Expression

Poetry uses
Sighs from hearts without concern.
Will I survive it?

It is always

like morning rises against

the essence of night,

I'm breathless in Your eyes

Your arms, Your touch;

the amber, violet, whites and reds

strewn majestically in battle:

the wild forest of darkness

succumbing to effervescence from

between two lungs.

The sunderings well my eyes

as the salve of ardor

lilts softly, gently

freely

like breath in the pines.

We sway in the words:

rocking on the ties of

linkages between the trees.

You illuminate my shadows

--sublime--

the tears I hold,

of hearts, of exuberance, of fear,

cry joy and love and

Nirvana

every second with

without

You!

I breathe to feel

an emptiness filled,

the emptiness You fill

whenever thoughts travel to You.

It is always

Dissidence

A hollow, broken Hallway opened dole

like echoes sounding off the ghostly pane.

Through cloth his howl died. Muffled by a pull

of air drawn taught so close to where she reigns.

Atrocity by lips alone had come

and sought alike the essence of his blood:

the pulsing hum akin to beating thrum

which builds a battered thought for stopping floods

of well and wanted breath between two lungs.

He drew away the pillow from his mouth

to look for eyes where burning hatred hung

behind the iris known so long in youth.

Sole darkness found oppressive means to choke

with hands whose reach in sightless mode took hold

of heart, his heart and with one final stroke

dissolved small ties with her who left so bold

in words whose fangs did suck the hopeful sight

of morrow speak to rest again by way

which known to kin their soulless bane by night

the drinker’s spoil rejuvenates their stay.

“She’s gone for good to make another heir,”

he told the blood stained pillow through his teeth.

The touch, so gentle on his neck just there,

where she had taken back the gift of teeth

and stole the essence of his livelihood,

still ushered forth the cold that held him in.

he placed his blood soaked fingers in his mouth --

And choked. And gagged. And spat. And gasped for breath.

“This is -- cannot be possible for me!”

His lips drew back in terror of the spoiled, 

such rancid, putrid, bitter taste a fee

for arbitrary words to be recoiled

as snakes, their venom pierced by fangs alone

to kill the living hopeful into cold;

but now the living blood flowed back to one

with warmth the pallor changing from such bold

and steely blues to match his victim’s hue:

pale white and staunch while screams escape the last

in breaths, he knew, were labored and so few.

He felt himself begin to slip ‘nto past.

Above the doldrum of his piercing pain,

the silent echo shuffled through the dole,

returned wholehearted, dripping from the rain

in darkest light she stood and feigned to pull

attention from his death to speak once more.

“How dare you question our laws eternal?

And question leaves you --”

“-- Give it back, you whore!

Before... before life takes me back with all

the beauty death holds dear!” He crawled toward

one lonely hope so shrouded behind eyes

held distant, cold and dead. She spoke one word.

He stopped, a wetted answer on his lips.

“I speak of what and want the sole of lies!”

“Enough! The sacrilege has done its worst

and never ‘gain shall you partake the thirst

and see the world with eyes that beg to live.

Your death is done, don’t think we dare to give

the lasting life to those who wish to rise

ever and more to stand beside the born

as master to their kind. It’s you despised

and we have made to teach a lesson: scorn!”

He let the limp take over entirely,

the slack of limbs a weight upon his world.

He felt the ending of the sand. Blindly

such sift did match the drip, drip, drip unfurled

into his sense of self and life returned.

Complacency begot his surrender

and, under stares from his creator, learned

his view of life eternal in error.

He whispered once as near drew farther down,

The hall stretched darkly as the sigh flew out:

“Forgive me, love.” The hurt fell through the ground.

He watched, saw her stand still, come close about,

diminish, far and small, kneel beside. Touch.

Such dark in hall replaced by one so fresh.

His warmth began to fade. She stood from crouch.

“Adieu, mon cher.” She turned from feel of crush,

though no escape would bar her dreaded dole

as shed in tears like skies beyond the pane

when ever soft her feet began to pull

and leave the damned, the dead, where once she reigned.

Love's Terms

Speak to me.

Tree whispers leaves beyond a window

inaudible at telling... Weather

It speaks kindly

through panes rustling 

in time.

Sun shades block grassy

palanquins of Love.

Two stand before it... there

Unable to find the door

in balanced restraint

of lost.

