Direly contained in eternal letters
Knaves huddled their derrieres
Close to alleviate the cold.

Her slewed sounds of magnetic coats;
Chortling nihilistically.

They’d exchange guarana seeds
Propagating paganistic dreams
That dropped everything.

Then they’d spin artistically,
Within those choked up days when
Kitted mates incandescently tried
To believe in some other distant thing,
Lest the calm be disrupted
When they’d meet.


Blindly They’d Follow

Single minded entities
With masochistic inclinations
Laden with sorrows lashed out;
Leashes, held by ownerships.

They pled for destruction
Laid in their wake.

Knowing it’s pain,
They go back running,
Referring to it as naiveté.

They’d amble in the unknown
Rambling about affected pleasures
Within weighted sparsities.

Pulled out identities.

“Well, I hate bad people”
“What makes someone a bad person”
“Well… if they’re masochists..”

Shattered Illusions

Her fate was determined
The moment I started writing
I condemned her soul
From the very beginning.

The sea extended
Between us
Acting as an apparatus
Of separation.

It’s only in writing
I bare the filthy insides
I’m not supposed to share.

So I hide in plain sight
While in the darkness.
While hate filled words
Drivel and form these verses.

But they don’t know
The thing about magic
Is that it’s only impressive
When you can’t see the illusion.

But she knew.
She saw
Some of the darkness.
This soul,
This disgusting
Filthy thing,
Human being,
And claimed
She could still love it
Despite shattered illusions.

Was I allowed to
Think even for a moment
I could be loved
Despite the things I’ve written.

When I am so
Undeserving of it.


It’s Possible

I pretended to be somebody else
I hid my persona in hopes I could watch him
I scantily built her identity
With a meager amount of words.

But if a skillful writer wanted
They could hide themselves.
They could build a person that was realistic
With a rich history and a background
A story, a name, an identity
Taking hold of another perspective
Writing down words with a different lens.

It’s possible.
It’s possible.
What if he noticed,
What if he decides to hide himself,
Making it near impossible,
To hear his voice again.

If he isn’t actually dead.


At Least it Lives

I dream of his soulful music,
Of him still creating,
Piano concertos,
Violin and piano duets,
Suites for a quartet.
A fugue for harpsichords,
Or partias for clarinets.
Variations, fusions, mixes,
New age, Classical,
Visions into probability.

Even if
They are not
Made by his hand,
At least it lives,
Possessed in figures
Behind keyboards
Pressed by fingers
Of various writers.

Ones less flashy
Others more.
Some bleeding
Like he had before.
Some healing.

But their knowledge
Of worlds connected by inseams
In their quest for cathartic release
Pulsating, gyrating
Convecting, transmuting
The quest in knowing
The adventure in living
The thirst for inspiring
The desire for change
The yearning of love
The warmth of encouragement
They have it
They read
They write it
With derelict duty.

So many words.
So many bodies.
Worlds colliding.

Isn’t it amazing
Isn’t it disgusting.

A different soul,
A different style,
The seemingly infinite stimuli that are encountered,
How many of them were pretty much the same,
In what ways did they differ,
What lesson was taught or learned,
In which order?
What observations were made,
What was something one held close,
While another thought made no difference?
What words hold semantic significance
So many variables spinning, spiraling,
So many variations,
But somehow,
Not so different.

But it simply
Isn’t the same.

They aren’t him.


Just Information

Star splattered speckles
Expansive matter twinkling
In hues of colours
You can’t compress.
Sparkling, radiating cosmic glory,
Her universe,
Collided into mine;
Tiny in world of no intrusion.

In every piece there was substance
Swirling, extending, finally
Interweaving, tendril vines,
Found their way
Into my own.

Inspired by her presence
Admiration extruded my core
Information is readily available to those who seek it,
She countered,
As if I was unaware of it.

But she wasn’t
Just information.
She had a body, a soul.
She was someone
I wanted to know and abhor.

Even if
It was all conjecture
Or the intangibles
Of improbability



She wasn’t writing about specifics
The misdirected arrow was without purpose
She was not a huntress.
She only knew what it felt like
For commonalities.

Still this emptiness devours
This faded ochre olive landscape
Where dreams imagined
Dense deep green forestation.
Loss is loss,
Be it imagined,
Because I thought it reasoned.

She was an oracle.
She prophesied the living future.

Or was it her own destiny
She saw in her divination,
When she spoke of prisons,
Chalked marks along the walls,
Tallying up the days
That would be passing.


Will This Be

Will this be how it ends
The writer has ceased transcribing,
Everything remains as nothing,
But it doesn’t mean that she’s dead.
But her account can’t be discredited.

Why is it that I see her smiling
Or was it a method to stop growing
Our loves verdant potential.

Her mysteriously coloured aura,
Rendered my soul asunder.

I don’t think I’ll ever get to see her again.

Chance, led me to her tundra
A place found by a chaser,
It turned out, in vain.


But I Know

I have no idea what I am doing
When I am writing.
It had always just been
A way to express myself.
I would write more
The more I was hurting.
I got used to writing
My thoughts,
My emotions,
Things I wanted to share,
Things I couldn’t say to people,
I would write it down.

Then I met a poet.
Or I thought I did
But I know
I learned something.

I started to learn
How to rhyme
About rhythm
About metaphors
I thought more about words
How to use them
The way they sounded
The definitions
Why I used the words I used when I wrote
What I was feeling in each entry.
How emotions selected different types of words.
I thought about how spacing
Could change the feeling
Of a sentence
To mean more than one thing.
I thought about what was necessary
I thought about someone reading.

I learned how to apply those things
To my writing
I learned how to utilize it
To describe what I was feeling.

For the first time I learned what it meant
To have passion
But it was passion
Fueled by love
Is it the same
If it doesn’t spring up
From within me.

I am afraid
That one day I won’t enjoy it
As much anymore.

That happens often.

I hope it doesn’t.