Gravestones For Tissues May Hurt Your EyesEvery night, sleeping with eyes open.
Aware of the dangers in the open world.
Open to the sick, ghastly awareness
that once was taken from me.
Only the dead bring flowers from the grave by crying tears of bloody silence.
May you rest now, warm and safe,
for tomorrow my soul will keep.
If I should die before I wake, God should feel my soul to take.
If it be that my soul is not fit for heaven, thrust me down to hell.
If I have done good deeds, send them to my love,
for I am ready to face what I have given myself
Six Feet Under And You Can Still Hear Me ScreamingI hate the color red.
Will you do this for me?
Change the lining to the colors of the leaves?
The soft shady blue of the afternoon sky,
Or the earthy brown of rich soil?
The yellow of the sunshine,
Or the eggshell white you used to paint the kitchen?
I hate the color red.
Please make sure,
They bring me black roses,
Or even dandelions,
As long as they're still bright and healthy.
Also, if you wouldn't mind,
Make sure everyone attending has a tissue,
And no miniature American flags by my name.
I hated the color red,
And I must know,
Is that the color they have lining my coffin?
The Stars In His Eyes Blinded MeNights like this,
My heart aches for him.
His jupiter eyes, an oil painting of love.
Oh, how they used to be.
His voice, foreign lands,
A new experience.
But does he love me, as the wind brushes his skin?
We lie out under the stars, though they're in his eyes.
Like plastic wrapped soap, my knowledge is slippery.
How was I to know he longed for another?
Nights like this,
I miss him.
His eyes, filled with constellations.
Oh, how I wish they'd be.
His hands, gracing my skin.
But does he love me, as his heart searches for her?
We look into each others eyes, though his yearns for another.
Like a blinded child, I cannot see the truth.
How was I supposed to know I wasn't enough?
On nights like this,
I want him, to be my one and only,
But I am not his.
Nights like this,
My heart creates tapestries.
Made for him,
Though he ignores the bigger picture.
Nights like this,
love is a one way street.
My Body Is The Canvas, My Razor Is The PaintbrushWhat if,
We could see the damages
Done to the soul?
It appears in crimson on our outer layers.
What if,
Each time we said something,
The words appeared on the victim's flesh?
Well, it does..
Because of what you do.
You call me ugly? Worthless? Freak?
Well,
Now everyone can see what you label me,
As I carve it into my arms.
My body,
Your graffiti wall.
My legs, wrists, stomach, arms.
Covered.
I'm butchered.
The words are translated,
Worming their way into my skin.
Hurt is literally bleeding out of me.
Please.....please stop.
You know...
I'm running out of canvas,
For my razor paintbrush.
Once too deep,
And I realize......
I can't stop
Until my painting is complete.
Walking Angels Are What Make Up Your ShadowsAngels often walk
Beyond our sight
Casting glances, unseen, unheard.
Distant, yes, but they still watch us.
Eternally running in shadows
Few and far between.
God received them, when they damned themselves
Healing broken souls, once in awhile.
Ignited curiosity is met with anger.
Jealousy that they can just walk out.
Killed themselves, that's what they did.
"Let them." God said.
My heart beat quickens..
Nothing can change my mind now.
Open arms meet me in the light.
Pain fades to nothing.
Quiet... I'm now quiet.
Running in the shadows, greeted by them.
Stupid angels.
They fail to realize, they walk unseen.
Unheard, unsensed, and people crumble.
Veils of tears fall and,
We are broken.
X rays of our souls
Yelling out into the darkness.
Zeal is finally met when we stop and pull the trigger.
Digital Clocks Were Made To Warp Your MindPlastic cuffs wrapped
Around my smooths wrists
Causing raw scars
And tissue paper skin.
He says he knows the way out
Though trembling he takes a needle to his eye
Where blood seeps thick as fire
And I can't find my way home.
He says we will build castles
Out of shattered memories
Outcasted shadows
Lying through piano key teeth.
Jumping over stars with
Little knowledge of my quiet existence
I often wonder what's left of him
What's left of me.