Ever on and on

Foot-Steps taste earth bitter

selfish owned ... heir

of discriminating absences

through Strings of hearts

caught together.

Speak to me.

Simple words describe their hands

reaching to enter... Other

Within, without, their eyes

Opened already and regard

Chaotic Order.

Building of Love

He swims with gentle strokes to find a truth

as strings unhooked, so taught, so merged in dreams

that spiraling south to meet ocean’s youth

bring words once sought to strike decidedly.

She flows in fashion, bright flicker of flame,

and boils plasmaticly the underbrush:

black billows top gold-red petals and blame

a harsher sense which burns unseen: we hush.

They hear of high all airy shelves adrift

and draw the breaths whole heartedly to self,

with sighs these words align the soul to shift

once whisked in form surely bring endless wealth.

     We stand so firm and see this love played out

     from distant shade to solid words about.

To think that fourteen could bring such magic

To think that fourteen could bring such magic
To mold a form that could not be without
skyless plunders fraught less gentle tragic
in heart song words the Muse did know about.
For I learn now the how of forming it,
the black enscrawled by way of cloudless sight
like birds who cry the beat of our sonnet
in childish, moonlit bleeding; like the night
I'm born as old awaiting some golden
Part within an other 'pon this whiteness:
The face of Her as made by Sol just when
I discover one who makes me the best.
I pen to see his face a bloom within
And eat the love that's served as sav'ry din. 

Stumbling to Reassess

There's so much going on in my head, the words struggle to find meaning. The changes that have wrought my life anew continue to affect the views of the verse as it fights to climb down my arms to finger-tips and furthermore to the digital expanses as poetic disseminations of electrical synapses creating meaning for myself.

Love. I'm beginning to dislike the search and endeavor that is love. It's warping the very fabric of my vision, outlook, and interaction with life. I'm afraid of it, and have been since the tragic exploration earlier this year (for which such wondrous expulsions of poetry descended upon my computer). Now, I've found love anew, a love which is geographically undesirable as I'm consistently told by my brother, and I find many desires so locally bound. Guilt then tries to interfere with my daily routine with the subjects of my desire. There's no reason to feel guilty, especially with the understanding that distance (for the two of us) is a variable which cannot be overcome until it no longer exists. Another tragic appearance? However the guilt is twofold. I feel sorrow for the individuals attempting to form love with me here, so close to home; and thus feel guilty that I continue to date them (yes, plural) even with the explicit understanding that dating is what I am doing. Yet, they continue to fall and let their emotions be unguarded even unto themselves and become hurt when I explain that I am dating. ::sigh:: Predicaments avail, even in a community where the idea of 'dating' has been explained to me as non-commital and freeing.

Do I attract such people that solely want forever? I want forever with one, perhaps... but even then we don't know each other well enough to say that's what we'll accomplish. It is certainly at the forefront of our thoughts. Maturity stays the course.

I just want to be free. Experience freedom as I traverse the hallways of college. I'm not looking for commitment, even though commitment is all I've known. It's true... the experiences of my life have formed the strict foundation that commitment, solidarity, permanence are what feel comfortable when interacting with others. Though comfort is suppose to be appealing, I am not in it for the continual comfort of a singular entity. I'm looking for experience, to learn about and feel the world, to find out more about the unknown to me (maybe not about everything with precarious consequences), and to grow from the experiences I accumulate.

Perhaps that's why my writing is so halted currently. I'm forcing myself into a new reality, breaking conditions imposed from another to regard the world with new lenses (I'm now wearing Oakleys!!!) and find a voice that I feared lost forever: a voice I had in high school, a voice with strength, a voice I buried eight years ago, a voice I want to share with another when I know the time is right.

This feels good. This conversation with myself as I masticate through the muck of my mind. Perhaps these prose have always been where true comfort lies (with so many implications there... Aren't fictional stories lies?). We shall see as time progresses. Hopefully you will see as well, and perhaps give me insight to myself. Verse, after all, is a window into my soul. I share my soul with you.

Nightly Disillusion

Nightly Disillusion
     Free me
     Awaken me from
tired darkness within
caged expressions.
     The Bars hewn by
          iron dreams of previous
hearts decimated
          shards of teeth
      chattering around possibilities.
of growing infatuation.
I am deterred,
     wanting the warmth
     of blood flowing from
          our sacred vessels.

