I see wings that sprout from shoulders,
I see shiny slimy scales,
I see halos hanging over heads
and scary monsters' tails.
I see shining lights and radiance
and evil demon claws,
but in the end I see both good and evil
in us all.
BlinkDo the eyes of a hero have to work?
Do the legs of a hero have to work?
Does the voice of a hero have to work?
Or is she a hero?
When she wakes, what will she see?
If she wakes, will she see? Will she?
If she wakes will she move?
Will she speak like a hero?
While she's asleep does she hear those who wake and weep,
who wish to sleep, can't bear to keep her sleeping?
While she's asleep, does she fear my being near so she can hear me,
hear that she's a hero?
Can she hear me? So she knows she's near me?
"Goodbye"s "Hello"s but can she hear me, "Happy New Year", but can she hear me, crystal clear, me?
Yes, another year she's sleeping here, she's sound and still, another year she's still sleeping.
Does she know I'm scared,
or is she unaware, just laying there waiting to share the dreams she's dreamt so far, so fair,
like Snow White's skin, sleeping, hiding from Snow White's Seven Deadly Sins?
Would she prefer to be the princess who will wake, or does she know, she is a hero?
And when she wak
So She Adopted (slam poem)The baby was blue.
The baby was the only thing she had to hold onto
the keystone that she needed when her life collapsed into itself
because her baby daddy left her lonely crying to herself
just when she'd finished getting through herself
because she knew, she could not give birth.
And she can't watch the movie "UP" because it reminds her,
she can't mother, or so said the doctor,
but, she said, she'd find out how to be a mother, somehow, be a mother.
So she adopted.
And although the baby wasn't hers by birth
she'd tried before, embedded in her mind, before the baby,
and she can't admit she calls herself a tomb
and is afraid of her own womb
she hides the history but when she's all alone inside a room
it bubbles up just like a blister
holding back the screams of the baby's foster brothers and sisters
who never made it past the first trimester.
And although the baby wasn't hers by birth
she felt like it was living proof
that she had not committed murder,
what she had considered murder
The Poem about Diamonds"I accidentally fell in love," I said.
I went on to explain myself.
I told the story
the story that I read to myself at night,
the song that I sing in the shower,
of how I dug through the garden of my soul
and unearthed pure diamonds
already cut and ready for me to wear as jewelry-
as evidence that yes,
I really am this happy.
And so went the story of how I "accidentally" fell in love.
And it was a mistake.
I didn't mean for it to happen.
But the best things in life happen by accident.
AlwaysIn a crescendo of notes
flowing up and down
black and white keys,
a river runs upwards
to caress canopies,
flow from the mouth
with singing bells
that float through currents
up to meet the crest
where leaves embrace intangible heaven.
All products of
the threads that interweave
the nylon strings that glow of
pulsing earth with rhythm,
UntitledIt is the worst way to go...
and yet, we subject entire worlds
to such... ambiguity.
Wiped, but not wiped out,
not in an incident.
There is no tragedy,
only a slow fade to nothingness.
And all of the histories,
the timelines that were truly, truly real,
the places that you could feel,
That one joke that was said,
that one sentence you couldn't get over.
They became a dream.
And so one day they became harder to reach.
But not unreachable.
Winter SerpentThe winged serpent in the snow
will bite you with an icy glare
because your soul, the serpent knows;
a burning star resides inside.
It swallows stellar bodies whole
with frozen jaws opening wide,
and empty coldness that it stole,
it tries to fill with warmer air.
Why We Let GoA second chance is not an act of mercy
but a belief
that the human soul
can do better.
When I hold your life
in the palms of my hands
do not make me clench
them into fists-
you have cracked your heart
and I will not clean up
and the cold dark dust
at the end of every disaster.
I hope you need those wings to flyI can't help but to feel
that I took the fall
because I could take the fall.
I am still golden.
Maybe you needed a crutch.
You couldn't have made it this far without it.
I've come so far
and I've grown so much,
learning how to be happy with humanity's abstract concepts.
But I imagine you flying with invisible wings
and I wonder why I don't have wings
when I've worked so hard and so long to get them.
Wasn't it my goal to fly?
If you didn't have those wings, I'd imagine that you'd plummet.
But I'm so afraid
that if you couldn't fly
you would still be able to walk.
Teenager FactoryEmpathy is an art, and like all forms of creativity
I have to unleash it- I need it,
as I'm sitting in the corner
talking about creative robots,
fingers, colors, names
I need to know, why
why do you come over and ask if I'm okay?
Why do you care that I'm not talking to everyone?
Why can't you read my emotions?
Why can't you tell that I'm happy.
Empathy is a skill, and like all forms of skill,
it must be trained,
but as we charge through the darkest storms
we learn how to spot others. So,
why does it feel like you
are a man-made machine?
Do you think about these things?
Why are you programmed to state the hour,
and why are coded patterns of statements and questions
emanating from your presence?
Why does it feel as if my world is gone,
as I swallow the taste of iron
to prevent it from slipping down my mouth
where conveyor belts wait.
Empathy is a word, and like all words,
it is insignificant.
ShadesI'll lay you down upon this bed,
Eyes blinded with a strip of black cloth.