Electronic stars and
Not knowing what's next
Means life is about as predictable
As birds in the clear blue.
Full of fluff and velvet
My coffin looks more comforting
Than my bed
I think I'll rest here awhile.
My Tears Are In The Rain, Drowning You With PainUnder hate and dimly lit eyes,
Chaos reigns in a brain that isn't mine.
I don't understand what's going on, true,
But I'll always be here for you.
Through the insane, the pain,
The cold and rain,
You'll always see me,
Here to stay.
Equipt with a black umbrella
To keep the depression away.
Come on, lets find the rainbow,
The happy part of the storm.
Ignoring Me Won't Get You A Full-Time JobGlittery, silver silence
Beautiful, right?
After awhile, the silence is getting stronger
Harder to bear
It begins to press
The knife on a cutting board
If only you could hear the chopping.
It begins to drive you insane
You...just want noise
Voices
Music
Anything
It gets to you.
Now that you understand
Why won't you talk to me?
Emotion Is As Orderly As A Midnight PremiereEmptiness.
Only fullness resents, only halfway does it echo in my pulsing veins.
Numbness is the only feeling I have yet to invite into my soul.
Words are exchanged by silent guests.
Hatred, love, anger, loss, and happiness.
Silence is broken often by the vocabulary that swims and gawks in my brain.
Noises form into words that come at me like chunks of coal to a furnace, feeding the vial loathing that silence has for envy.
I close my repulsive thoughts and vanquish my exploding horizon.
Doors close and feelings are quieted, all because no one broke my silence.
17-180 micrometersWhen we say hairline
understood as human hair
and
in the average of our daily lives would indicate
such a minuscule matter
microscopic width
indifferent distance
But when it becomes
the keen remoteness between your heart and mine
and the
almost warmth of your sure touch on my doubtful skin
I'd rather be at the apex
while you at the bottom of the
Himalayan mountains
where the cold and view of horizon
would help
lessen the longing
But I
I digress
and I
remind myself
of the 17-180 micrometer
demarcation bar
hairline fracture-esque in appearance
yet gargantuan in sensation
You are the maxillary 3rd molars
I should have extracted
long ago
I suffocate
living in broken recording
hearing your breath whisper
begging
I hope you
drown
exhaustingly
give up
and drown
where sunlight can never again reach you
nor deja vu resuscitate the harbored air
of our 17-180 micrometer
transatlantic gully
I am tormented by a hairline
I am being pushed to the purlieu of my exis
Serendipity and SnowfallI am la vie en rose,
a newborn with as many mini bones in my body as possibilities.
Lovelily,
I am potential waiting to be tapped into.
I am a spectrum of light,
serenity in the symmetry of a snowflake.
I come veiled in lace from everlasting love's womb with my budding,
fresh,
goose-flesh tucked tenderly underneath.
I spread my spirit wide,
outstretching my feather-tips &,
supplicated by twizzles,
I catch my ballerina's foot & fly.
In these fleeting,
finite moments of ubermensch suspension in multiple salchows comes clairvoyance,
a kindness beyond the absolution of mundane minds.
With the key to perfection being repetition,
I pray you watch me as I molt my flaws away under the wondrous,
winter sun.
I shall soar,
from my axel I shall spiral sublimely on the outskirts of onlookers' smiles-
as well as my own,
& I shall skimpily,
silkily,
glide through the snowflake strata unto the star-studded shangri-la.
I find my freedom in a winter only world.
Let me lease into my
Turning Into Ghosts2007
BABYLON- AL HILLAH,
IRAQ.
I have come back. Finally, I am here, standing on the same unwinding road that I was forced to bid goodbye to in what seems to have been eons ago and yet, it feels like I never really left at all. Seventeen years have passed since my nightmares first began to unfold into reality; the summer of 1990 forever haunts me. So full of emotion, my eyes tear up as I am still trying to process my arrival. Truly, I feel as if every time I inhale and my lungs expand, I am instantly pricked with a million needles and, whenever I breathe out and my lungs deflate, it's as if I've lost my soul altogether with the carbon dioxide waste. My heart must be shouldering bricks and my legs are but trapped in cement shoes, I just know it.
