ForGiving my Being

The energies
In my body

Communicate
Unspeakable
Intentions

In Moments
When My mouth
Isn’t Quite ready.

—-

When I speak
Deep truths,

My throat burns
Red with Release.

—-

In moments
I speak from
My heart,

The surface of
My chest
Radiates brightly;

In brazen
Disregard of the

Shame placed
Upon my feelings
That pass therein.

—-

Don’t be fooled
When my face
And mouth seal.

My body takes
Me upon myself
To Compensate.

—-

The whole of me
Does not hesitate
To spill entirely
Out for you.

Grieving


Gives you

So many
Places
To sit

And
Lie down

You never
Would have

Considered
Before.

—-

The floor
Is the oyster
And you
Are the pearl.

Lounge in
Your Developing
Opaqueness
Of mourning

  • All morning.

—-

Let the
Still Monotony
Monopolize
Your
Every pause.

How much
Freezing
In your
Liveliness

Has yet
To Be
Unlocked?

Loom over
Corners
And floors
Of your
Waken life,

Like a sloth
Does
tree branch.

—-

Gaze into
The void of
Each moment.

You Are
the Translucent
Being of Space
And time;

For now,
But not
Forever.

Like a Fine Wine


Love
That’s
Never been
Tasted

Is [Probably]
Still Delicious.

Meanwhile,

You can:

Pass the
Bottle

Back
And
Forth,

Maybe
Pierce the
Cork;

Even,

[light gasp]
Open it..

..For a
Little.

Enjoy your

Sweet
A-roma

Like
It’s the
Only thing
You have.

Share Your

Empty
Glasses.

Make a
Toast to
Sobriety

From each

Other;

Forever

Drinking

your a-part.

blanket beats fire

I was taught
love
was the
wrong details
of an oil painting.

the image:
a blanket
wrapped around
a stranger
in a desert night,
desperately trying
to keep warm
by a fire.

I was taught
the only way

for anyone
to love me

was for them
to light me
ablaze

stack of
kindling
Destroyed
by lover’s
presence.

I longed for that
feeling.

my heart
prickling
with shards of flame,

smoldering myself
to death
as I fell asleep.

i fantasised
about
the next
oxygen starved
donkey punch
to the chest.

i’ve been
romanticizing
wrong
painted details
so long,

When he
tried to whisper,

“darling,
you are much more
than broken branches,”

 i could not
hear him.

I was
deathly high,
flying,
dust in the wind,

reminiscing
my own
tortured ashes.

When all
you’ve known

is the burn
of a
direct flame,

you become
numb
to
warm kindness
of a fleece blanket.

You forget
you are subject,

meant to survive
the arid desert
with a loving touch.

But everyday
your nerves
come
one step closer
to healing themselves
in this love
you’ve found.

Let it
snuggle in
through your veins,

repair
altitude busted
ear drums,

to ensure
survival
another night.