Release Me

Release me,
Oh wicked heart.

Once a prisoner
Of my chest,
Now the captor
Of my brain.
It's accomplice,
A once ignorant clit.

Fooling my brain
With the illusions
Of love,
A foolish notion,
Indeed.

Release me,
I say,
You traitor,
You fiend.

Set me free,
And let me
Run rampant
In the fields
Of logic
And common sense.

I refuse
To dwell
In this den
Of false nirvana,
Laced with
Disappointment
And heartache.

And still,
I bide my time
For the moment
My heart makes
A mistake.

It is then
I shall bury
It deeper away,
Never to see
Sunlight.

My time
Shall come
And it will
Release me.

Waiting

Sammy stood at the gate,
Waiting for Pete
To break the corner
At Old Man Jacob's house.

He was now
Two hours late
And Sammy was growing impatient
And suspicious.

Veronica said he left
Three hours ago.
Pete was bringing it over
And Sammy couldn't wait to use it.

Just as he was
About to go in
To call Veronica again,
He saw Pete swaggering
Down the road.

From his wrist,
Hung a plastic bag.
It had to be in there.
Sammy willed himself
To be patient.

He was tempted
To rant and rave
At Pete about his lateness,
But it would result in
His departure,
So Sammy went
Through the familiar
Salutations and small talk.

They entered
Sammy's house,
Pete handing over
The plastic bag.

Pete took his position
On the couch
While Pete extracted
It from the plastic bag.

He admired it for a minute
Then put it into the console.
He took his seat
Next to Pete.

They waited till
It loaded.
Then in the quiet
Of what remained
Of the Saturday afternoon,
The two men played
The latest version of
Halo.

I Love Love

I love Love!

I love the notion
Of walking on the beach,
Our words floating asea,
Carried on the crests of waves
And bellies of fish.

I love the idea
That we can look
Deep into each others eyes
And have a conversation
Without the weight of words.

I love the way
The fine hairs
On the back of my neck
Sway in the breeze
Of his breath,
As I dwell in
The strength of his arms.

I love how
He finds the rights
To all my wrongs,
The sunshine
In my grey skies.

I love the way
My hand fits
Into his hand,
How it seeks it out
In a crowd,
Transferring a strength
I fear I had lost.

I love how
He says my name.
Each syllable curling
Around his tongue,
Kissing my ears,
Calling me home.

I love Love!
A love
I have yet to find.
A love that goes beyond
The physical
And even the mental.

A love
I hope,
I wish,
I pray exists,
That involves
The mind,
The body,
The soul.

I love Love.

Blue

I once liked the colour blue,
Just for the fact
That it was blue,
And not green
Which had too much yellow,
Nor purple
Which looked too much
Like Red.
But now
I like red
Because it's red.

What Was Wrong With Michael

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"What do you see,
Michael?"
Stuart held up
One of those
Ink blots.
This was new,
He's trying everything
And anything
To crack into
His mind.

Sure he could
Say He saw
His father
Stabbing his mother
Mercilessly
Because she served
Him tepid tea.
But Stuart would
Not believe him,
As his parents
Just left the room,
And his father
Was the perfect husband.

He could say
He saw a two-headed
Sparrow
Carrying the carcass
Of the dearly beloved
Family cat,
Senior Froufrou.
Senior because
It was only later
They realized
He was a mister.
They were still
Ignorant that
Froufrou was more
French than Spanish.

He could say
He saw a tired
Kid, wanting attention.
Wanting his parents
To treat him
A notch better
Than Sr. Froufrou.

Wanting his father
To build something with him,
Even if it was a paper plan.

Wanting his mother
To lounge around
And talk with him,
Laugh with him,
Listen to him.

Instead,
Michael said
He saw a butterfly.

Stuart knew.
He knew
Michael was lying.
He knew what the boy wanted,
But he wanted
Michael to tell him.

It was the way
Stuart worked.
He did not want
To tell Michael's parents
One thing
And it was something else.

It was now
Three months.
Every Wednesday afternoon.
Three thirty exactly.
It was one other activity,
Like soccer practice
Or piano lessons.

Stuart wanted
To tell the parents
To take Michael
To the park.
To go to a matinée
With the boy.
To take him anywhere
Else, but here.

But that wasn't his job,
To tell parents
How to be parents.
His job was
To tell them
What was wrong with Michael.

"This was going nowhere!"
Stuart said at last,
After a silence
Spread through
The expanse of
The sparsely decorated office.

Stuart spoke plainly
Enough that his
Three year old daughter
Could understand.
He told Michael
What he thought
Was wrong.

Not what was wrong
With Michael,
Just what was wrong.
Then he asked the boy
If he was right.

With eyes downcast,
The boy nodded,
And works spilled
From his mouth,
Till none was left
In the boy.

A truce,
At last.

The next visit,
Stuart was prepared,
He told the parents
What was wrong
With Michael nodding
With each point made.

And when the good doctor
Was finished,
The concerned parents
Looked at one another,
Then proceeded to call
Stuart a hack,
A waste of time,
And they should sue him.

The next week,
Michael sat in
Henry's office.
Henry was suppose
To find out
What was wrong with Michael.

And I were you...

I sit
In a state,
Where I no longer
Go forward or backward.
I am a loner.

One day,
You passed
Where I sat.
I looked up
And I saw you.

You smiled
And offered your hand.
I accepted
Without qualm,
Without fear.

You took me
Forward.
You took me
Backward.
You took me everywhere.

The next day,
I looked at you.
I saw myself,
You were me
And I were you.

