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Literature Text
Moving textures so visceral you can taste them
Crawling over the surface of her alian skin,
Orange eyes beneath a deep blue sun,
A swig of purple gin,
Goosebumps as she leans in close at your neck
And gently places a kiss,
Then pulls you up to the dance floor
Wings glittering red,
Out spread and into the air
Then landing lightly,
Her mechanical foot clicks,
But still she is fluid.
Stumbling human,
Yet you almost keep up,
Dressed in your suave suit
And combed back hair,
Mechanical hand not quite as graceful,
But you dance anyways.
Meanwhile all about
The fishes in their bubbles are dancing too,
Wind chimes ringing
And music hum bouncing all about,
Each chord striking the heart strings of another dancer.
Strange sounds are heard,
But they are the celebrations of freedom,
The cheering on of the species
That life will continue to reign
As long as this music
Continues to play.
Crawling over the surface of her alian skin,
Orange eyes beneath a deep blue sun,
A swig of purple gin,
Goosebumps as she leans in close at your neck
And gently places a kiss,
Then pulls you up to the dance floor
Wings glittering red,
Out spread and into the air
Then landing lightly,
Her mechanical foot clicks,
But still she is fluid.
Stumbling human,
Yet you almost keep up,
Dressed in your suave suit
And combed back hair,
Mechanical hand not quite as graceful,
But you dance anyways.
Meanwhile all about
The fishes in their bubbles are dancing too,
Wind chimes ringing
And music hum bouncing all about,
Each chord striking the heart strings of another dancer.
Strange sounds are heard,
But they are the celebrations of freedom,
The cheering on of the species
That life will continue to reign
As long as this music
Continues to play.
Literature
No More Heart To Give
My life is the sand filling the bottom of the hourglass
But my mind is ticking as the pendulum swings hypnotically
Back and forth, back and forth
One step forward and two steps back
Where am I going?
I still remember when all the blood in this body seeped out of their veins
That day etched so vividly on a jet black and poor excuse of a heart
I remember all the words marked up on my sleeves
And the sleepless nights stolen from me
I have no more heart to give
The last time I checked, I'm heartless
I'm just so sick of spilling my guts out for nothing
Give me a reason – tell me there's more to it than this
I'm just one step off
Literature
The memiors of a poet...
A poet is no mere
artist, that incites and writes,
- but dares to
fabricate, the nothings into
- - extrasensory realities,
beyond all imagination.
Like a painter,
the poet needs oil & ink,
- to set the eyes
and mental capacity,
- - into a hypnotized state
of suggestive attention.
As a quilter,
the poet weaves
- embroidered tapestries
with spectrum;
- - that only prisms
could master -
- - - with simple imagery.
The poet revives,
the deadened, flat soul
- of sentence,
to have a personified
- - existence among our
world of third dimension.
The poet's life,
isn't just a joy
- but a pain;
to tell the world
- - from their hands
littered with
Literature
Stars Can Say Fuck You, Too
Lungs cough up dust and the blood hardens into rust.
Is it possible for this heart to beat? Shriveled lungs can't even extend for breath.
(Do cells really need oxygen anymore?)
And somehow I'm the one left to survive, so don't be surprised when rough hands lead me home.
Did you really think soft hands could have lived through this world alone?
(With the sincerity of a cheese grater, would you accept my apology?)
I know you'll accept it with an Iodine smile and a wounded tongue.
Or was it pride ?
Leaving me here to wonde
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