Wednesday, January 25, 2012

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.


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!

Monday, January 23, 2012

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.