Interrogation - poem

What if I'm standing at the edge of the world
would anyone really care, or go about life saying
"there she goes again"

There I go, saying "what if," my trusty catch-phrase of temporary amnesia
of the faith I claim to carry close to my
murmuring heart

Who wants to read, consume, reorganize these words into some
sense
of what they think it means to them?

Does it matter what it means to me? Does this typing, thinking, feeling, seething mass of grey matter-driven flesh mean something profound,
or is this simply posturing in the pseudo-poetic universe?

What if this is all I have left

Does grey turn to nothing when drained of purpose?

If not one more drop of creativity trickles onto the pages of my e-canvas, then
what point remains in neurons zapping each other anymore?
If my words are silenced, when attempting to describe the wounds inflicted on my
psyche and soul,
what point remains in speaking?

When would it be noted that I no longer say anything of value,
or worse,

when no words come at all?

How will someone know when my thoughts simply sublimate instead of pouring out of these tired lips, and

why not even sparks light the way throughout my brain?

What if I'm standing with the world in my fingertips, ready to drop it, along with the purposeful words tomorrow could bring?

There I go again.

composition - poem

rising to the brim--maybe it's there already,
sloshing back and forth from the edge
waiting, craving release but uncertain of how,
from amnesia of overwhelm, forgotten faculties,
forgotten its form and purpose to flow when frozen in
moments
or moment, or then, here, tomorrow,
now

unable to recall knowing
how to fall
into acceptance of its composition, its liquid state of alkaline truth
instead, it yearns to burst through and over--
instead, it bubbles, and threatens sublimation

how can it create,
when, unwilling to ebb through
the darkness of resolve, it

destroys, waiting, blinded by white denial,
killing tomorrow's birth with its poison

decaying the prism of choices--
left only with sobering decisive

indecision


realization

too late and yet

it discovers fiction in the story of inability to make something out of its nothingness, the fiction of its vaporous state as it was but a dream, provoked by yesterday's chemical lies,

the belated truth that its substance has been fluid all along

Seesick - poem

it's coming, swelling, vertigo dancing behind my eyes
tossing my head, rocking my brain until I'm
scared
to stand, to breathe, to be
here at the eye
of the thoughts ebbing to and from my memory, playing out in percussion
against my weary heart,
knocking my rubber legs and stirring my caustic core

shipwrecked limbs, memories, faith, floating on the residue
of today's fears
awoken by the beats, the pounding, terrible music
of the minutes ticking by at tempos too quick for
still water to remain its true self

this is a mashup:
a decrepit concoction of confused imagery
and imaginings
from a place that brews a poisonous elixir,
enticing my ego to jump in--
to see blue when the world is painted gray, black, puce, and pain

can't I smell the noxious gas? the deadly suffocation,
threatening to end it all
promising to stop it

giving into dizzying visions
of what was, is, and may never be
but can never happen
or else I'll take it up, I'll shake hands and that will be
it
the final note, the bridge to no more minutes--
just weightless, poison-less, fearless floating
into the tomorrow I always wanted
but never knew
could be

Doubt--poem

There are days
when I’ve got wings sending me here and there,
all the while gliding above the dirt I see below

There are days
when I’m covered in the mud I allegedly created and
drag my companions through the mire and guck

There are days
when I make the choice to establish
protection to veil the war I’m trying to
squelch

On those days,
They are just as likely to
quiet Their tunnel vision, set to full-speed on my faults
as They are to load all arsenal
and blame their way into my blood

There are days
when I believe my accusers
there are days
when I believe in the power of
stubborn protection and the risk in
tough love

and then there are those days
when I get stuck in the quicksand
and I don’t know if it was me or
Them
that put me there

Deconstructing Legend--poem

What happened to the legendary strength?
Was "legendary" mythological when transformed into
hindsight?

