Covet

My little piece of insanity
Yet I may covet others
For who would covet this
My little piece of sanity

Love

Anything else here
Embedded within these
Words beneath these Words
Beyond their unconscious plays
What else could my symbols create

Worth

Is it my worth in so many words
The story will be forgotten
Whether or not it is heard nor told

Undead Sirens

It’s upon the

Lyre that I

Played such lies

A devilish smirk

Nevertheless lasting

As it fades divine

 

To dig and toil

The unmoved soil

To be hurried

 

How long until

That nymph returns

As undead sirens

Lull us down below

 

 

Is This Your Book?(Collections)

There’s no answer to your

question of marriage, but will

you honour my proposal of

life-long friendship?

 

With every expression of

affection, there’s an affectation

of yearning that’s always satisfied.

 

Every compliment to you, your

figure, your beauty is another

blade to your skin.

 

It’s all and always overwhelming,

it’s too intense, You don’t get use

to it over time, this line

is just here to force a rhyme.

 

It seems I’ll keep on competing

with your void feelings.

Your feelings of nothing and

emptiness, without fear in

every moment I say…

To see who will break first and

laugh off the words.

Better its yourself than someone

else, because you help compete

with these feelings of love.

 

Whether its yourself or someone else,

its too much and never enough,

like the click of this unloaded

gun in my mouth.

 

As I one-up some gesture

from a book that you loved.

 

How warn is my cover, from

the touch of your fingers, I open.

There your bookmark remains,

as you flip through your life,

skipping this chapter,

with its corners creased in vain.

You run your fingers

on the veins of those folds

you forgot why you made.

 

On your shelf or on your bedside

table, from beside the lamp

on your desk…You watch me

as you sleep.

 

This is the only edition that

this chapter exists, I see

tabs all around me, different

coulours for different feelings.

 

You could’t bring Yourself to read

me like the others, because you’ve

never loved the idea that a

story should end.

 

Closure or none, this role of

being in and on each other’s faces.

Even in the slightest of ways we’ll

call it intimacy, as we race to

rejoin the awaiting dust, collecting

on every part of us.

Part 3: Art Studio

Dense the

scent of

turpentine

 

As these uncalloused

hands

Bare no brute

nor metal

 

If I were

not to etch

in words, the

silent soliloquy

 

In the metallic

grime, to place

a footprint that

would mark

what was

 

Their empty pizzeria

boxes stacked,

beside my bed

a cooling tea fills

my wordless mouth,

 

In other hands

maybe this ink,

would be more

worthless now

 

 

One

There’s much to

talk about.

And always everything and

anything to write about.

 

Like the detour taken to write

this as all others go about

their business on their ways, avoiding

eye contact yet longing to be

‘truly’ seen.

 

There’s always something to think

about, dead leaves, live stones

and fallen buds never to

bloom.