The Poet

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

V.

Like my mother

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. I may push the tide away but it has no desire for me. The earth can not promise to stop cracking and splitting apart. It may not collapse around you. Somebody always convinces me to be sold.

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.