Choose Your Friends WiselyYour past should be a friend,but keep your distancelest you make an enemyof your future.
HonestyI'm not with youBecause I want to live with you.I just can't live without you.
Beautiful ScarsWhen I kissed your scars,I told you:'where once you felt painnow you'll feel love.'And I didn't meanyour skin.
The Path of LifeI like walking on paths lainwith jagged stones forno one hasdulled their sharp edges......yet.
Biscuit ElegyI stand here in my empty housestaring at a pack of biscuits I wantto hide away because I know Iam too depressed to goto the corner shop to fetch me more.I remember when you leftI used to find some foodstored in whimsical places underthe excuse of keeping things tidy.I always liked your sense of humour....When you are lonelyfor long enough you cometo understand the simple truthsof life.You want someoneto hide the biscuitstogether with your sadness.
Haiku 16.02It is fine to loveor loath someone; don't get caughtsomewhere in-between.
Lune 05.01I asked you -Do you dream of stars?'I am one'.
For the Loss of a FriendMy mother is all too strong,For she has buried friends,And lost far too much.Still I haven't seen her cry,Never,Not until today.She is just that strong.We listened to the doctor talk,and talk and talk,then he said:"Cancer".And it is strange,how something that isn't even human,can make you feel so human.My mother struggled,Wondered what to do.But I couldn't bring myself,To bare the pain of two.As I walked down the corridor,For the first time I understood,What it meant,To take the life,Of something that you love.“Please, get it over with.”
I am II am kindfor I bear too much hate.I am strongfor I have been too weak.I am sanebecause my dreams are crazy.I am wise,for I know I am foolish.I am warmbecause I've been cold too long.I am calm,for I know when to lose my nerve.I am me,because I couldn't be no one else.
Lullaby ByeTwinkle twinkle falling starOh, I wonder if you areHe who called with steady voiceOffering me one simple choiceShall I stay or better leave?Contemplatively I breatheNow to bed I close my eyesThink of you across the skiesI forgive you, now you knowMy chosen path is that I goOne breath. Two breath. Three breath. FourEternal sleep, forevermoreTwinkle twinkle trusted friendTake me there, to where it endsShining down your soft, white lightIt calms me now and dulls my frightDown below in bed I lieWith comforted heart I say goodbye
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung wordsTogether on row upon row againOf blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,To point with honesty failed verse of thine.No real poet discards upper case words;Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.You seek to free verse of those stern letters,Sever away bleak capital fetters,But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,To make our dull words sound great all the time,Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,Heralding a poet’s summer prime.Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,The subject not gilded in raiment fine;Your bold ink font, crystal waters divineTastes bitter to the ton
honey-filled heartshe asked her if she loved himand she looked at that golden boywith a bumblebee smile and sad veinslike good champagne leaking onto the starsonly a million words were left unsaid.
Everything You BorrowedOn Sunday afternoon,after exiting the church,you plucked the sun from the skyand hid it in your palmsso that when I held your handsthey would no longer be cold.When Monday night arrivedyou snatched every single starand used my tears to makea necklace.Tuesday's empty dawn shonethrough the cracks of the door--you stole the promise of whatcould never beand draped it around my shoulders.After Wednesday's twilight passed,you grabbed the cloudsand wove a tapestry of liesthat I hung on the wallsof my prison.Thursday crept through uson silent tiptoes,waiting for us to take notice--instead, we merely waitedfor midnight to come.The dusk of Friday wanedwhile you stripped it of its sorrowsand sewed them into my skin.When Saturday cameyou tried to steal the moon;I watched as you stood on your tombstoneand stretched to reach it.You fell, then--fell, broke your neck,and landed six feet under.I couldn't cry afterwards,for you had taken my agonyand washed it out to
Give Me a Portrait.Paint me without aface,because I'm sure youdon't remember mineanyway.
StaticI can never leave.Go on ahead.Tell me what you see.No lights, no air, no care.All the reasons now escape me.Insidious, enveloping.Purposeless pain, decayed and failing.My senses are abandoned now.There is a dull ache in my head.It does not speak, only mumbles.Loud and inaudible.It gives no orders, just leaves me stagnant.Stagnant and static.
Water SignsThen water, you and I,Scorpio and Cancer, respectively,yours the calm fathomed passion of lakemine a spring fed, fast-tumbling brookYou taught me to swim in your deepwith caressing breast and leg strokeI flashed my silver moon flair, leapt,like a fish, into dizzying ozone airmatched my fall-freedrowning-dive to your quiver.Oh the silky innuendo,shimmered laughter and sparkling jive -though you wanted more of wet and more wet,I, the tiptoe through shallowfearful I could get lured, hookedby such a catch-and-release kind of man.
