Perfection doesn't exist because,
when you see someone with a smile as white as snow
and skin like porcelaine or mahogany, lacking concave dimples
and hair that is long and lustrous
and eyes that are dewy and soft
you know they are not perfect because,
they had to sell their soul to attain such
unnecessary delicacy.

ladies and gentlemen,
let us sing together now
as though we were an acapella.

O, golden chariot!
Look upon the geldings,
hear the locusts chirp in late evening;
O, golden chariot,
take me away!

To be a poet is to be a sage,
it is to know sorrow;
they were scathed in battle
and their skull is not hollow-

To be a poet is to be wise,
to know true agony;
to have clear, knowing eyes
after years of tragedy.

My mother told me
to make my own legacy.
"You need not be a lonesome feather
drifting in the wind."
My mother told me
to make my own prophecy.
"You need not be a sheep
for you have the soul something
much more fierce."

you drink the liquor
as if the more it flushes your cheeks
and widens your grin
and tears you up
will bring you luck.

The tears free fall
like a waterfall,
or perhaps a broken faucet;
look, it's a tree! A walnut tree!

Well, it's rather stunning, no?
Your feeble attempt at pulchritude is admirable,
I suppose,
I congratulate you on your effort-

But why,
answer me,
why does carnal turn to carnage
with you?

Enigmatic, the epitome of charisma!
You speak elegantly, your intellect vast; you are eloquent- although petulant, sometimes morose!

Father,
Father,
what does "brave" mean?

Oh, how I asked that question
without reluctance, without guilt,
but I never got the answer.

Father,
Father,
what does it mean to be "brave"?

Oh, how I yearned to know
what it was like, how it felt
but I never got the answer.

Father,
Father,
are you "brave"?

He did not respond.
He was not brave, for he was a coward.
Afraid of life,
love,
himself.

Father,
Father,
I know what it is to be brave now.

And I learned all by myself.

Keep up with my pace
for the thrill of the chase,
delight will be seen
written upon your face.

I've spent about,
I don't know,
some centries or so
contemplating my death
prepared, not scared.

You bear fruit, ripe;
seeds float through the being of wind!
Write to the sky, the sky! - With the feather of a dove.

I am guided by darkness
for I have been blinded
by love
like it was a bright,
white light.

'Thou art tardy,' said I.

'I belongeth not to you, and now I must brave the sea,'

'I shan't let you, no! You speak balderdash!'

'You doth protest too much, I should have been long gone minutes since,'

'This is punitive!'

'Goodbye, may good fortune tend thy days.' said my lady.

He wore the finest leather gloves,
held a hammer of steel,
sported dead eyes.
He had witnessed countless deaths,
far too many,
caused by the very weapons
he crafted blindly.

What I did was unvoluntary,
my soul was unconscious
I couldn't help it ;
I was simply autonomic.

Don't you snicker,
you really shouldn't laugh.
I'll build an empire
from just a measley craft.
I'll have an army,
I'll rule,
and I can assure
that when I sit
on the velvet throne
this kingdom will be pure.

The struggle
of having someone
love you one moment, and the next
they cut your heartstrings
and leave you to die.

the extraordinary sensation
of my heart beating far too quickly to be comfortable in my idle body
is a pain that even i, a poet,
may find a hard time describing.
think of it as your body hosting the end of the world.

Your scent,
it smells like blood.
Your skin,
it tastes of blood.
Your chapped lips,
they seethe blood.
I love it,
but does that mean
that I am bloodlust?

The perfect distraction
to pull out the lies
of an alibi
is over food and drink.

Nobility,
they aspire to bathe in molten gold.
But what a pity,
they know not how to read the books of old.

Wrapped in chains of silver
a bind to their wealth.
Alas, they underestimate copper
and care not for good health.

How cathartic it is when tension is suddenly lithe;
I had cried ile for far too long.

My bare feet lie in the stream,
heels sinking into wet soil;
I read the stars, watch the messages told in constellations,
the poetic and epic story told within the clouds,
in the sky,
a quest of emotion, of sorrow, of joy
all without moving.

I wear my scars like tattoos,
dead skin etched into my arm;
O, please know!
These are signs of pain turned to wisdom!
An exquisite display of an oath, a sword placed on both my shoulders as I am rewarded Grace for my sacrifice-
One cicatrice on my knee
from falling off of my red bicycle;
the other from crawling, climbing out of the utter Hell
that I suffered.

Go to sleep,
enter your world
full of dreams,
and soon you'll see
the sun rising above
the beech tree.

they say
  insanity is repeating the same action,
    not knowing right from wrong,
      and expecting a different outcome.

        maybe that's why I think, every night,
          that it won't be like the others,
            that my eyes will close,
              and I will be engulfed in slumber.

                 alas, it never happens,
                   no matter how many times I try.
                     am I insane, then?
                       is this a lie?

Autumn;
cinnamon and the metallic scent of iron, almost ******;
leaves dipped in copper, wet bark;
when was it, when it came to be?

