To meet in Halloween night
what a witchy spell that was

to dance and feel the music
resonate in our hearts,
It's too feel the rhymth of friendship
tap our senses,
pulling us closer apart.

To know the truth
it's as if not knowing it at all,
it only hurts,
it aches
but at least we know
what's going on

because the truth is
Like a knot around our necks,
meant to be unknotted,
to allow us to breathe

I wish to sleep
In the petals of a rose
And never again open this eyes of mine,
I wish to smell the fragrance
and sleep, forever,
forever more

But everytime
I close this eyes of mine
I awake somewhere
And I do not know where i am at,

Though it isn't a rose
Where I sleep
Nor the petals that I feel,
It just my bed,
The bed sheets,
And me,
awake again

Trying to find some rest

In my dreams

Why must I write using imagery?

Should I paint words as if those words
were canvases?
Should I paint words as if by coloring them,
I could draw the eye of the reader into my poems?
Should I just paint and paint words
for the sake of painting an image
into the reader's mind?
Should I?

Ah!

Should I just paint words for them to see
what reality does not allow them to see?
Should I paint words for them to feel,
what reality does not allow them to feel?

Or Should I just paint words and become an artist, and don't care about anything else, not about me holding a brush, not about me, having colors,
Just about me, painting what I see,
What I feel, while I paint words with whatever I have in my hands.

Should I?

There's this thing called the ego,
It likes sitting on the passanger sit,
Until it takes the wheel,
Then it stirs us into a steep road,
Away from everyone in our lives,
It just drives us towards a steep hill,
Where everyone looks like ants,
And it continues driving,
Until it drive us crazily mad,
And we just feel like getting away from those ants
Or we just feel like stepping on those ants,
Because it feels like the ants,
are coming towards us,
As if the ants are walking on our skins,
And we itch and itch to just scratch
But this ego continues driving us away,
more and more towards that steep road,
Where everyone keeps looking like ants,
Unless we take the wheel back.

March 3, 2015

Haven't written in a while,

I wished I had
But it was raining
And I only had the set of clothes I wore
No extra pants,
No extra blouse,

Plus I knew I would hear a scream,
"Come inside"
But instead I tripped on a puddle, then I stood up
Soaked, drenched,
And I did not enjoy it
But I wished I had had

Your lips have been stitched up,
your words have been mummified,
Here you await,
in this tomb, putrifying no more,
But getting old and lost.
Almost turning to dust.