Filling The Void.

Let’s be irrational poets,
forming eloquent sentences
filled with mystical words
that pilgrimage on voided
blue lines, for centuries
and centuries, without a reason,
without a explanation, but
because our minds must
be filtered from all the
angst and aches we suppress
within ourselves while we
succeed to please the reign,
but fail to please ourselves.

In Your Arms.

Adoration would unblushingly
fill in the voided hole in my
soul if I had the occasion to
fall in a sober, dazed state
of mind, mesmerized by the
rose petals that envelope your
arms, like red-velvet pillows
I would long to be cradled in,
drifting into a mollifying yet
haunting lullaby, singing lyrical
melodies, soothing and taming
the ignited affliction that burns in
the folds of my heart.

Mixed Signals.

Perplexing signs of
infatuation never
fail to puzzle my
gullible heart and
place temptation on
my easily seduced
body. Your empathy
belies, laying beneath
the sheathes of your skins
of collected, immobilized
atoms and cells. They
only become animated
when my fingertips glide
alone each permanent
lining of your skin, transferring
my sympathy that solaces
your apathy.

A New World.

The rays of light through
the sorrowful clouds, giving
passion to the desolated
lands, thirsting for recuperation
and self indulgence. Once
the acid stops cascading
upon us, Earth shall be placid,
rejoicing with mother
nature, no longer belying
under debris and catastrophes.

False Impression.

I think I created a
false image of you
inside my artistic
mind. I must’ve
mistook your cancerous
words for medicine,
contemplating they
would convalesce
my fresco, abhorrent
wounds; and your
touch- your mollifying,
humane touch belies,
beholding malevolence
that seeps through my
pores, making me bitter
off of the distance that
treads ambitiously on the
moonlit roads. I should’ve
known from the gleam in
your eyes, that resembles
an infantile and coddle
child, that you would’ve
sliced my chest apart,
dismembering all my
fluctuating atoms,
draining your self made
heroin into my impeccable,
charismatic beating organ.

Insomnia.

I am drawn to the moon.
When it rises, I howl like
a ratchet werewolf and
envision that I am pouncing
through a majestic, nefarious
wonderland. I cannot resist
laying angelically beneath
the nebula’s and the milky
ways, hypnotized by their
alluring beauty, exhaling
a methanol cigarette’s
smoke to the hurricanes
underneath Jupiter’s
rings and noxious gases.
My muse, in a frenzy,
cannot become sober,
for it is intoxicated with
irrationality and wickedness.
Perhaps I am drawn to
the nighttime sky because
it elevates and animates
my spirit as its best and
floods self-pity that
transitions into solacing
at its worst.

Too Proud To Sympathize.

Attempting to solace the sorrow you
filled my psyche with from the words
you borrowed and learned with indifference
to impress my effortlessly pleased self.
You have corrupted my vital organs,
sickening them with your selfishness that gaps
me open from the inside-out, crawling like
blood-thirsty spiders on to my skin, infectious
with their fangs and  stubborn legs,
manipulating my red and white blood cells
that cannot beckon for a war nor transfer
oxygen to my brain. My circulation is
cutting off, my debilitated lungs collapse and
I suffocate from the blood  and vomit that
cascades  from my rancid mouth and I begin
to drown as you remain in complete insouciance,
not having  one conscious disrupting your
 malevolent pride.

Conceited.

You are not a rare

jewel hidden in the

depths of the

mystical sea, you

shouldn’t be wrapped

up in yourself with

delicate pieces of

satin and silk

stitched together.

One day the seams

will dismember without a

caution and you will have

lost yourself, naked

and vulnerable.

Watching You Sleep.

I know what your bed

looks like, firm and

unkempt. I know

your infantile sleeping

habits, half of your

body intertwined with

velvet sheets, muffled

snores upon the spread.

You usually lay on your

back, closing your eyes

lazily to the narrow,

indifferent ceiling, the white

walls humming off all the

sounds, placidly, they

always seem to mollify

you to sleep.

Stoned.

On a bizarre acid trip to the depths of the moon,

solacing my inner angst with mercury and indifference.

Luminous, appalling colours of the rainbow enchant

as I challenge my intelligence while phosphate star

dust flakes my eyelids, what toxic, colourful snow

flakes that materialize and hinder my retina’s.