I don’t understand how hindsight is seeing
when blinders have been fastened tight while walking,
stumbling,
crawling through the mire of today, then
tomorrow
then the next couple of days
(or was it weeks? months?)

and it all blurs, it all smudges
onto the canvas of what tomorrow was
supposed to look like
eons ago
or was it just yesterday?

What’s so legendary
about forgetting what day or moment
or unit of time
marks the transition from ok
to “not so much?”

What is the legend behind
surviving dying when
he left me behind
and yet I’m behind
myself
on the 3D hamster wheel in the centre of my
picture of what today and tomorrow and all the years ahead
are supposed to look like?

The two don’t mesh, do they—
the wheel and the picture,
the death and the survival
the legend and the fall
the divide of her
and me—who I used to be,
all the love in my life can’t seem to waken
all the love dead, in my stomach,
unmoving and unliving,
waiting for her to return
to smash away the blinders, the smudgy background—
turn my eyes to the fore of
tomorrow’s sight
to a new story of who the survivor
could be.

Horror Movie--poem

There are shards in my eyes from watching the past
the movie’s not the best but it likes to play
I can’t tell if the glass still rests
or if scars replaced the spaces where
windows of innocence broke,
exploded, embedded in my lens
I try to watch the future
with this speckled movie screen
but darkness stains the sun
trying to purify my tomorrow’s
the water’s coming in—it’s just the
tide of my tears—
they’ll drain away soon
but until then
they flood and erase the
infection of the shards
so I can’t tell they’re there
for an intermission sublime
are they scars? are they shards?
for I’m only seeing black
and not bleeding from the
wreckage in my past’s climax
where’s the end—the finale?
This can’t be a saga
or I’ll go blind from finding
windows
to make the screen blank.

Faith--poem

I don’t know what I’m looking for—
it’s hard to say, in the dark
until I see lights at the end of some tunnel that I’m searching for
searching for the opening to a brighter future
where grounded certainty melts into anti-gravity belief
in something bigger, something cliché but so much better
than that written stuff in
library books
and verses from a man who claims to speak
the Truths of
whomever reigns within and outside of this place called
Human existence

He? She? It?
all too contrite—
there’s something brewing inside me,
waiting to find the light
that glistens on the feathers of His wings and Her wings and theirs
beating in the sun-ray magic of whenever-o’clock to shine upon me
when a smile hits my face or anger thrusts out between my teeth
and clenches my heart in its fist
or drowns my eyes in acid tears from the times when I forgot
what it means to breathe Your Love

I’m in your tunnel, your realm of mystery that you dubbed
Life
with all the love you could muster and inject into beings
that sometimes look a stranger to your vision of what
we could be
I’m in your world, and all the while,
some messengers have encrypted your lyrics
that were meant to be sung
instead of warped into an eerie bedtime story
that scares faith into ultimatums, pulling it away from the
drive pushing foot before foot, through the cool night air,
onward to what you said in my heart
is Tomorrow with glory on my side,
because you’re not walking with me,
you’re inside me
you are me
and so much more—
I can’t call you by name,
for none would do

but I believe,
yes,
I believe in You.

Authorize-poem

I’m an open book
my own life colours the pages
while I’m not so sure whose hands to allow
to hold my cover and read me ‘til I’m
a memory
I know my story—from start to cloudy
future come
though I can’t predict what precedes “The End”

You
are my Chapter One
the darkness took over Two and most of my pages
until I read between
the lines
and saw my saving graces in the I’s of those
who saw me for a work of art instead of
text

yet every time a quote of reassurance dances across
my present Chapter
my history seeps through
with the eulogy I wrote and continue to recite because
the ink threatens to bleed forever on the heart of my
plot

I’m waiting for the light of tomorrow
to dry up the legacy I wrote for you
instead of the heritage you truly left
hidden in my driving force and inspiration
to keep writing these words

I may have caught a glimpse in His eyes
of the light my words crave to stem out of
my introduction and bloom into a glorious
end but
will His words drown out the pain I wrote
and let stain tomorrow’s paragraphs of
fairytale proportions
or fade into the ebony smudges of fear left
unspoken but written all over the margins
so nothing can be implied
save for the plea for an editor
to clean up yesterday’s errors with crimson words
of hope
and the chance to
begin again

The Request--poem

What would I write for you,
As the words impatiently throb in my fingertips,
yearning to unleash onto your vision and permeate your
memory?
Could they flow as I exhale,
dance across the page,
or linger on my lips—
no more than a whisper in the private hours of the night?

