A.M.

Playground wishes

Hot breath

Spoken misses

Cold kisses

Your deep whispers

Muffled giggles

My bare arms

Your rigid fingers

Sheet of ink

Spilled in the sky

So darkly blotched

The stars don’t shine

Stiffened plastic

Your soft hair

Charred like coal

Bars break away

A hidden freedom

A passing smile

Quick embrace

In spilling time

Grainy sand

And then hard ground

Run fast on legs

Past crooked spines

No moon

No drought

A shared approach

A common ground

The string drags on

Through grains and rags

With reasoning

Of lucky hands

Discovery of nighttime runs

The warmth that breathes

And looks like smoke

The night plays cover

To a bold approach

Reading List

A list of good reads, in my opinion. I'll update it whenever I fall a little bit in love with another piece.(Series)
The Gone Series by Michael Grant

(Short stories)
"Overcoat" by Nikolai Gogol

"Everything and Nothing" by Jorge Luis Borges

"Borges and I" by Jorge Luis Borges

"The Life and Adventures of Shed Number XII" by Victor Pelevin
(As my professor said, "A story of a soul and its struggles".)

South American Waters

Someone make me go to bed already. Feeling peaceful.


Oars, and foam, and a watery breeze
I want someone like you
To share this with me

I can see it from here
Where I'm nowhere close
But it'll be someone like you
Brushing my arm as I gaze at the coast

And I'll hold your hand
And all will be calm
Because the person I travel the world with
That kind of fate is already etched in my palm

Chipped

But I'm not paint.

Que bells

Que sad music

Que the depths of the sea, or ocean, because it is both bluer and darker. Almost as deep as Joyce, and maybe if there is enough effort, everything wrong with the world and humanity will become so obvious, and one can be sad forever.

Sad forever, just imagine. Finding the obvious becomes an expertise.

Obviously, everything is broken, and simple steps of the day are so meaningless that it becomes a poem, and then there are barriers of complicated chemicals that we breathe, and these complications make tears tickle, but not flow.

It is the easy that makes salt water run; it is easy to be alone.

The forever game of reaching, and in all fun, even when both souls extend a hand, fingers apart, unbending, the skin will never touch. Energy flows whether the forever game goes on forever, connectivity doesn't.

I'm sorry that you're sad because life is mean.

And I'm sorry that you're sad by choice.

I'm sorry that you share his love, but you're dragging heavy fear.

And I'm sorry that there's no joke in your love; it's almost like another tragic game of forever.

Bells.

I'm sorry that your bells are laden with liquid, and mine won't make a sound.

Flipping over and over, graciously, life is not a game of forever. The board is sturdy but the pieces break, and drown; some float, but it doesn't mean water doesn't run down their throats.

Help, question point. There is no way to ask what cannot be answered. My answer is that you can't see it, you won't, it's all mine, and you ought to have too much of your own. Hardly an answer to your help, question point.

Repeat, repeat, repeat the meaningless steps, the breaths, the darting of gifted vision, the gift of hugging close everything that erodes.

You may not know mine. I may not know yours. More importantly, mine won't be known.

You can't

At me. 

There are no layers.

Silver Winter

What am I to know
Of love, or discovery, or any one of those
Emotions for the wiser, the older
I am merely halfway to the age of grown

Bundled by my parents and whisked along
Where houses with a white coat stand, slanted, side by side
While there is an air of calmness, it borders on the sad
Yet never quite reaches it, for in and throughout that, a pleasantness

The third evening, not entirely by myself
Then, in fact, I am, for seconds tend to slip me by
Stumbling behind, not yet groaning
But like a cub, fallen back, and clumsily, attempting the forward climb

This is When
Frosted white, encircling my ignorant eyes
Another trip, boot caught in ice
And, When, brown eyes flying up, I finally glance who stood before me all the while

That kind of knowing, a pause in the ticks
When in fact, you don't
And thinking harder, frozen in that stance, one foot ahead
I realize I don't, for that matter, know at all; yet still you are, and the clock goes

And how perfect, the crooked line between two lips
My mind encompasses so fast, and forgets to make you guess
And soon you call my name, like an old friend, who knew me all the while
Soon enough, you do

Of course, I never share
Sip my tea and swallow the emotions around the grown, for I am only halfway to the age where the mind matures
And fitting to that age, my eyes wander to the windows
In search of answers to questions halfway posed

So, it comes, as evenings come and go
Denial had come too, and flown
Whisked away and gently replaced with the hottest insistence
That when I see you again, it is only a matter to be expected

Perhaps, you've always known

Cradled, such a story of my own
There that crooked line stretches, mirrored
My cheeks are red, and this is mirrored
I reach out my palm, and do you mirror? Ah, but you've reached first

There is a post, with the strangest, most fitting, sparing light
If I listen, I only hear the crunch of stepping
And if not, a world of white, with a full symphony
Halfway to grown, this is the pinpoint where I cross the jagged line, past the odd angle at which our shadows are thrown

Freezing wind carves smiles in the air before us
Where the light doesn't quite reach, your steely finger brushes mine
In the quaintest winter, my heart thaws
Thank you, sweetest silver boy of time

Crevice Winds

Childhood ruins
shattered glass
these are the things you were faced with
when I tried to show you your past

I came with excitement, and pride
thinking to impress you, in fact
How naive
How sad, with a bitter taste
Maybe if I'd listened, instead of waving away
your old stories
I would've had a hint of a spark in my mind
that after that horrible decade
nothing beautiful could possibly be found
in that place

The awe on your face
I did not instantly read
as I pushed further through photos
hoping you would spot an old place
But then came old buildings
with empty panes
no doorways
surely, not even the spirits remained
And that's when I saw,
you were as sad
as the old, broken buildings
which you shouldn't have seen

And I'm sorry
For if I'd listened
truly, listened
there wouldn't be this new, unearthed thing
to wander through your rigged mind
Another wisp of tragedy
to slowly tear you apart

No more running
fast, with best friends
No more trouble,
twists, belonging to fate
No more cool nights
they all fade away
hidden in mountains ...
not the ones of your youth
but those guards, in your mind
standing tall with sanded ends

Now, yet another gust blows
Whistling through hollowed streets,
down cracked pavement
through dead trees
And for this one, I'm sorry
For I've done this to you.
Not them, directly
But,
painfully,
me.

Coward

If you are a coward, as you say you are
Then you will break my heart into pieces, as you said you would.