Inhaling all the faux designer herbs, feeling

them seep through the cracks of my brain folds,

fogging up my frontal lobe, I’m floating in an 

enthralling aura of fiends and brutally bitten angels

with rusty halo’s. Exhaling thick-cloud rings of

smoke so monstrous that ghost can somersault

through. Where is my state of mind at? If I was

able to think perceptibly, my muse would sense

it out in the brunt-azure sea, sinking to an

abyss of alien seaweeds that’ll consume each

polluted atom and piece of fresh flesh. I think

I’d have nothing left to call mines.

Beautiful Skies, Ugly World.

I ran on a ratchet,
vacant road for
miles, miles, miles.
The moon stalked
me with her impeccable
luminous radiance. The
stars had risen
with pride, speckles of
blues, violets and
reds I envy the sky,
running profusely on
my decaying, feeble
feet. I mourned,
“It’s so beautiful
up there and so
ugly down here!
It’s just not fair!”

I have been drained out, mercilessly,
of all my intellectual literature.
Even though you say my words
grasp your soul, stirring them into
a haunting bliss, the words torment
me. They linger off every thread of
clothing that veils my bitter, ghastly
body, stalking after me in my angelic
night terrors. I cannot cease to elaborate
the turmoil that pours down on me like
a torrent of December rain, piercing and
impassive with every hand stroke and
movement made as my narrow pencil
drags along the callous blue lines,
writing eloquent yet disturbing lyrical
sentences arranged for you.

Alas,

I wasn’t spiraling down in an infinite pit of
despondency because of the woe he floods
into my heart, but because the Earth
lost an obscure,  disturbed poetic angel.
She was lonesome with her blood stained
lips and dirty, autumn hair. She longed
for saints and angels to engulf the toxic
fumes raging in her chaotic mind and
in her ponderous heart. All she
needed was love and charisma,
but she was too adamant to beckon for
mercy. If no pills or ferocious human being
was going to steal the oxygen that traveled
to her cloudy lungs, than she herself
would do the deed. She died in a chamber
of poisonous fumes. She took
matters into her own incautious hands.
She stole her own life away-
she took it right out of  her soul!

Unknowingly Vain.

She wants to swim in
circles in your
muddy brown iris,
whirl into your
dilated pupils,
and absorb into
your retina so she’ll
be the only thing
you discern where
ever you travel
and every dream
your mind beholds.

Painting a pretty
portrait on a monstrous
canvas with the
ink that has been
squeezed out of
my veins is causing
fatigue to my weary soul
that no longer has
the ingenuity to
contemplate eloquent
words on impeccable
pieces of paper.

Rare Beauty.

His rare beauty impends my
contemplating muse and
my eloquent words suddenly
sabotage themselves
in slurs and stutters. It’s the
twinkle in his eyes, like a sunset 
reflecting over a transparent,
muddy mass of water that
captures my soul in a alluring,
blissful aura. It’s the way
he seductively slithers his tongue
over his lips that makes impeccable
thoughts turn impure and un-lady like.
It’s the way he profoundly ceases
 his hands over my rusty, conspicuous
scars and violet bruises as if my
skin is made of silk and velvet.
It’s the way he enjoys sitting in a
room of silence, not feeling the
responsibility to fill it with frivolous
acts of entertainment or words.
It’s the way he embraces me in his 
angelic arms, as if he himself is going
to fly us into the Heavens with all 
the Angels and Saints. He is like
no other man in humanity. He is
 indeed a rare beauty.

The fresco canvas
allows the colours
to trickle down,
creating violet
and azure tear
drops, mending
together into
an abstract,
chaotic scheme
of an indulging
yet misinterpret
piece of art.

All you have to
do is plunge yourself
in the intriguing mass
of water, then hold your
breath as perpetual
as possible. Your
body becomes
weightless in the
mist of the exquisite
sea. Worries do not
subsequent after
you, impediments
of sorrow are drained
from your pitless
ears and blemishes
become purified
from your parched
skin. When you
are weightless
in the sea
-sole and confined
in yourself-
you are flawless.

Hanging by a thread
on the rings of
Jupiter isn’t so
ghastly when you have
swarms of shooting
stars fluttering above
your head and you
get to have the
opportunity to
watch them from
afar burst of gases,
matter and atoms
into polychromatic
speckles of dust
floating into the
infinite depths
of another universe.

I could have
fallen in love
with a mysterious
poet or painter,
finding myself lost
their enchanting words
or marvelous portraits,
but instead, I got
entangled in your
awkward yet seductive
hesitation of confidence
that always painted
roses on to my cheeks
and inspired me to
write innocent words
with ripe ink that no
poet or painter could
ever cease to do.