I'll take my time to circle around you.
Enjoying the light aroma of fear and sweat;
Mixed with just a hint of excitement.
I'll see your legs pushed together,
Perhaps in anticipation.
Or would it be the butterflies;
That dance a shade of scarlet upon your cheeks.
I'll take my time to run these fingers
Along your soft milky white skin.
And even before you part your lips to confirm it,
I'll already know that you belong to me.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
RainShe was bloated, swollen in her
Own melancholy moisture
Threadbare at her contours
Unravelled into gray woolen
Strings, too loose for her skin
And they drained off her shoulders
To pool in a waxy heap by her
She was rounded by opaque
Moons, liquid apricity. The life
In her womb churned, awakening
From quiescence. Her being
Shuddered from the maelstrom within
And in a great wailing cry of woe
Her waters burst in a ferocious
She roiled under each contraction
As unearthly poetry thundered from her
Throat, emblazoned with lightning. Her
Child is birthed, swaddled in her failing
Body, decrescendo heartbeat.
And as the babe breathed, the wind
Abandoned her shallow lungs,
The Night VisitShe arrives on time each night,
With a flurry of quick footsteps,
Followed by a timid knock at my door.
The reply I give her is often curt,
'Enter,' I'll say
And she does.
I spend a moment taking stock of her appearance:
Noticing bare skin beneath a heavy brown coat.
A few droplets of sweat run down her neck,
And she swallows nervously as she awaits my instruction.
I approach her slowly;
Enjoying this moment where the distance closes.
My eyes take their time to pull her into focus,
And like a bolt of awareness she becomes vivid;
Her lips a sparkling red and utterly lush for a kiss...
Her eyes are doe-eyed and completely tame;
Her makeup is perfect, as I've always liked.
But I can tell, beneath that flawless surface,
That it was rushed under a dim streetlight.
At this point our lips are separated by a bare inch,
I like to leave this distance as I stare into her eyes.
I enjoy the way her breath quickens as I ask her the question,
The question that beg
The Death that is Left BehindI.
the layers laid,
alone is a man who scrapes
outward. He is
like the child fallen
down a deep well, who
sees the way is up and yet
scratches stone walls
instead--the flesh of
fingers giving way, symbolizing
a waning vivacity sealed
in the center of his diamond-hard
Sound is a physic; music, a friction--
white hot motion to motionless
souls. It is pain and heat, terrible
and beautiful, healing, and the death
that is left behind.
progress reportthe astronauts never returned and neither did the news
in my hands i fold a megalithic pigeon
the take-home message is: the cosmos is a cold dead bitch
as you sleep under magazines, waiting for nothing.
in the shackles of a sterilized den, there's an actual
mastodon heart, pale and glassy pink, icy film
tightened like a fist; - and the scientists despair:
it's the morning of the opening,
then the few slashes of paralyzing waves.
like a sign we'd make when we were younger, a way to disarm
a bandit, or a preacher
or the oncoming horde of space invaders.
but the drawings you sent to venus never returned,
and now the crack,
and the scientists at a loss before the angered public.
they release a report that states that the floodgates opened
by themselves, that the valves erode
like the chalky sand that will swirl and hiss
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the Knight
Whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the Knight,
Whose armor is dull and broken.
Whose horse is weary,
Whose heart is heavy.
Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,
For that dragon has done nothing,
And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.
Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,
By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,
But wants to free the dragon,
Who does not wish to marry her savior--
Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,
Who wants to live and to learn.
For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,
Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,
But to see the world and live in the light.
Do not give me the evil dragon,
Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.
No, give me the dragon who is weary,
Who longs for the freedom of the sky,
Whose leg is burdened with chains,
And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,
AnimeAs soon as i saw Anime on Tv I was happy to see it played,
I Like inuyasha, FMA, Naruto and many others but why?
At 34 years old loving anime, isn't this strange?
Loving Anime is loving someone
You cherish it forever
Until You die but Anime is Amazing what they can do today..
Its in 2-D, 3-D and CG's But no matter what,
Anime to me will always cherish me into my heart and soul
When i was younger Anime never existed,Why?
Anime will stay into the younger kids today,
Anime will rule the world maybe someday?
What can you do not without a pencil today?
You Can draw Anime,
You Can always give you're best shot to draw even if you're not good enough,
True isn't it?
You can put Anime on Tv, on a website about everything,Anime Kick Butt.
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers think
We may dream our reality.
With earphones attached liked IVs
I dream my own melodic universe.
Until someone laughs behind me
And strikes up conversation with a friend.
And in that moment they become my anchor
Are they spinning through my dream
Or am I spinning through theirs?
Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,
Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,
And sometimes it all mixes together
Like liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.
When no one speaks to me for hours
I begin to wonder
Is everyone dreaming a reality that includes
The whole café but me?
The street outside the window
With passing strangers, dogs and cars
Is a whole new Milky Way
Waiting to be discovered.
But I am no space explorer
Aliens are beyond my reach.
Whispers of the people around
Reach my ears distinctly
Like waves lapping on the shore.
Words on paper go no way
Towards proving that I was ever here
My identity is slowly condensed
Not into the people who kno