Caricature of a Nation

Scared of our own reflection;
Scared of our own voice.
Lazily choosing poorly,
Lazily mis-choosing choice.

Conscience and talk of guilt
Like a concerned friend.
Conscious and full of hope;
Living as a means to an end.

Can't walk straight;
Can't talk straight.
Living off day and for night;
Living by sound and not by sight.

Extend the crotch and the nose;
Fill in the eyes with abundant woes.
Expand the dimness of mental strength
Finish the folly with unequaled length.

Problems without solutions,
Problems without absolution.
How do we choose prudence?
How do we reach resolution?

Deus ex Veritas

Large eyes closed in a smile:
Beauty as cruel as guile.
Love found in the passion of youth
And forged in the fires of truth.

Let me learn the folds of your skin
And the lines on your face.
Let me live by your side and
Become the reason why I wake.

When my eyes forget their purpose
And my mind grows dim,
May my fingers remember
Their old calluses on your skin.

If my legs grow tired from
This evanescent existence,
I know your long arms will pick me up
And carry me hence.

I know how to sin;
Teach me how to atone.
I know how to hate;
Teach me how to love.

arc life

this world is flat and shallow
full of faces like masks
and smiles like cracks.

i've been asleep all my life,
cerulean eyes shut like drapes.

we collect trifles for what we are
just to conceal the amoral
who we are.

and even amidst an exodus of truth and life,
i'll keep my eyes fixed on the sky,
crying for You.

empathis

what came before occupation?
purity and atrophy and apathy and
a bit of magic, synaptic surrealism.

our faces as a mirror for someone else.
looking into yours, seeing myself with
sober hands holding a thirsty glass.

longing to see those who have left.
living to see those who have left.

trying to remember a time when
problems were in math books and
shit was in bathrooms.

my life exists in the highlighted regions of
books i'll never understand and
glimpses into houses i’ll never drive past.

stretching my wings, poised and ready,
for my fall from grace.

soul expression

alone again, wondering:
why must the reddest apples always be bitter?
why must the reddest leaves always be withered?

lies gather like lode in the cracks of my life.
flowery prayer and fervent neglect;
far removed from a past i always commit.
more stains upon an already impure heart. always more.

starting off in the wrong key
and forgetting to strike the last note.
does it matter? “never,” You say.

soul expansion

the oasis of conflict is almost dry.
no more hope of living in this desert of deceit.

fickle youth pulling my hand backward
and gray age dragging me forward.
forget my arms!

tomorrow i'll wake up in a heaven
with eyes that don't worry or weep.

you were the words i couldn't write,
but now i won't have to.
i don't need to wait for life to begin.

myrth

thinning air:
the perfect place to disappear.

to slough this life like a snake to his skin;
to begin anew, as it were,

before the incongruence of my sex
became manifest.

oh bliss!
how quickly the thorns fade and tears come!

myre

finally sensing the scent of absence;
holding back tears and words
from entering your hands.

an arpeggio of emotion
that i'm about to play.

not lost at sea; just unwilling
to face the storm before me.

tired of ascending these steps
tired of walking these paths
tired of writing these words.

sarough

what a difficult choice!
the tempting hand of pain and
the wearisome hand of pleasure.
to draw a thinner line would be difficult.

perfection marred by man’s perversion, or
temporal respite for this brilliant youth?

it’s not just the truth of pain
nor the sin of pleasure; rather,
it is my life.

dovely

fair weather friends with hopes of
plans in lands far away.

life, love and the pursuit of loneliness
etched into my mind.

tainted shards of happiness in my past;
broken pieces of happiness in my hands.

and now?
i can see the sun from anywhere.

mirror, part one

those narrowed eyes have not
seen the extent that you have.

to us, you tell no lies.
you conceal no dark truth
of our depraved existence.

and yet, you do not judge us.
you merely observe our bodies
blossoming into brittle stems.
brittle leaves. brittle flowers.


who is it that you’re showing me?
i do not know him!
his face is not my own!

i am but a child:
innocent and young.
i've only started laying the corner pieces
in this great puzzle of life.

give me back the years you’ve stolen!

secret life

why must it always be like this?
always drowning;
always floundering;
always gasping for air.

i've never found it so hard
to weather an embrace.

a mouth full of words
i'll never say
is an unfortunate trait
the meek all share

arms flecked with black
and an untrained spirit,
heir to a treasure
of limitless confusion.

when will my endless
winter melt into spring?
or has it already begun?

friend

a noise
shatters the cool evening air.
the shuffling from beside
greatly concerns us.

a beast
perhaps. or even a demon
lurks among the foliage.
who are we to face such
a nebulous malice?

an arm
shatters the cool evening air.
my fears, vanquished, humbly
retreat to the ends of my mind.

a brother
perhaps. or even a twin
there stands, protecting me.
what could harm me
now?

this night holds no darkness.
why? because i am with you.

Life

What is this thing called life?
Of anything, we are yet unsure.

It is Pluto's cold, unfeeling kiss.
Or more like, perhaps, Icarus,
Flying to aurora heights unbound
By reason's ever-present sound.

Better yet: remain in the grip of
Diana's inexperienced love.
More fruitful there life always is
Than one with led by Venus' vile hiss.

We are simply all lost at sea
With nothing but Neptune’s chilly
Spray to slake our thirst.
Even still, a dream is the first

Drop to fall from the sky.
Only the angels that fly
Above can escape nature’s watery rend:
A small brook fumbling into an ocean at the end.

“Question the stars, little one,”
says Jove. “Life has just begun.”

thinking of you, part 3

how foolish am i?
to let myself become infatuated
by a shadow and a phantom!

it is not the song of the seraph
that keeps me afloat.

it is not the scent of the seraph
that comforts me.

it is not the beauty of the seraph
that eases my woes.

rather,
it is the silent rejection of
everything i cannot have
that forms the basis of
my sin. your disregard.

and
it is the knowledge and reassurance
of the impossible that aids
my acceptance. your passing.

but
it is the wind that lifts
me. not you.

your hand is not mine to hold.

and yet, forever i'll remain,
thinking of you.

thinking of you, part 2

my very marrow trembles with delight
at the intoxicating sight of you and
your presence. my apprehension.

the sweetest scent from memory
and thought pervades my being:
your aroma. my delight.

the greatest symphony
is mere nothing compared to
your melody. my lament.

the passing troubles of this life
fade when i contemplate
your beauty. my inadequacy.

one day i'll fly.
one day i'll jump
and spread my wings
with a seraph by my side.

thinking of you

a seraph descends from the heavens
and embraces the boy
with the brittle smile.

an emotionally-torn youth
with hopes and dreams and a future
as vague as the seraph’s presence.

fleetingly they encounter:
always a brief glance,
and yet, their eyes never meet.

the seraph’s name,
always a feeble whisper
upon the breath of the boy,
and yet, is naught but taboo.

his heart races—
always a major change
to the inexperienced spirit of the boy.
he’s suddenly hopeful,
and yet, unnoticed by the stars.

if only angels were demons!
for then the boy would be
released from the seraph.

victory rose

like tuning before a symphony
is the sweet smell of fall.

time changes many things;
yet its scent remains.

how often do i long and wait
to enjoy such subtle aroma!

its advent proclaims the cold-
a harbinger of tribulation.

yet, for some, its soft embrace
is just a brief sigh before
the respite of the pearl sea.

four seasons

how sad is the bud that never blooms!
his lot was no less than the grandest tree.

but sadder yet is the green sapling
that meets its end in summer's heat.

yet expected, in autumn,
is a pile of old leaves.

as always, winter's cold unfeeling
begins the process anew.