllables whispered under galaxy-light
explode with helium in the heart of the believing girl.
You know the love I hold for the night sky, you know.
The wishes we made at 11:11 will come true, for I shall not ask Fate
but ask my own strength of will. I will bend the lands and move the Seas.
I have dreamt. I have dreamt.

The dream is no different to the reality.
I still fall asleep feeling glistening touches,
bright with ultra-violet light, scarring the flesh.
Only now I dream, and I know you dream,
and I know that dreams and reality are interchangeable.
Dreams and reality are interchangeable,
we will make it so.

You Realize

You realize that you mean very little.

You realize that your heartbeat is only a tiny part of the collective Pulse.

You realize that you could vanish tomorrow, and only the trees outside your bedroom window would notice that the light no longer flickers on and off. 

You realize that you are made of borrowed atoms, that you are composite and connected infinitely to a chain of beings.

You realize that nothing that you touch will last very much longer than you, except the hard hard crust of this turning world.

You realize that if you stand in one place for a very long time in completesilence, it is as if you are simply a part of the wallpaper.

You realize that no one really cares who you are or why you choose to keep walking, and that it is expected of you that you will keep quiet and create.

You realize that you have a duty to the cosmos to keep writing, that you are not designing poetry and prose out of enjoyment, but out of obligation.

You realize that you mean more than you thought.

You realize that your work means the universe.
You realize that you will slowly vanish, but your ink will remain, and that someone somewhere will feel something because of a single word you wrote.

You realize that you were born to write something that lasts forever.

Memory?

Are you just a mirror of my past?

Just a memory that didn't last?

Are you a figment of my imagination?

Friend or foe, or both that combination?

Are you there and yet gone?

I wonder what went wrong?

Are you a ghost of the person I knew?

I wonder... did I even know you?

I wonder many things about you...

The friend that I miss, I once knew!

To Write a Poem...

I said to you:

breathe, feel, let the words pour out of you

because they already live within your marrow.

I said to you:

poetry comes as easily as a heartbeat,

unthinking, pounding, every quiver of your ventricle

a stanza, every rush of blood to your arteries, a couplet.

I said to you:

you are the Lord of your own life. 

Bring forth light, banish the darkness—

if you wish it, it will Be.

But now,

the revisionary Messiah,

I say to you:

it is not so.

Poetry is a fickle mistress. 

She is tantalising, her hips swaying down the street,

bringing waves of longing like a storm to a ship: wood beckons

the end on water. Now and again, a flash of lightning words,

illuminating a landscape untouched, unexplored, 

beautiful without understanding. But the thunder rolls,

and we are deafened. These words, these lines,

these little rhymes and rhythms that we clutch to us

like blankets to a child: they dissipate, light smothered by darkness.

Poetry is as a storm: she comes as suddenly as she goes,

and Heaven above, she will leave you with nothing if she can.

And Poetry, that woman with the Devil inside of her,

will make sure that you mean nothing until 

you have captured the words and wrung them to the page.

Oh, but the lack of pretty sentiments and

heartfelt metaphors in this may not fulfil you.

I warn you, though, you hopefuls with flowers in your hair:

To write a poem,

be ready for war.

Just a thought, Not a poem...

While we (human beings) think ourselves so advanced, we really are just another animal species and our evolution has not changed since when we first climbed down from the trees and asked why? While we keep getting answers to this eternal question, it was not that long ago that we made the leap from eating with our hands to using the fork. ( It did not become common in northern Europe until the 18th century and was not common in North America until the 19th century.) We were burning witches at the stake, and today we still, stone women to death, if they are married and raped in some parts of the world. Enlightenment and evolutionary changes seem to be few and far between. We follow like sheep, let our passions erupt, oft times without thinking. We let others do our thinking for us, instead of doing our due diligence, and researching for ourselves. While popular opinion can be vociferous and difficult to go against, were it not for the strong and independent thinking, we would still be tortured and maimed because we did not follow the church's views. Want people to hear what you have to say? Present with love. It is a much stronger force than anger or hate. Anger and hate may win in the short run, but love will reign supreme in the long run, because people want to feel warm and fuzzy, not fearful and angry.

The End of June

The old house across the way,

cracked wood, cracked spines inside,

plays the gramophone constantly.

Merry-go-round hymns float gently

on summer breezes: slowly.

They dance on sunbeams,

gliding through the open window.

Fairy dust hangs in the light

and waits to touch a hopeful heart.

I am warmed by carousel laughter

and piano notes. Here, trapped:

confined to this armchair:

I watch June sail by.

Rain

I feel so complete when I'm in the rain

I feel no sorrow... I feel no pain...

I let the rain kiss upon my skin,

I'll let it do it again and again...

It may give me a cold but I don't care!

There's a calming sensation from grass to air.

The feeling of love I will always gain...

Because my heart falls open as I stand in the rain.

