C’est parce que, dès lors que je touche une note,
J’ai l’impression qu’elle sonne faux.

Parce que je me déteste au moment où je rate un panier,
Un saut d’obstacle,
Un verbe irrégulier.

Engouffrée sous mes draps
Je ne rêve même pas.

Les faits sont ils; bien présents
Il en aura fallu du temps.

Et le coeur battant,
Je médite le néant.

Fear teaches me, sort of aimlessly.

Blaming a resilience I wish I'd seen,
The punch I wish I’d been -
A prey I wished I'd hit.

Overshadowing the dopamine I’d like to feel.

Via guilt-induced tears, effortfully shield-building.
Via timeless dampening -
I’m nervously standing, brainlessly censoring.

But never has anger crossed that brain,
Never have I ever played this game.

The World is giving us many clues
to find the meaning of life.
But we ignore them.

Roses are red
And so is my blood
You made cuts romantic
But it’s not called love

The Grave.
Each and every one of us was put on this earth to fulfill a purpose.
No matter what color or  creed  we were uniquely and beautifully designed by the potter.
But the grave becomes the  victor as many life's  come to an end,too many stories never told ,wasted talents , visions lost and swallowed up by the grave.

I

She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper

On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping

Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself

On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.

II

She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes

Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,

Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.  
Diamond doubts and ruby

Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;  
Audience adored,

Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.

About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box

Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear

Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.

III

Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted

Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting

Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,

She
Enters
Herself.