So decadent, such wanton!
Humanity cannot be trusted, not now;
it has begun, the deterioration,
so frivolous, such caprice!
So recklessly extravagant, and for what?
Humans, so promiscuous.

Insatiable is your thirst,
it cannot be quenched, no sir!
You are so avid, your zeal is,
with all candor and honest amity,
exhausting.

You told me
you would never forget
as you took the train
and you left,
but you forgot
that promise too,
not a lot
but still untrue.

The café smelled of scones and coffee,
to wake up and smell the coffee,
ah, yes.

The record player always played classics,
the occasional static of an especially old vinyl
bringing a smile to my face.

The orange café, just quaint and small,
but you could still see the sunrise,
the sunset,
and everything in between.

It was, most definitely, the place to be.
I guarantee.

You sauntered up the shore,
onto the cliff- did you jump?
No, no, you were pushed; your mentality challenged?
We couldn't be sure.
You were pushed, he pushed you; Death.
The fall, was it delightfully terrifying?
It's not the fall that kills you- it's the landing.

I fell in love
just as you fell from Heaven;
I never wanted to fall,
and neither did you.
But here I am,
smitten,
and there's not much
I can do.

I was running through a bright forest of verdant herbs and prickly, proud pines that seemed taller than the brilliantly blue sky.

I gradually  slowed down, admiring the flourishing and crippling plants alike, like the crunchy copper leaves that happily drifted through the wind.

Tree trunks like rusting brass, flowers with lustrous, glossy petals from the utterly impeccable rain drops that fell oh, so elegantly from the Heavens.

“But alas, Heaven is here!” I exclaimed dreamily; the beautiful birdsong that echoed so subtly, but with such a strong and majestic manner, was pure perfection.    

The amicable squirrels that hurriedly scurried across the lengthy branches that created lovely bridges, where creatures big and small would gather in harmony.

This was Autumn in Heaven.

Rain, rain, go away,
don't bother coming again on another day!
For I have no umbrella to protect me
from the crystalline drops that fall from the sky
and chill me to the bone.

Rain, rain, please do go away,
don't return until I say!
I shall alert you, I suppose
but as I said,
I have not an umbrella to keep me safe!

I stop for water at the sight of the creek;
it is night, she had bid me goodnight
and in turn I made an oath,
I shall return- wisps of light
from fireflies, they cannot compare
to the white effulgence
of the man in the moon.

A youth adored by a goddess of love and beauty
He was confident, with stricking features.
His bravery, a virtue admired by many
led to his demise.
Was it the chaste huntress Artemis who ended him?
He was to spend the afterlife in the underworld
during the chilling season that frosted the Earth
And spend the summers with Aphrodite.
He was stricking, and melted the chill
of the underworld.

She would go to the railroad,
every day,
waiting for him.

She waited for the whistle of the train,
the rattling of the tracks,
anything that would alert her.

But, alas, it never came.

The iron railroad was a thief, she thought bitterly.
She grew old, alone,
still waiting for her husband.

She received a letter,
and stained it with tears,
just as the iron railroad
had stained her soul.

"I will meet you in the afterlife, my love."

It was a falling, tingly sensation at first.
And once I opened my eyes, well,
I couldn't believe what they were showing me.

"Oh, hello! Welcome to Hell!
What's your name? Oh, there's the bell!
Tell me your sign,
and I'll tell you mine!"

"Oh, uh, Emilio," I replied, hesitant.

"As the French say,
enchanté.
Persephone is my name,
let me lead the way!"

"It's not what you think,
no fiery pits of blazing brimstone.
There's no torture, torment, and you're surely not alone!"

"Welcome to Hell,
there's plenty of pros,
just don't venture to the well,
don't touch the rose."

"You live normally,
and to Heaven you go,
just as long
as you do all your chores!"

"Oh, take the left,
this is your dorm!
Please, make yourself at home,
you have a long way to go!"

"I beckon you good luck,
come out of your shell!
As I said before,
Welcome to Hell!"

In my home,
I fight alone.

Alone protects me,
I have naught to fear,
for someone will not hurt me
if I remain alone.

You lie upon a surgeon's table,
where masterpieces are crafted,
where changes are made.

Your vision is blurry with tears
as the surgeon, he asks
"What shall I change for you?"
and you blink the stinging out of your eyes,
as you croak solemly,
"Everything."

my body may remain the same,
but i feel unexplicable pain
as though the skin and sinew,
the muscles and fascia
transforming me
into the monster that I am.

Books lined with years' accumulation of dust,
old ink and an ostrich feather quill,
crippled purple plants on macrame hangings
and mustard yellow couches with wooden legs.
It was my library, my home.

the rain smashed against glass,
trying to penetrate the shield,
only to drip down
in a gloomy failure.

a teacup in my hand
is warm, steamy.
i sip the earl grey with a sigh,
looking at the continuous dewdrops
falling icily from the sky.