To the InferiorTo the inferior,I know how you feel. The thought of being "less." The notion that you have little to gain. The idea that you don't quite meet the world's standards. It's like you're stuck. Forever dreaming for something better. Forever wishing upon a star. At night, you sit up and wonder when the pieces of your puzzle-like life will fall into place. But isn't that just so cliche? All we do is wait...then wait some more. Yet, we're not far from the mountaintop. Someday, it will be our turn. Someday, we will see our long-awaited desires floating before our eyes, like satellites. And those who've never left cloud nine will finally understand. It just takes a bit of time, and a smidge of faith. Though it's easy to become vulnerable. Remember, even the "lowest of the low" have found their way. Some have even taken on the role as king or queen. And just know, that I am for you. Totally and completely for you. You never have to question your significance again.Sincerely,Everlasting Hope
Obsolete BeachThe lighthouse is catching fire tonight;the infrastructure is caving in.For several bottles of keroseneremain exposed, unattended.And the matches, ten years old,rub against the cardboard lid.Sorcery, or so it seems,taking course of foul revenge.Then fear falls fast on tired hearts;the angels have refused their part.So goes our love, our brick-built home,our oil, and our lamp.Still, we once felt angst before,the monsters piling on the shore.We'll reconstruct our secret placein the ocean's crib.
Tribute to the KingI had once dreamed of being queen. But not the one you might expect. Not the one to turn her back, so ignorant to flee. For you have seen their solemn eyes - the hunger beckoning demise. Still, you raise the cathedral spires, callous to their pleas. Then death takes hold of sweltering skin; guilt takes form of russet hands. Your ego, status as a man, is but an ancient thing. And purple banners start to fall, for the king who thought he had it all. Erect the tables for the feast! We're not disheartened - not in the least.Not in the very least.
Natural RestorationCucumbers like iceconcealing somber eyes.Pigment of chlorophyll -fluorescent green, divine.Capturing the light,conquering the night.Act of photosynthesis,soothing, sublime.
Spatial SerenityBathing in streams of coconut milk,I embrace my inner sense of youth -how calm, how mellow-minded,distinct of the Earth's mantle.A moment spent upon the moon.
Bobby PinConsider a bobby pin.How easy one could snap.Yet it tussles with gravity -leaves an atmospheric gap'tween your hair and your faceand your dimples like stars.I would be a bobby pin,just to unveil who you are.
MarigoldsYou call yourself a man,yet shamelessly crushmy pile of marigoldsbeneath your feet -your old rubber solesgrinding the petalslike mortar and pestle.Those apricot leaves.But you never knew lovein the form of a flower;how vibrant, how gallantlike the sun it could be.And you never knew thatthe true secret to manhoodis boldness with a touchof sensitivity.
PrisonerI hold the gauze against my lips,embrace the snow white fibers of its being -embrace the cotton candy-like tressesready to catch each speck of bloodthat will fall from my stitched mouth.Tonight, I'll break my vow of silence -my long-contained ghostly manner,no matter how much my mouth bleeds.For words weren't meant to be confinedbehind slithers of rusted wire;phrases weren't meant to run drybehind tired, parched tongues.Tonight, the clock will cease to tick,the rosebuds - cease to bloom.And my voice - cease to be mutedbehind the once ivory bandage.
Regarding BrowniesThere's a differencebetween gooey and chewy.
ShadesI'll lay you down upon this bed,Eyes blinded with a strip of black cloth.I'll take my time to circle around you.Enjoying the light aroma of fear and sweat;Mixed with just a hint of excitement.I'll see your legs pushed together,Perhaps in anticipation.Or would it be the butterflies;That dance a shade of scarlet upon your cheeks.I'll take my time to run these fingersAlong your soft milky white skin.And even before you part your lips to confirm it,I'll already know that you belong to me.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
RainShe was bloated, swollen in herOwn melancholy moistureThreadbare at her contoursUnravelled into gray woolenStrings, too loose for her skinAnd they drained off her shouldersTo pool in a waxy heap by herIvory heel-bones.She was rounded by opaqueMoons, liquid apricity. The lifeIn her womb churned, awakeningFrom quiescence. Her beingShuddered from the maelstrom withinAnd in a great wailing cry of woeHer waters burst in a ferociousDeluge, catharsis.She roiled under each contractionAs unearthly poetry thundered from herThroat, emblazoned with lightning. HerChild is birthed, swaddled in her failingBody, decrescendo heartbeat.And as the babe breathed, the windAbandoned her shallow lungs,Cadaver cumulus.
