caught in a dream

as the fog envelops

this lonely city.

You’re slowly fading,

into the memory 

buried in my backyard.

You’re slowly fading,

into a distant dream

lacking color and speech.

You’re slowly fading,

like a pencil mark, erased,

to cover mistakes.

You’re slowly fading into

nothingness, empty of

emotion, lacking substance.

You’re slowly fading,

just as this foggy winter 

slowly walks away.

My mother told me not to play with Fire. She showed me the burns on her arms, the scars on her knees. 

“Don’t play with Fire; your skin will burn, your beauty will fade, the pain will be great.”

I listened cautiously for years, always making sure I never came too close to the flame that never fades from existence. I glanced upon its hypnotic colors, the warmth it provided, the energy it proposed. Indeed it was tempting, yet I didn’t dare touch it.

One day The Fire burned so bright, and the flames grew tall; I was sequestered by its heat, robbed of my rational senses. Oh how enticing! The orange and blue, yellow streaks across its hair. The Fire had captured me, wrapped me in its arms, whispered my name.

It coiled its fiery arms around my body, scorching my skin, burning my senses off their receptors. I yelled at the top of my lungs, but no sound emanated, no one heard.

It felt as though hours were days, as the Fire kept gnawing at my flesh. He almost ate right through my soul, until at last he grew tired of holding me in its grip. The Fire let go, let me fall on the ground, scathed and burned, almost numb of the pain.

The scars remain, the smell of smoke still present in my nostrils. Sometimes the thought of it stops my breathing and I find myself gasping for air like a fish out of water.

Ah, but the lesson was learned, the curiosity satisfied, the pain deterred my every longing to belong to the Fire. Playing with Fire was a beautiful mistake. A beautiful mistake indeed.

Ah yes, a simple touch

is simply more than a touch,

it’s a statement, it’s a glance, it’s a phrase.

A touch doesn’t just feel like skin against skin.

A touch is atoms against atoms, organ against organ.

A touch, as soft as can be, can electrify the receiver

send nerves wild into the depth of the night.

Ah yes, a simple touch, has much more meaning than it seems.

If I were made of steel,

I would be a bridge

connecting two lands,

allowing for a peaceful

compromise between both.

If I were made of steel,

I would be a railroad,

diverging into two tracks

then meeting again in the end.

If I were made of steel,

I would be impenetrable 

I would be indestructible

I would be stronger.

But, alas, I’m simply a body

with a fragile muscle pumping

blood throughout the span of 

five feet and two inches.

What was in your eyes?
So tainted with lies,
Her heart nearly dies.

I’m close to the edge

breathing so deep, I can’t speak

Just tune it all out

One day I wished to love without return,

but little did I know that my wish was waiting

for me in the land of magical fantasies.

Do not restrict a
Butterfly ready to fly
Freedom resonates

I woke up today

Your imprint left on the bed

Out of memory

They say the eyes are the windows to a soul,

but they’re merely made up of rods and cones.

We are the ones that brand them with meaning.

Poets adore them, thinking that eyes are celestial

beings in need of praise, in need of exaltation,

but they’re merely made up of rods and cones.

They say the eyes are the windows to a soul,

but windows can often deceive, displays fabricated,

smoke and mirrors, a magician’s touch, a simple illusion.

Tears refuel my words.
My prose blooms as
my anger rises.

Bottled up sentiments
escalating, expanding, proliferating,
exploding spontaneously. Fragments
of broken glass scattered across the remnants of figurines. Ah, I make no sense, but that’s the beauty of it. Organized chaos, disorganized peace.

Pain gives rise to beauty
and tears refuel my words.

I’m so sorry

but time has changed me

and the consequence of that 

is not quite fun.

I want to be DNA.

Always fixing its

mistakes.

A picture’s worth a thousand words,

but what if that picture has been

purposely crafted, an altered image?

Deceptive pigments, dishonest pixels.

Perfectly aligned, cropped to perfection,

to tell the tale of a perfect world,

wrapped under a blanket of gold,

teeming with flawless beings.