Happy Birthday Gao

(written on June 18th for Gao's Birthday)

This day is special...

Do you know why?

It's your Birthday,

Time to float so high!

So spread your wings,

And come fly with me.

We shall go to places,

That allow us to be free.

This day is special...

Because it celebrates you!

I have nothing to offer,

But a love that's true.

Always and Forever...

I will always love you!

So Happy Birthday my Dark Fae,

I hope your wishes come true!

Spider

As you crawl across my skin

This fear overwhelms me again

I watch you crawl across my arm

How could something so small be any harm?

I'm sitting frozen in fear

As eight tiny legs crawl near

I think about swatting you

But fear freezes me is nothing new

I make little sounds because I'm afraid

I fear you'll bite me with poison you made

But eventually you crawl off my arm

I wonder if that was your charm?

Let Loose the Waterworks

Let loose the waterworks

Allow myself a good cry

Tears fall on my pillow

Sometimes I don't know why

Let loose the waterworks

Try to let the pain fade away

The hurt can be unbearable

When there are no words to say

Let loose the waterworks

And allow my soul to heal

Memories will come and go

That's how I must always deal

Lust (Draven wrote this with me)

The night is ours

We cling and claw

Nothing but lust

Love is the law

This is our time

We kiss and touch

Love takes over

It is never too much

We need each other

Like moth to a flame

Our yearning for each other

Doesn't need to be tame

We come together as one

Neither could hold back anymore

You take me in completely

I reach all the way to your core


*note: Stanzas by Me are in Italics
Stanzas by Draven are in Bold

Water's Edge

Incited by the primal joys of night,

I swim inside the lights of the sky.

I cast off along the tempting shores

Wetting the moonlight trail, kiss by kiss,

That I might find my way back home.

My tongue, lips, and my fingers travel,

Living on sweet milk and caramel heights,

Through suffocating jungles of delight.

The dark is Lit by a fire I merge with my own,

Burning to its great and final collapse.

A heap of sizzling embers hiss and steam

And finally sleep at the water’s edge.

Tomorrow's Breath

today I hope for tomorrow's breath,

once I resurface after swimming

from my dreams to yours,

breathing through your lungs,

stealing memories, ones

I could never own.

Sighs of Rain

Let me kiss the earth of your hand
and plant my scent on trembling lands
numb with flashing hunger for thumbs
to circle my nipples, for palms
to carry my breasts like they were
vessels for cupping memory
while waiting for the sighs of rain

I Walk This Trail

So many times I walked this trail
In search of things I cannot find
My love is with me holding my hand
His eyes are always ever so kind

So many times I walked this trail
To a place that only he can show me
To make love in the hollows of the woods
Where both our souls could always run free

So many times I walk this trail
This time it's in my deepest dreams
I've been here many times with you
Many lifetimes it does always seems

Heaven, The Life After

I feel the warmth upon my face as I enter the land of God's good grace,
Friends and loved ones gone before, waiting here beyond the door.
With open arms they welcome me, amazement in my eyes they see.
They look so well and at their best, beauty beholds them now they rest.

I walk across the grass so green, the greenest grass I've ever seen,
I jump and skip and bounce on air, it's almost like there's nothing there.
A sky of blue, not a cloud in sight, perpetual day no darkest night.
Every flower is in full bloom, undefined colours of every hue.

The streams and rivers crystal clear, no rubbish or decay found here.
The sea is calm and turquoise blue, I long to test it, wouldn't you?
The softest sand beneath my feet, at the waters edge where they both meet.
The warmest waters gently flow, bathing me from head to toe.

A city built of alabaster walls, where translucent light eliminates the halls.
Theatres of music and concerts too, magnificent galleries for all to view.
Amazing sights for me to see, I just wander in, there's no entrance fee.
Libraries stacked with books galore, history, science and many more.

The celestial sun does forever shine, it's a perfect temperature all the time.
Orchards here overflow with fruit, a taste in itself that is quite exquisite.
I'm told it will help my soul to restore, pick what I like, there is plenty more.
This ethereal plain is a pure delight, it's my new home, my God given right.

There is nothing here to cause me fear, the Lord protects within his sphere.
An infinity of perfect peace, from the toils of earth I am now released.
I have landed on a higher realm, in perfect harmony to forever dwell.
So believe when I tell you my dear friends, you cannot die, life never ends.

Story of a Girl

Let me tell you a story

A little rhyme if you will

It's a story about a girl

Who couldn't stay still

She likes to write sonnets

She dances with a fury

She'll paint you a dream

All the while she'll worry

Do you know of this girl?

The one I speak of in this rhyme?

If you don't know her yet

Then I'll give you a little time

She has many unsaid wishes

All her hopes and her dreams

Nothing could stop this girl

Or so it sometimes seems

Have you figured it out yet?

Do you know who she might be?

If you don't I feel sorry for you

Because this girl, she is me!