See, the smile on the stone face
of the mountain, once so cold, stoic
it drives home the meaning of change
brought about by erosion of ages past,

molten paste slowly sediments,
decides to be various kind of rocks
on it's path being metamorphic
is just one of it's pranks,

volcanoes in ******* frenzy erupt,
display the pyrotechnics of creation
in it's ******  urge a deep sea stream
breaks tectonic plates,makes new continents

mountains that hold their heads high,
are brought down by landslides, floods
avalanches or sudden cloudbursts

stars script secret messages across galaxies
the meanings will never be deciphered
in spite of the astonishing research
astrophysics can put together and
the thirst for knowledge of mankind

Beauty, my muse, lovely concert I adore,
I see you in animals, birds and fish
that undergo mutation and become different,
ocean currents, seasons,shower of stardust,
most of all in music, that activates the hidden signals,
that come beyond birth and death,embedded within oneself

Can you cite one reason for writing biography
of any one, whoever it may be, in this planet?

Bone shards of our imaginary life
break loose from time to time.
Shredding their way
through my bloodstream,
they rip and tear at the fabric of my carefully pieced together reality.

I loved a quieter version of you.
A place where broken hearts held true.
And hands were firm, but nice, though strong.
A place where voices could belong.

I loved you in a fairy tale, a place where laughter was strong and hale.  I loved you in a tiny place, where no one knew your splintered face.

I loved you once, in a country song,
I loved you, loved you, till the dawn,
When truth erupted from each pore.
Your fists broke through the bathroom door.

How many moments locked in time,
Pictures of,
"I am yours," and,
"You are mine."
A fairytale written inside my head.
Our love affair was always dead.

And if I could only separate
The you I loved
From the you I hate,
Would it smooth those shards
Of broken bone
Of twenty years together,
But always alone?

*I loved the quieter version of you.

You came to me with little baggage,
you placed your hand in mine
and your lips on my forehead;
soft, not heavy. Fragile.

The only baggage was that of your past,
and your eyes screamed with experience.
I could never find the ghosts that haunted you.
I spent months trying to read your story;
found that you were a novel of suspense and mystery.
You spoke very little but your breath smelled of alcohol,
and that's when I knew there was something unknown.
I tried to find what burdened you, tried to sink beneath your skin,
but like floorboards you creaked and were full of tight nails;
I tried, but too much force could break you apart,
I never wanted to hurt you.

I could never crack the case of you,
your windows were too fogged to see through,
and then I thought that maybe you'd left them like that purposely;
who am I to knock down your walls?
Who am I to peak into your corners?

I never did find what burdened you,
and I feared of becoming a part of whatever that was;
in some ways I hope you left with less baggage than you came with,
but sometimes I hope the scrape on the window reminds you
that someone once tried.

If you don't want me around,
please, lock your door.

(NJ2014) ©All Rights Reserved.

More than once I've tried to push open a door that said pull,
I suppose it's not a coincidence that I have never pulled thoughts
from my head without at first trying to push them away.

Safety precautions say that most doors should open outwards
from an enclosed room, says that it's easier to escape if there were a fire
-there's a fire inside of me, but my door opens inwards
and I'm locked in the corner of the burning room I call my head.

There's a sign over a door in the building I work at,
it says 'exit' in a red light -which I found quite ironic,
if red means stop, and exit means leave, where do I go?

Most of life is spent in anticipation and haste,
anxiety and fear of mistake;
what changes have occurred that have made life a competition?
We were taught as children that 'slow and steady wins the race,'

so why am I speeding up at yellow streetlights,
and running towards red exit signs?

(NJ2014) © All Rights Reserved.

I sit in this chair, reading words until my teeth become barbs piercing my clotted mouth,  leaving my tongue bloodied, and I'm waiting for the rain of inspiration-NO-

I'm waiting for a thunderstorm, a ******* hurricane, driving torrents, a monsoon of words and phrases to wash-NO-

to drench my mouth and fill my throat-my blood filled throat,

I've been choking on words for so long, I need a flash flood to come purge me clean.

So I can eat again.
So I can breathe again.
So I can write.

I cast my words into the sea.

You drop anchor,
retrieve them with your net,
And whisper, "*******,
You are not dead."

Your faith in me is a buoy
In the ocean of my disbelief.

Still, I flail against the waves
Of disconcerted effort.

"My talent has drowned," I cry.

Yet you pull it from the depths,
Pump your own warm current
Into these collapsed lungs.

I gasp, and spew salt water verses
From my sea foam mouth.