the moon is beaming in the dark
with tiny stars as little sparks
it shines with pride, in graceful hues
when night time falls and starts anew

but the moon is kind,
it does not boast
it shines so brightly
to guide, at most

and the moon loves greatly,
it loves the stars
because it lets them shine too
so they are seen from afar

Happiness, the evasive Lover of Man
Never wanting to commit
Always dancing out of reach
With enough charm to make you chase her
She teases and tempts
Seduces and beckons
Promises and smiles
But remains her own force
Unyielding to those desiring to claim her
Some brand her a myth
Others an urban legend
But those of who have seen her face
Will forever bask in the memory
Hoping to one day reclaim its vision
The splendor of her beauty
Our unattainable hope.

The chickens watch us
with their tiny T-Rex eyes,
their funny feather hats shaking
and pulsing
with Heaven only knows.

Collecting warm brown eggs
from haughty hens
is an honor.

That’s what Papa says, at least.

Papa built these coops himself,
I tell all the chickens.
He made them because he loves you
or maybe just because he wants your eggs.
I’m not sure which,
I say,
but it’s one of those two
or both.

The silkies are doubtful
and pacing
and ready to peck me into a bare corn cob,
but I’ve got an egg carton to fill
and this is the first time I can help
because Grandma isn’t home.

Papa humors my toe-turns
and my untamed joy
the way that only Papa can,
with squinty jokes
and whistle-wheezy laughs.

An almost dropped egg here,
a yellow yolked yelp there,
and my egg carton is full.

Papa wears a sunny-side up smile
and the chickens don’t mind if we sing.

The flaw from yesterday
Is not the flaw of today
Today's flaw is the fact
That I believed I was flawed yesterday

WHAT ARE WE?

Time on my hands -
like blood at a ****** scene.

My face muscles frozen as I kneel before
the last form of belief that shall ever exist.


WHAT AM I -
But a time traveler that has but witnessed extinctions and destruction.
The last human shadow abandoned by moral values.
A forgotten and abandoned generosity at the cemetery of Existance.

I can barely remember how I got here,
As never have I imagined the world this place to be.

Never have I thought that wrinkles on the heart can tell such sad stories,
Nor did I imagine how hard it would be to keep the waterfall of words
from running over the cliff of the lips.
For, some eyes in this world have witnessed greater pain
than it can ever be fairly monumentalized.

WHAT HAVE I -
But grotesque images
And some predecessors' stories.
Nothing do I see but what world of agony wants me to see.


The energy of sorrow and despair
outbalanced the warm and bright rays of circle of birth.


WHAT ARE WE –
But soulless and narcissistic
yet self-abandoned creatures,
that criticize and worship
random crumbs and pieces of good deeds.
As for the better seldom does anyone know.
  
WHAT AMAZES US –
But our true forgotten existence -
Mystery of humanity, that surprises as a sudden shock of electricity -
That is nothing but a last sign of natural instincts that existed in
someone else's stories of what we had used to be.

Nothing to remember -
But melodramatic elegies
Of wars and losses,
Self-Abundance and social negligence
celebrated at the Inferno of wasted souls.

What do we love?
What have we become?

Slowly losing control,
Strings tugging away at my soul,
My mind is hazy.

These masks are my sanctuary,
Even though they make me feel like a liar.

I am no good at anything; useless.
So I put on a new mask everyday,
To cover up my mistakes from yesterday.  

Hold your breath,
Let your heart grow hazy and hollow,
Forget what your purpose is.

You are just another masked being,
Ready to dive in deep of your own mortality.
Losing your true identity to all of those masks.

Slowly losing control,
Letting everything go.
As you let yourself go, and the masks take control.

He told her

It is the beauty on the inside that counts

Her response

Then why do my insides continue to find themselves in the wrong place
Lifted into white porcelain gods
Asking anyone to compliment my withered self
Please make love to me
Tell me I am better than the acid on my tongue
The regret powering my mind as I struggle down my dinner
Inside is where I find these thoughts
Thoughts powering my actions
Into a spiraling pit of self loathing
Tell me I am pretty one more time
And I will show you my insides to prove it

These double doors are my eyes that see into peoples' lives
the end of a neon bright hallway, surgically clean
a lone traveller drags her life by the handle
here at an obscure hour while others sleep

I wonder if it's necessary that she leave?
She seems so removed from the furrowed brow
ticking watch business-man beside her
Watch the time. A missed flight. The world unfamiliar.

The agitated jitter of a lady puzzles me,
why does she cry? what is she leaving behind?
where will she go?
the airport departure lounge
purgatory
for a travelling soul.