i try to be soft
but it translates to fury.

i try to be water
but i am ice.

the closest i'll ever be to snow
is a hail storm.

i was born pure sweetness.
a fruit born from my mother
delightful on the tongue.

you were pure acidity.
a fruit grown bitter
hostile to taste.

how does one drop of bitterness
flood, so deeply, the sweet?
is there any way of tempering acid?
or will i stay like this… burnt?

my mother deserves more than the hurricane she was given.
i am certain that i am not what she signed up for.

she deserves flowers and fine art
and i am nothing but thorns and cut-throat.

so i buy her flowers,
constantly,
hoping it will make up for my rot.

hoping the scent of them will make her forget
the damage of last nights fury.

One stood a majestic volcano,
With perfect crater and perfect form,
With steaming magma underneath its perfection
Shaken and pursued by fools,
By the pressure from the unknowns
Following a venting out of magma,
Slowly affecting everyone by its lava,
Thus being hated more by the fools.

Places to defer:
To a salty justice
Soap and a question worth
Please be my ought, a common request with a shrill vice?

Salt seems to be my only hope...
Stoic rewards and harrowing few's, of callousness
Aside, I see the providence of stillness, take root
With a smile and a sharing behalf, I wonder if I bless...?

Stong winds may disapprove...
Long looks at no-where's imagination...
Standing well in front, savagery in back with no love...
And the anarchy of that smile, anxious and doting on silent...

Nightmares, with a reaching lead of simplicity
A lip of service and dissuasion, set too high
For a requited moment, to tell the wishes we imply, inherently
Have the yearning before a seldom seen, angel understands cry...

Given the time, given the lucid rhyme
Of patience and its virtue, your remembering
Of a long sated and twisted form to compare, the youth of time?
Has a voice struck with means, meager enough to swear we...

Shoulder
A rising fortune of senses alive, set to aches and plains
Of worlds redeemed, by a wish we made, with a meant nerve
Will you marry me, is even a voice to martyr beyond the call of the rains...?

burn
white hot is the silent rath
it festers within
like a scarlet fire upon evergreen
embers trapped in dark irises
ashes lost to soft whispers