Did I Ever Tell You

vi.sualize.us

Did I ever tell you
That I like the cologne you wear?
It's aroma fills my lungs
When you are near.

Did I ever tell you
That I love your hair?
It adds to who you are,
Who you always will be.

Did I ever tell you
That I love your eyes?
Two black pearls
Set in ivory.

Did I ever tell you
That I love your lips?
Full and sweet
Which curve around each word.

Did I ever tell you
I love your voice?
Beautiful and melodic,
Even if only to my ear.

Did I ever tell you
That I love you?
You and everything about you?
Because if I haven't,
I love you!

Little Man

Pushed of
My proverbial high horse
Unto the hard ground
Of reality,
Where I should now walk
Instead of ride.
On my shoulders,
Sits a little man
Who laughs
Every time I trip and fall,
Mocking me,
Taunting me
To go on.

I should hate this little man,
The way his lips twist
Into a wicked smile.
I should loathe
The fact that he won't go away,
But I can't hate
Nor can I loathe
This little man,
For without him,
I would be lying
Where I was pushed off
My proverbial high horse.

Bright Smiling Faces

vi.sualize.us

I sit in my corner
Of the room
Where there is enough light
For me to see what I'm doing.

When I look out
Of my corner,
I see the bright lights
Of the smiling people.

They sit together
In the middle of the room.
Their faces twisted
Into ridiculous smiles.

At first, they smiled at everyone,
Until their faces held smiles always.
It soon came to be
That their faces stuck that way.

Smiling,
They smiled when they spoke good of you,
They smiled when they spoke bad of you.
Their smiles soon meant nothing.

Everyday,
I watched them
With their artificial smiles
Fearing what they meant now.

Today,
I turned away after a while,
Their smiles too bright
For me to look anymore,
The smiles of the smiling people.

*Yeah, I was a Daria fan.

When Can I...

When can I
Sleep
And not feel
Like I'm being
Judged?

When can I
Walk
And not be
Watched,
Loved or
Hated?

When can I
Speak
And not
Have my words
Turned into daggers
To cut my skin?

When can I
Die
And rest in
Eternal Peace?

I doubt
I will
Ever know.

Colours of My Words

This page is like
An empty canvas,
Awaiting to be
Splashed by the colour
Words can give it.

It doesn't matter
If the pen is
Black, red or blue inked,
The fact is the words
Hold colours.

Colours
Of reality,
Of fantasy,
Of fiction,
Of non-fiction.

Now,
This page
Is a work of art.
Now,
It's filled
With the colours
Of my words.

New

weheartit

I sat in the train
As it slipped
Into the city,
Pulling the morning
Attached to the last car.

Another city,
Another chance
To start a new life.
New Job,
New Friends,
New Me.

The past I left
Back there.
I left
All the pain
And suffering,
But that
Is all in the past.

This morning,
I start anew
As soon as
I step of this train
And into
This city
Which I now
Call home.

Model

examiner.com

I flipped through a magazine,
And saw a stick
Of a woman.
Her skin stuck to her bones,
Her muscles were so small,
They were non-existent.
They called her a model,
My mom said she looked bulimic.

What kind of model
Was she to be,
Certainly not a role model.
Are we as women
Trying to attain the shape
Of a skeleton?
Why must people
Shove pictures of women
Who are 6 feet and taller
With limbs so small
It's ridiculous.

Why don't they show
Real people.
Black, white,
Tall, short,
Slender and curvy,
For that is who we are,
And if they are to represent us,
they should look like us.

All

Innocuous preconception
Of self,
Lost in
One's own self,
Like a boxed
Sparing with
The soul.

Cut open
The fruit
Of life,
Suck on the juices
That spring
From the fruit.

To lie to the soul,
Is to lie to the sky,
To lie to the rain,
To lie to the sun,
To lie to the moon.

All created
By one,
All created
By all,
All.


Don't ask where that came from because I really don't know.

I'm cute

weheartit.com

Feed me,
Pick up my crap,
Clean me,
Take me to the vet,
Walk me,
Clean up my messes.

Then again,
I will love you
Unconditionally.
I will always be
Happy to see you.
I will do anything
You tell me,
Well, when I figure out
What you're saying.

I love you
And
I'm cute.

The Old Record Player

weheartit.com

One day,
He came home
With this box,
And said that
They don't make these
Anymore.

He opened it
And there was an
Old record player.
He said he was
Looking all over
For one.

He had tons
Of records,
But no record player,
I used to laugh
At this little quirk.

That day,
He pulled out
An old Motown record
And placed it
On the player.
Then he pulled me
Into his arms.

We just rocked,
Back and forth,
Body to body,
Soul to soul.
Just us
And the record player.

He's gone now,
And all that is left,
Is this record player
And his records.

On days
When I felt
So alone,
I would put
A record on the
Old record player.
Most times,
An old Motown record.

I would hold
On to that one quirk
That I would laugh about.

Words

Words roll out of my mind.
Bitten by my teeth
And swallowed.
To disappear
Into the prison
Of my digestive system.

Eat Me

Take a knife,
Peel my skin off.
Then fillet my flesh
And dice it.
Throw it in a skillet
And brown the meat.
Toss my bones
To your faithful dog
Or keep them to make a broth.
When meat is brown,
Add vegetables
And stir fry.
Season with my tears
And sweat,
Expressed from my tear ducts
And skin.
Remove and place
On a platter.
Garnish with my eyeballs
And teeth,
And serve.

Bon Appetit!!