In the morn
     eyes opening in a
     salty lake, stinging in memory
the beauty of his
     presence breaks the cell
          release the fabric
which makes us human.
Grasping my hand, I
     cling to his firmly
     I suddenly fly with
My Breath,
pounding rhythmically
     in time with the metronome
     of Life.

What's going on?

I just don’t get it. I feel my heart falling and as it falls so does my mood. The go hand in hand with this one: the more I like him, the more I get depressed. He doesn’t react to me. I see his infatuation in unguarded moments: eyes flitting open to mumble a tired goodbye, a running embrace of surprise at my appearance somewhere, the joyous appreciation of a gift presented at the unlikeliest of times. in return, I offer myself, emotionally and physically, and often feel nothing in return. His methods thus far are monetarily based, I assume, and it drives me into darkness and doubt. Money hasn’t been fortunate with me. I appreciate the dedication of his hard work to assisting a comfortable lifestyle, but I’d rather see and feel from him that which he shares through green. What I’m missing is the physicality of relationship, though we discussed not encountering that level between us yet. i’m ready for it, but I fear it as well because I need more physical interaction than he’s providing. Irony doesn’t escape me here... I feel like my ex right now. in my previous relationship I was always the one not putting out enough; and though I’m not upset about the lack of relations, I’m not being fulfilled. Once in eight weeks is a bit... underwhelming, especially when with a guy that I felt I could go more than once with [in one night]. He turns me on with his very presence: stature, personality, smile, the way he looks at me, the firmness in his hands...

This all points back to my willingness to love, my openness to love, the ability to allow myself to love again. Step 1: knowing it’s safe to fall in love. Step 2: knowing I’ll be physically and emotionally fulfilled. Step 3: fall in love?

Deep like is where I remain, bars deterring the chariot of the heart despite its rightful admittance to its home. I suppose I shall suffer in limbo of my own emotion until he offers more of himself or pushes me away. It’s not as if I’m looking for a singular entity of eternity to comfort me; for I am that essence for myself.

 Morning.
     Or is it the other?

I turn my head
     seeing
          a beautiful mouth
          parted delicately in a sleep filled
          grin.
Oh how dreams shape
our faces
     without control.
          Soft cheeks chisel the pattern
          of his bones
          Eyes close the light out
     His chest heaves gently
     under his breath.
I move my body along his
     hoping motion will awaken --
          wanting something.
He moves
back towards me
arm reaching for his clock.

“What time do you work?
     “One,” I answer in a gentle voice
          The raucous silence of the
          box fan in the window
steals him away
     back to sleep.

Consciously uncomfortable
          again
     I dress and leave the room.
Two hours before I must depart,
     I take a shower.
          Warmth washing away
          doubt and insecurity.
It’s quiet without the crew
all alone in a
          stranger’s house.
there’s nothing for me
     while the beauty
          slumbers in
          his distant emotions

     Dried and dressed
     seated on the love seat
          I wait in earnest hope.
An hour descends
          waiting is fruitless.
     I go to say goodbye...

Crawling onto the bed
     effortlessly keeping it stilled
I kiss his cheek.
“I have to go.”

He rolls onto his back
     exposing his soft chest
     and smiles through his
          tiredness.
          Genuine happiness with
          a spark of infatuation
               perhaps.
“Oh, ok... Have a good day.”
“I will.”
We kiss quickly.
     gently on the lips
          almost emotionlessly.
“Sleep,” I say
          He turns back over
          and drifts away as I
          shut the door.

I leave.
         And leave behind nothing
Torn under a morning sky.
     Or is it the other?

It's a Simple Motion

It’s a simple motion.

Your hand here,
your thoughts there...
Push with your legs ‘til
you’re all the way near.

Grip hard, hold tight.
Swing your feet out of sight.
Muscles scream from the fight,
while ecstasy reigns
with increasing height.

And release.
Fall.
Fall.



Fall.
‘Til the floor catches
and relax, staring up
to where zenith lies.


Success.

It's here.

It’s here,
within. I
          can’t
have it, can’t
     hold it, and won’t
see it;

but I know.
               Will he?

Two Minutes

Two minutes:
A thought of hope in love.
Do I? Does he? Will ever again they merge?
And now...
The minutes tick on as love unfolds
but does it envelope the two
as one?
Or none to remain...
Time’s gone and words release.
Here we move forward,
folding back the creases of our life.