The Night VisitShe arrives on time each night,With a flurry of quick footsteps, Followed by a timid knock at my door.The reply I give her is often curt,'Enter,' I'll sayAnd she does.I spend a moment taking stock of her appearance:Noticing bare skin beneath a heavy brown coat.A few droplets of sweat run down her neck,And she swallows nervously as she awaits my instruction.I approach her slowly;Enjoying this moment where the distance closes.My eyes take their time to pull her into focus,And like a bolt of awareness she becomes vivid;Her lips a sparkling red and utterly lush for a kiss...Her eyes are doe-eyed and completely tame;Her makeup is perfect, as I've always liked.But I can tell, beneath that flawless surface,That it was rushed under a dim streetlight.At this point our lips are separated by a bare inch,I like to leave this distance as I stare into her eyes.I enjoy the way her breath quickens as I ask her the question,The question that beg
The Death that is Left BehindI.Somewhere beneaththe layers laid,alone is a man who scrapesoutward. He islike the child fallendown a deep well, whosees the way is up and yetscratches stone wallsinstead--the flesh offingers giving way, symbolizinga waning vivacity sealedin the center of his diamond-hardshell. II.Sound is a physic; music, a friction--white hot motion to motionless souls. It is pain and heat, terribleand beautiful, healing, and the deaththat is left behind.
progress reportthe astronauts never returned and neither did the newsin my hands i fold a megalithic pigeonthe take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitchas you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing.in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actualmastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy filmtightened like a fist; - and the scientists despair: it's the morning of the opening,then the few slashes of paralyzing waves.like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarma bandit, or a preacher or the oncoming horde of space invaders.but the drawings you sent to venus never returned, and now the crack, and the scientists at a loss before the angered public.they release a report that states that the floodgates opened by themselves, that the valves erodelike the chalky sand that will swirl and hiss
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the KnightWhose armor shines so bright.Give me the Knight,Whose armor is dull and broken.Whose horse is weary,Whose heart is heavy.Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,For that dragon has done nothing,And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,But wants to free the dragon,Who does not wish to marry her savior--Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,Who wants to live and to learn.For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,But to see the world and live in the light.Do not give me the evil dragon,Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.No, give me the dragon who is weary,Who longs for the freedom of the sky,Whose leg is burdened with chains,And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,Lest h
AnimeAs soon as i saw Anime on Tv I was happy to see it played,I Like inuyasha, FMA, Naruto and many others but why?At 34 years old loving anime, isn't this strange?Loving Anime is loving someoneYou cherish it foreverUntil You die but Anime is Amazing what they can do today..Its in 2-D, 3-D and CG's But no matter what,Anime to me will always cherish me into my heart and soulWhen i was younger Anime never existed,Why?Anime will stay into the younger kids today,Anime Rocks,Anime will rule the world maybe someday?What can you do not without a pencil today?You Can draw Anime,You Can always give you're best shot to draw even if you're not good enough,True isn't it?You can put Anime on Tv, on a website about everything,Anime Kick Butt.
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers thinkWe may dream our reality.With earphones attached liked IVsI dream my own melodic universe.Until someone laughs behind meAnd strikes up conversation with a friend.And in that moment they become my anchorAre they spinning through my dreamOr am I spinning through theirs?Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,And sometimes it all mixes togetherLike liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.When no one speaks to me for hoursI begin to wonderIs everyone dreaming a reality that includesThe whole café but me?The street outside the windowWith passing strangers, dogs and carsIs a whole new Milky WayWaiting to be discovered.But I am no space explorerAliens are beyond my reach.Whispers of the people aroundReach my ears distinctlyLike waves lapping on the shore.Words on paper go no wayTowards proving that I was ever hereMy identity is slowly condensedNot into the people who kno
Writer's Block Is...When a writer is feeling blocked.Yeah, that's all I got. :/Hence the term, "writer's block."