Death invites him and all he lusts for is to leave himself Wherever I am, I haunt me and all the shadows and echoes of our past visit us in the night They force themselves in, uninvited Crawling in our minds
I was born a head of nightish hair and sapphire eyes and today I look so different the soft lips and big eyes accompanied my transition My body is merely sixteen though my mind thinks itself archaic
There is a pain in leaving oneself unguarded, vulnerable, and fragile. Trust is not a thing to throw away. We must share but remember to leave fragments of selves for ourselves. Or else we may become the property of somebody else.
To ignore myself and construct stories and be and be the empty spaces the voids where I am left alone aching to be touched
Cradled in being where people become, I become myself Where I pray to G-d, and discuss my sins I live to be and nothing else
I. Who are you? Are you the person I knew from then? II. A clock cannot decipher the years, they just pass. III. I watch from a window as the sun sets as the night takes place as if I did not choose my entrapment IV. Did I do this to myself? I think yes…
I am familiar with a sorrow which separates the soul from the body which leaves one dead still breathing
An existence belongs to poetry and art Everything may be art A piece of trash, perfume, a butterfly and You
I. I dance among the intoxicated and possibly indulge as well II. Is this not freedom? III. It is, though that does not validate the nature of the activity IV. We betray ourselves and craft lies until we cannot bear ourselves anymore
We drip with blood between our thighs Let mine, for it is better than to lend my body To grow in my belly Such a young age
Somebody makes love to anybody. A human bears skin of gold and diamonds. We sell the body for what it is worth. Diamonds and gold. It is nonsense to say we do not torment ourselves, that life is what afflicts us. The earth has no hands. Ocean and dirt have no grip on our gold….
It is always a choice A choice I barely am allowed Him or Her? They pull strings, I dangle and the rain washes me away
My narrative glistens before you yet you deny each of my cries. This is a mistreating of words and sentences. We all collapse. This is a cycle that cannot be only defined by my portrayal. The pattern ceases to stop before us, our tongues keep rolling and spitting fire.
I will sink into your skin and contaminate your blood I am pressed against your mind You cannot escape me
We are nothing but a whisper of the past which joins with a presumed future to form an uncontrollable present.
To detach from judgement is to leap To experience freedom is to fly To discover curiosity is to land
I. The child cries somewhere II. We smile III. We do not feel their hunger
Is art the hand that crafts? May art exist without emotion? May everything resemble a masterpiece?
Nostalgic lovers who dream of a past. A past relived and reconstructed to mask itself. This is all a game we play to procrastinate the present.