Would my limbs express what lyrics
my blood demands—
could any music assuage the racing
internal melody?

Yet, my core threatens to burst
through the membrane of my shield
as you stand before me,
watching,
mute.

While my frame freezes,
the notes that were my gifted words
beneath my consciousness roll by—
some waltzing to the dance of tomorrow,
as others creep to the dirge of yesterday.
Your fingertips disturb the entrancement
holding my present captive.
With a twinkle in your eye, a curve in your lip,
my fingers meet yours to do what my words failed to.

The rumbling beat thrums between our chests,
urging me on to unleash the letters
forming the sweetest request.

Can you feel it, the percussion,
the temptation to move through rhythmic time
together—
shall we discover tomorrow’s melody
as one—
shall we do what I could not on my own,
at least not without my muse—
Shall we dance?

The Lesson-poem

For you, Daddy

You must know
that looking at you
is like staring into
any given mirror.
The love inside
and behind these eyes
is right there,
reflected into your very own.

You must know
the mem’ry of your kind face
hasn’t died-
I see it still Upon my own-
more so when I’ve something to be
proud of.

You must know
though I didn’t cry on the day,
which I regard as the time of night
when monsters roam,
and I’m blind though I try
to fumble around
for some semblance of
Life, Vitality, and Hope,
I suffocate for what feels like forever,
trapped in abysmal agony,
only to wake up to
reality
as if someone threw me
in frigid waters-

I’ve absorbed it all,
every drop I could,
then I let them pour through
though I couldn’t help it.
I’ve been your waterfall
whether you like it
(or not)
but you must know,
You must know.

You must know
that the childhood dream
of dressing in Love-
enrobed in White,
has turned to ash-
for it won’t be your hand
guiding mine down the path
to Tomorrow.

You must know
your name nigh became
taboo,
a ghost
we’re all too scared to acknowledge,
for the pain will rush back,
my hair will stand up,
the Chill will return,
then I’ll fumble again.

You must know
that despite all this nonsense,
despite all these words
that are feeble compared
to the legacy you bestowed me,
flowing through these grateful
Veins,
I’ll never know
how to express
how much I love you-
I’ll never know
how long
the World will last,
how long
time will drone on,
then cruelly whip past-

You must know
that’s how long I’ll hold you in
my heart.

You must know,
and if you don’t,
here it is,
here it lives.

10 pm -- poem

It’s ten o’clock and my heart’s still pounding
I’m glad to know it works but
it’s overkill

you screamed at me and my ears didn’t break
my heart bruised from the tidal sound waves, though
I kind of wish it would stop its percussion
giving me a headache from this
emotion-sickness

I reacted like a snake
but the poison’s in my blood,
nauseating my future
unless I can

pray harder than a nun,
to the God I choose to believe in
yet choice isn’t really mine—
I was chosen to live through this
disaster

like every hurricane, tidal wave,
flood, and plague
there’s a day of static living,
unnoticed heartbeats,
near-death breaths,
gazes on horizons
from which we expect
the sun

so here’s to tomorrow,
or the next day if that’s what’s meant
to be
the calm after this storm
or the one before the next

Dilemma--poem

Which one to choose?

The toxins of the night, singing their siren song,
beckoning the gluttonous child to go forth
and devour
my next conquest
where your skin is my canvas
if you’ll only give me the colours you feel
so I can craft my legacy

yet

there you are, deaf to my tune
deaf to my heart’s percussion pulsing the sirens along
or maybe I’m muted in your orchestra of possibility.

