Riding with the wind

too alive to slow down

to afraid to speed up

don't let me fall let me fly

toward the sky, and the sun

and me and the firing star will become one

lying on the ground

to tired to get up

to afraid to fall asleep for I will have bad dreams

decompose me into the earth

and let me become one with the soil that has been walked by many great beings

let me join my mother nature again

so she can rejoice with her child

so we can dance forever

Because I have no one to hold

to wrap their arms around me

everyone just uses me

so I experiment with their doings

by "using" my blanket

How can we live in a world so cold?

even on the warmest days I am freezing inside

I want to know i am loved

but it's so cold peoples lips are frozen shut

and the colder part is that they melt only for words of hate and lust

with no shame

and I still wonder how we have managed to live in a world so cold

I have come to the conclusion
That all of life is merely an illusion.

Time is nothing more than relative
And love is ridiculously sensitive.

We astonishingly keep in tact
By sudden moments of impact.

These moments, as glee as they may be
Never last for long, especially for me.

They pass by with a shimmer and a wink
And when they're gone I do nothing but drink.

But nothing is sadder as when I am twisted
Because that moment is gone; I missed it.

I do not hate myself though
Because it's impossible to feel low.

When I am high as a kite
Just thinking about tonight.

And how I came to the conclusion
That all of life is merely an illusion.

Happiness is a gift;
Do not let it drift.

For not everyone is able
To feel an emotion so stable.

Who else is eating drugs
who else is burning out
who else is sleeping rough
who else is having doubts
who else is hiding shame
who else is healing pain
who else is needing sun in the middle of the rain
who else is never tired
who else is half awake
who else is getting bad luck when they really wanted fate
who else is fading out
who else is giving up
who else is painting smiles on a mouth of words corrupt
who else has blackened eyes
who else is wearing thin
who else fighting thunder when they're ready to give in
who else is burning bright
through every lonely night
who else is preparing their armour, though they're not ready for the fight

we used to never hold hands like that,
with mine on top and yours on the bottom,
i was too small
you were towering like some office building calculations running through your mind,
yet art on the tips of your fingertips,
and I was short like the stack of books by my bed,
and it was like a mix of night and day when my hair spilled down your golden skin,
golden hair,
tousled blonde like some kind of lion lying on the bed,
veiled in a dark slumber.
you stroked my skin and it sent shivers down my back,
and kissing you was like lying in summer sun,
pleasant,
and you’re so different from what I have now,
because now I have fall kisses,
on a bed of crimson leaves,
with another blonde haired boy but this time he’s a wolf,
and this time he holds me while we are skin on skin in a forest of cattails underfoot,
the stubbed filter of a cigarette to my left,
our clothing to my right.
he’s full of fire,
it’s all over him, on his skin, branded across his face,
but I don’t love him,
i just like the way he says he loves me when he’s looking at me like sunlight filtering through leaves,
with his crystalline blues,
biting my lips with passionate ferocity

no cliche flowers,
petals ripped off and stuffed
under our naked bodies.
no sweet nothings whispered
into the deepest crevices of my ears.
no, nothing but
ratty floral couch
under freezing toes,
and silent breathing
-we didnt want to wake up his friends parents-

it didnt hurt,
he moved my body like i was the ocean
tide
pulling in and out
it felt like a mixture of cold
disbelief and riveting
ecstasy.

he didnt even know it was my first time,
and when i told him later, poison almost
visibly dripped down his lips,
but he was quick to **** it back in and sugarcoat
it with honey flavored chapstick.

and i'm not saying i regret it
because it was nice.
but "nice" is not enough for Chandra Lunah Moore.

and afterwards, when he tried to lock me to the small
foam and spring innards
couch
with his soft legs glowing golden with the help of an
off-kilter lamp in the corner,
when my muscles strained against his,
i knew the frightening power of human
desire.
how when he didnt offer a drag from his
cigarette
at all afterwards, just ****** at it needily,
all for himself,
didnt drape his jacket around my
treacherously shivering shoulders
like he had on the walk there,
didnt carry me the rest of the way,
stomping through the snow,
lips bitter after two long drags
off a joint,
he didnt hold me like he did so many times before,
(almost like he believed he was heavier with the weight of my
saved up childhood, like some kind of bank account. life savings,
dragging on his shoulders, making them, sag. skin heavy with my touch.
and i was lighter, without it.
i could walk.
he was obviously carrying the real burden.)
i knew, when he kissed me goodbye and it tasted like
a
wasted night
spent on not getting what he
wanted

i knew he was meaningless and i would
never again settle for
                                     just
                                            nice.

***.
i wish we could have made that word into friction,
and droplets of ocean streaming off our bodies.

i've always thought that maybe something could grow
like a plant
between us,
plant its roots through our faces.
i always imagined that one harsh summer, sweaty
blanket night, after open mic,
we'd run the streets barefoot,
and you'd sing tom waits in your
rusty voice, like a garden pail
left out for a couple springs.

and you'd take me somewhere frightening and strange,
where i've never been, even though
my feet roam this tiny town even when my eyes are
sleeping.
then i'd tell you
that
heaven is a foreign concept to me,
and you'd whisper
that there is nothing realer than this earth,
and you would say it with passion, with a bite and a kick in it,
like good hot sauce;
your lips moving harsh and fast against
my stretched neck,
its skin begging for the weight of your kisses.

and then we'd recite poetry with our bodies
under a summer moon,
like an empty plate,
with august skin peeling off our bones,
leaving us raw and intertwined,
a knot of ferocious dreams, and thin
crunchy book pages.

words whispered loudly into the sweet
sweat of the dark,
your hands playing me like a violin
my body singing with your touch.

four cigarettes after;
two for our mouths,
and the others for our hungry hearts.

"do not go gentle into that good night,"
thomas, neruda and bukowski would
hammer our black lungs,
shape the tar into sidewalks,
build a night sky out of the darkness,
abyss,
a garden of stars
out of stale ribs and dry plants.

we'd arrive in New York,
palms sweaty and imprinted
with the spindly rivers of map ink, tattooing our fingers
with the criss cross
of Arizona roads;
our fingernails embedded with the scent of
smoke and wine,
lips tinted vague purple.

our limp wet hair would hang across our foreheads,
plastered
like an attached child

we'd kiss goodbye
dry lips like the desert, cigarette coal burning hot like sand
soft lips, like sunflower blankets
golden lips, like sun filtered brandy
pale lips, the foam of the ocean,
dark lips like evening
bruises.