What is it like
to make music?
It is skipping
on sunlight
opening your heart
to something strange
unexpected
something sublimely beautiful
in those sublimely beautiful times.

Sometimes it's a bust.
Sometimes a thousand degrees
of sweetness.

But when the music
plays through you
when you are not much more
than a spectator
to sounds emanating
mysteriously
from your lips
your lungs
your fingers

It's crazy good then.

There truly are no words
to express the miracle
of music in the moment
the player
listening as raptly
as the audience

It all comes together
at the end
and that's the lesson jazz has taught me.

It will all come together
at the end
in glory
or in sorrow
or both.

Most likely both.

Pain is a cloud of fog that's constantly following me, shadowing over my existence and the rain is steady pouring faster with each strike to my heart and every rumble in my soul.

Love is the shelter protecting me from the storm of heartaches that keep building and raging through the nights and with his arms around me, I'm in the safest place I know.

As he watched the skin slowly peel from the bones,
         he remembered his childhood.
   Memories of scraping his knees
         and being fascinated with the blood
      dripping down his leg.
All the times he carefully burned
         each leg off a spider
     and studied it closely
            as it died painfully.
The first birds squawks
        as he plucked out each feather individually
               then cut it open to see it's lungs
  slowly stop taking breaths.
           Practically in awe.
    But it wasn't enough.
    
Now
     As the man lays,
         barely alive and severely broken,
   on his basement floor,  
      he feels some extreme level of pride
that he's never felt before.

    It's like...
         The more death he can create in the world
    The more alive he can make himself feel.

Banana slug dance in evening, waiting for the fire to tire
Seashells beg for rain
While in summer, electric blue midnight comes to an end
Too true too are dripping droplets on sandy patch
Shore lapping and rose hip land locked in garden was trapped

Moon hangs upside down, casting beams on boulders where stacks of snails stare transfixed by licks of light on glistening trails
And beneath it all, a lonely lobster sings a sorry song
A lament to the lost and the already gone

we are often taught, to be careful of the monsters.
From a very young age, they were what we hid from, under our duvets.
but who was to know, all those years ago, that we are the monsters, and the monsters are us.
He is the monster, that only wants you for ***;
She is the monster that doesn't see your worth;
They are the monsters that make you feel life is not worth living;
And we are the monsters, that corrupt society.
Although these monsters may make us feel worthless, we must not forget the worst monster of them all.
You are the monster.
You are the monster that doubts your dreams;
You are the monster that allows failure to succeed;
You are the monster who thinks you are worth nothing;
You are the monster, to make him use you;
You are the monster, who burnt your own worth;
You are the monster, that wants to commit your own ******;
You are the monster, that corrupts society.

But why? whoever said monsters can't be good?
You can also be the monster who is kind;
You can be the one who knows their worth;
You can be the one who reaches their dreams;
You can be the monster, who continues, despite the failures;
You are amazing.

Be the good monster.

You could be my glass of scotch,sans soda
sparkling like gem stones on rocky ice
or
A tiny shot of tequila,besieged
in a castle of glass,pleading
not guilty through out
and
I could quaff you down
my parched throat, like
an elixir,
stung by fearless wisdom ,but
just for tonight.

So, let me drink
you through words,
one at a time
   right words,
     wrong words,
         sensitive words
    and
   insensitive ones,
So many words.

So, let me taste
you through my fingertips,
taking down to you mine
through each flip, like
a token of appreciation, against
generosity bestowed,
none plundered.

So, let me drown
into paras, undulating
like sea waves, on seeing full moon.

Let me sink,and
get high on them, but
Forever!.

-Pallavi Goswami

Stones bulk large:

depleted plovers
scrape their smaller partners
into minute curves and ramps.

This junction
when the bird's weight
******* and ties the shale in patterns
is the sea lords' making.

Stones sit on
like rigid eyes:
their stare worn silly
by the sea's corrosive pull,
their grating interplay --
uncanny masochism,

while the human heel
depletes the simple curve of eggs.