Do I decide to retreat, coward myself into a person
who cloaks in the guise of ordinary disorder,
unsure of what my standards are except for the notion
that they exist
in those whose nights express what their days should not,
forcing myself to believe their sunlit smiles all the while.

My morning presents danger, in my
intrusive desires, clouding the light of my dreams.
These day-mares exposed to my mind’s jury controlled
by the orchestra you conduct, unaware.
Their symphony condemns the personification of these thoughts,
solidifying the poison within.
You’re my freedom’s expression,
and my captivity’s master—
my what if’s are my shackles and chains.

Whichever I choose, the outcome won’t shine
with the sun that exposes all sin.
In the dusk of my patience,
your orchestra’s verdict awaits its release.

Whichever I choose, the poison will linger,
in veins reaching out to flow with you,
or in placebo words of love and affection
given to those who would take it—only to hide it in darkness,
where the sun cannot reach it
where my heart will freeze
and the song will die while
your symphony roars.

Tattoo--poem

I'll never forget.
I wrote this a while ago, but it came to mind recently.

Tattoo

I was there,
It happened,
and I couldn’t wait to leave.
My mind’s departure marked
too-early-in-the-morning
for a smooth escape.

Nonetheless,
at ten-after-a-decent-hour,
my feet guided me home,
unaware
of the shadow
lingering
on my tired
flesh.

The mind has a way
of waging wars
against the body,
numbing reason,
reaction,
giving cause
to sickly sensations.

Guilt’s a man-made thing,
yet woman-made was mine.
for Fault cannot be extracted
from where Guilt sank its
venomous teeth.

Reality’s an anvil
that crashes down
on my Coyote-dumb
head,
so comical is the sight
but the result
is something
grotesque-
Gruesome aftermath
of the weight of one’s deeds,
splattering composure
on the canvas of my past,
mixed with the bite-marks
spawned
from Guilt’s poisonous
lust,
bears the cancerous
frost,
invading the flesh.

Frost can burn,
with each brewing regret
rushed to the forefront
of my private
vision,
leaving scars
like a book-
A document of what was,
what is,
what could be
if the venom is allowed
to remain.

I can’t see the sun,
or the moon’s
lustrous glow,
only the scenes
like a movie,
inscribed on
my skin.

Moment after
agonizing moment,
the what if’s cackle at me,
(if I had only left before
the scenes began).

The scar was
reminder enough,
but became prescription
when denial
froze my senses-
Except for
touch.

Fool me once,
and you carry Fault’s Torch.

Fool me twice,
and my Guilt
transforms from lesions
and burns
of your cruelty,
to a permanent
Tattoo,
reminding me of what
I should have done,
reminding me of you.

[Y]our
sins slice through
reality’s grasp,
and shackle my wrists
behind my back,
so I can’t siphon
the poison
you forced me to allow,
embracing guilt,
embracing the pain,
for the physical
woes are nil
compared to the Tattoo’s
condemning reign.

Weathered--poem

In the sun I feel your warmth
in the darkness, your absence
I can’t seem to find happiness
in a medium of light

when it rains, my sins trickle far away
when it snows, my memories freeze
and torture
what sanity shivers within
when the wind blows through me
my soul goes with it—over the mountain tops
where we looked down on our highway to
bliss
and freedom to wander through time and back again
through all the landscapes that pull us on

With the changing of Your Season,
my skin shed the warmth
I got all too familiar with the rays from Above
reflected in your eyes

Dress me in your dreams
I’ll wear them with pride and don them for
the heavens

Dress me in your hopes
I’ll make them my armour
for I must now face Tomorrow
without you by my side

Our Song--poem

If there was a song deep in my heart
who would it be for
and what would be the point?
Would it be a tribute for good or anger
or to answer the ever-throbbing question:
why?

