Stop painting portraits
for old loves
and forgotten friends
they’ll never understand you now
if they never understood you then
Underneath the Wreckage
Subway station, empty/peaceful.
Yet my thoughts, immersed in chaos.
This city sleeps, though I hardly catch a wink.
Fellow men and women dying in the streets.
Can’t dispute we all bleed red,
but the darker your skin the more often bleeding happens.
An elderly woman moves over, to block me from taking a seat.
Not the first time, I’ve felt subtle, hot, contempt.
Can’t mind it, I’ve got calls to answer, files to update, bills to pay.
Just like everyone else.
The city sleeps, but I hardly catch a wink.
Filled with desire for more, for better, and far from at peace.
Waltz No. 9
Anger used to deafen me,
Now it comes out in keystrokes,
With heated fingertips,
I write history,
Eat ether,
Drink whisky,
Breathe fire,
Endlessly
Fear is a Four Letter Word
Free yourself,
Float away from thoughts of what could’ve been done better.
Adore yourself,
Each scar, each scrape – each idiosyncrasy.
Embrace yourself,
Dance around the room foolishly, own each minute of it.
Live for yourself,
Everything else? Just dust to wisp off your fingertips.
All I Know (Of You) Are Ghost Stories
Morbid whispers, past to present,
Decadent in mourning.
Efforts much too long misspent,
Haunted, rich with yearning.
Ask, but never postulate,
Arrive honest and plain.
More emptiness to consecrate,
A journey made in vain.
With distance alone the burden fades,
The heart finds itself aflutter.
The end at last, of all charades,
Not a word left to utter.
Though anguish may appear to rise within those vacant skies,
Can’t trust a single tear, if it falls from a demon’s eyes.
This is not poetry.