Why am I back here? I have already lost everything. I am entering a town filled with past ghosts and demons. I tell myself that I need not revisit this sad reminder of the irreparable yet my feet continue marching along this corkscrew path. A va
The Story StartsThe story starts in certain Hay (neighborhood) Al Fedaa, Babyl- Hilla, Iraq, in the 6th month of the year 1969. Here I start off as a fetus in my mother’s womb; just one of a quarter million other fetuses being bred for the second out of three waves of death popular to the people of Najaf, Hilla and Karbala. One million lives brought out before me were being prepared for their annihilation in the first death wave as I was being made after all, so what’s another quarter million surely?
Seriously though, my story begins in the much summery afternoons of early August of the year 1979. Ooh, what a year to start a story really, since it was also a year where many would have their stories come to an end. 1979 was the final year before the first death wave and the final year of Iraq’s glory days. The smell of Mohammedi roses and Arabian Jasmine simmering and cooling with the arid winds, and dried apricot sherbet served alongside freshly picked Jaffa oranges from our own gard
Celestial MemoriesGod how I have prayed to never fall prey
to the nectarine gossamer caught on the
cornerstone of your mouth,
a celestial house
Lips radiating like redshift,
indomitable as quasars with
enough poignancy to pierce through my very pulse while
you create maps, circumnavigating through these
black holes that you bore into my being and very core as
my spirit surrendered to your summons long before
I am an ocean of stark emptiness and
you are seemingly endless seas of starburst
You leave and I break into
cold sweat, blueshift and pale skin
Memories of starry night, air on the g string and
cigarette stained fingers about coffee drained tongues
hang on for dear life like
deadening leaves on dampening bark fearing the
fast approaching icy drafts
No matter the nebulae and speed of light,
no matter there be an earth or home to return to or not,
you are for always where I end and
begin
In you is my equinox and
together we shall always lay down and
die only to lay in each others arms soon and
again
I dream of DamascusDearest anon,
Kindly claim that bejeweled dagger and, as I feel the cold blade keenly on my nape, I ask you to cleanly cut through
Liberate me from my crowning glory, my shackles called femininity
At long last, I am released, relieved of my braids, my chains
Finding my own, I set free the nightingale caught up in her cage,
Hoping that someday I will once again hear her bird-songs of my bit of Bilad El Sham, my Suriyah
Desert me in Damascus,
Allow me to wander and totter to quench my thirst, solve my hunger and salve my wounds
Permit me to, as my vision blurs, simmer from sand and sun and sink myself in my own mirage of an oasis meant only for me
Show me the path to the historical mosques,
Call out to me in the palace of the past capital of the Ummayid Caliphate
I will take flight alongside the kit of pigeons painting the sky and framing the holy minarets
I want to stand on that border of the Graeco-Roman grid
Take me to the tombstone of John the Baptist- the prophetic, the saint
Greet
poet, breathe now. you
are
the
an irrevocable truthi.
snowflake child, you are a fine example
of the incandescence of a human light
even under innumerable umbras
i see you- ruby and blooming
ferociously fighting your way
out of a pile of rubble
ii.
my anemone, my halo
that comely wraps around my moon pith
do not fret if i self-stumble, fumble
with my fingers, and mumble to my toes
my center of gravity is oft frail and
meek to begin with
iii.
you are lead cause of the diamond flecks
scattering about the carbon of my pupils
you do not leave me
you teach me to be
snake-eyed yet shotgun-hearted-
a sapphire wanderlust livid
for life and star-gazing sights, you map
constellations on my freckles and fright
iv.
look now at how i'll find my lighthouse lover
then tend to some kids
and grow out of my gills and into grey hairs
then tend to some kids with their own kids
and reminisce about friends and phenomena
i signed my name on a patch of sky with
all on my own except
that your hand never left mine
that if i were to crumble
like the sandcastle