006When I was young,so very, very young,I was deeply in love with fans, propellers, windmills.I remember having these tiny little miniatures in plastic,with the most biting colour combinations; green-purple, red-yellow;and I'd just sit there, blowing, and merrily watch the finsswirl around.And when I first saw cogwheelsand screws and crankshafts and eggwheelsI floated amidst the gorgeous sorcery.I wanted to find out all about machines; how they where,through what and by which they stood,why they turned.What that meant.My father bought me a huge book, I read it.Didn't care about the text, I justlooked at the pictures over and over againand I could see them coming to life.Moving.Deuce the years later,we were sitting next to each other,hot cocoa and coffee, the game installing."You'll love this", he said,and my eyes were regaled with the crackling and whistlingof gigantic animated clockwork, all spurry in their richoils.Everything, moving.Eve
how to become a writerhave parents that separatewhen you’re in high school;a father filled with unused angerand a mother too busy to care.pretend it doesn’t hurt.let your friends treat you like dirt; after all,everything is your fault.listen to their problems with a fake smileall the while crying out becauseeverything hurts and no one can see.press a knife to your skin,but be too cowardly todraw your own blood.fall in love with peoplewho could never notice you,because you’re just. not. good. enough.chew on the multicoloredstrands of your hair. (you can’t stop running from who you really are.)carry around a notebookand scrawl eve
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.sweetheart, let's head out. let'sdrink up the desert asphalt and that last bottleof johnny walker blue--one last toast to the copper sunsets,to the good earth. a pair oftailgate stargazers, you and i:roaming curves across the glove compartment map, untilevery foldline is worn flannel-softand it'd rather stay openthan closed.let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget the numbersand pick up terra cotta dust--breathe in the mojave. let's pretendthat the world's already endedand it's just us.let's leave the door unlockedand gowest.
.photography: a love story.Falling in Love I was about eleven years old when I got my first camera. It was instant love, my first love. I took it everywhere with me. Every flower in sight was shot, my friends became models. My dog became an endangered animal in the Sahara that was to be the epitome of my photographic lifetime. Being a photographer quickly became my dream.The Truth is Often Disappointing One day my father took me for ice cream with a side of let's talk about actuality. Simply put; he told me photography was a wonderful hobby and he was glad I found an interest in something. Then came the harsh reality; it takes a lot to become a professional photographer. Most people only ever do it as a hobby; only a select few ever make it a career.Putting it Down I can’t tell you if it was the disappointment of learning my dream job wasn’t likely to
Clayeffervescent acrosssummer sunsets,his bodyis the canvas wheremy handscreate landmarks.
love poem from a pillar of saltthe words 'i love you'have always tasted like forbidden fruitan apple offered by a helpful serpent-sweet and fleeting butthe words 'i loved you'just taste offinality.i always thought that leaving you would be like leaving gomorrahthat i couldn't help looking backand when i did i'd feel an ocean dry itself beneath my skinbut this is so much quieterand so much worse.my knuckles taste of blood,not salt.there is no new testament herejust old testament firejust lot's wife standing on a forgotten hillrocksalt freezing her outstretched handswatching her hometown burn below her.there is no forgiveness herejust mutual lonelinessjust a lost religion and a broken girlfar too tired to play pretendwatching you fall apart behind me.
SummerIt is morning.Your breath hums through me; I feel itcrashing against each of the hairs on my arm.Your foot touches minein the darkness of bed.Were I a younger man, I'd rouse youwith a storm of lips, bring you upfrom sleep into the daytime. I'd trickle fingertips across your stomach,touching your faceuntil your eyes dawned against mine. I'd sing to you, hoarse with affectionand sleep.But I am not a younger man; I see you at rest, and I am at rest. I lie in wait to watch for daylightto fill you up and bring you to me.
Dishwasherafternoon light flickersthrough the curtainslike a mothher fingers brushthe lined edgeof a plateas the sink fillswith waterthe sound of paper, displacedshifts behind hershe countsthe careful stepsthe cat takesacross the tableoutside the rosestrace their shadowsacross the lawn
supernovae"Wouldn't it be great if we could watch a star explode?"It was just like her to say that. The violence of another world's ending was, to her, poetic. If our own sun exploded, I think she'd open up her arms to embrace it."I don't know that I'd want to be that close," I said."That's the cool part. You wouldn't have to be." But she still didn't think we were close enough.That was how we always ended up like this, sitting in a car, driving to nowhere, with nothing but the sound of the tires on the highway and the company of the stars above us. She couldn't sit still long enough to color in the details, so we never did. We just kept driving.She leaned back in the passenger seat and kicked her feet up, staring at the ceiling of the car as if it wasn't there."When stars exploded a long time ago, they painted pictures of them and wondered if the gods were looking down on them. What do you think we'll do when we get to see one?""Take a picture."She shot an expression at me that I
Vaguely heart-shaped. In another universe, who I amgets dumped by a womanwho in another lifewas Cleopatra.Today I divine this by finding a small blackened potatobetween my oven and counter,vaguely heart-shaped, sproutingpale arteriesof no use to me,I think on an inexplicably dramaticwhim.
spider song, purple ladyshe carrieda pair of scissorsin her purse so she couldcut the filter off her cigarettebefore she smoked it.she sucked in hercheeks and pursed herlips when she had to bepatient for anything.'how do youstay so thin?' i askedshe gathered her braceletsat her wrists and they clinkedlike wine glasses, like the twinkleof her smile, 'cigarettes and ritalin,'she said. 'a steady diet of cigarettes and ritalin.'she had smallhands that were notfeminine. her fingerswere short and her palmswere wide.everything abouther was purple. evenher eyes. they were brown.she didn't wearlipstick. only gloss.stinking, pink, and sticky.don't go too near, you'll endup with your lips stuck and thenshe'll eat you. you'll love it.i asked whyshe didn't justcut the filters offall at once, all at onceat home and she said, 'honeyit's wednesday, and i've barelymade it past monday yet.' snip,flick, fzzz. alright, i said, you knowyou're one hell of a girl and you'realright, i said.
The Beauty of a WomanThe beauty of a womanIs like the lotus -Most of it is hidden from the eye.