I wish I knew the words so I could get them off my skin
out of my mind and blood
hiding beneath the scars.
Even if I could compose
a masterpiece or limerick
you wouldn’t gasp in awe
or surprise
at what’s going on inside me.

I have a notion that’s making me ill
And tastes too bitter and still—
you don’t care at all about mind,
body, spirit—of the one who’s writing
these words.

The joke could fasten easily on my shoulders
For I’m mad, yes and disappointment’s
No stranger.

But the punchline
and mainline from my crux to
these words
is I’m affirming my fixation but
doubting the elation
I ever felt
about who this song was written for.

Revision--poem

They were there along,
but we discovered them together—
I didn’t care much about them
before.
Until one day, I pattered along
not wanting to be with my kind.
You seemed to transpire with an incoming breeze,
traipsing in from the brightening
East.
Your presence struck me,
I froze on the path,
not noticing the X marking my voyage’s
end.
Instead of a simple greeting,
you spread your Wings—
more handsome than any I’d
seen.
I fluttered my own, though meagre in comparison
and you urged me to follow
along.
We left Earth below us,
and took on the
Sky.
The old Fly-scape looked unfamiliar and
new.
Instead of condensed rain,
I saw rainbows through the wisps—
Ever more will I love the
Great Clouds
I used to ignore.

Pseudo-Proclamation, poem

I’ll say it—but I won’t.
I’m scared.

How stupid does that sound?

When you ask me, you’ll hear the ocean—
you’re on hold after all while I slip away

Innuendo: there’s lots
piled up between Us to which we contribute
Mutually
underwraps.

It’s frustrating, I know,
especially when the thought (or theory) slaps my cheek,
forcing my focus on This
sickening possibility—probability?
that our dance is just a Disney
dream.

Some of it is ‘cause only a fool would
believe
in the notion that we’ll just (together) “be”
with no bumps, scratches, scars,
on our egos and sanity
but my body wants to audition
the score anyhow.

I’ve said it but I haven’t.
and I...think the words would wither
before they touched your cognition of
What if?
for a couple of wondering wiles and bods.

I’ve said it. But I won’t.
It scares me, so I’ll Crush instead.
It’s infuriating, but at least
now you know.

Dexterity--poem

can you hear the beast
(it’s breathing, hot upon my neck)—
this mask may meet with each tantalizing
exhale
tempting the
demon
within
I touch up the veneer with my experienced
brush
keeping my guise in check

before It can claw its way from my
skin
I’ll assuage It with the promise of letting It
loose

when the Great One wanes its icy light
illuminating the vermin we’re to
destroy,
penetrating their facades
for I see
myself
reflected in their twisted
destiny

tear off the mask
breathe in
Beast out—
a calculating Monster with flare

cue from the Moon,
it’s time to embrace my
prey
with these Passenger’s arms
of this thrilling
ride
called
Fitting In

Crush-poem

I want to want you,
I want to say something
so you’ll turn your head and come
to me.

I want to ask you
for affection and attention
so we could curl up together
and exhale the night away.

Yet I’m sitting here, seemingly
daydreaming
lost in what if’s with every step
I take, back
towards where we first saw
eye-to-eye, and foresaw
bliss in our first “tell” without the
innuendo’d “show.”

And you’re on my mind tonight
again
it’s a repetitive thing—like how I’ve been
chasing my tale—
a cycle of wonder, wander, want—

Then what?

That’s so feline:
wanting things—
or seeming to and all the while
I’m wanting You

ash to Ash--poem

Let me be in the sun—
I’ll burn for the right reasons
instead of letting this blood
boil
for an unobtainable ghost.

Let me be in the sun—
I’m gluttonous for light
in this dust-cloud
of the delusions in
my waking dreams.

Let me be in the sun—
I’ll thrive or fly to
Oblivion—
at least I’ll be something new, something fresh
and flowering
or a soaring wraith of fire.

Let me be in the sun—
since you won’t let me be in you.
Any scalding I bear
will be gentler, dear,
than how I burned for
You.