'Who am I' she asks : A creative explosion of paradoxical remarks the student replied.

A Gift

I want to ask but quite sure nobody knows,
What the silver lining is between beguiled oblivion and the odd sentiment
of love.
Is it between kindness?
Between the sheets of our conscience or even
The braided steel of our pride that makes it so
Compelling to reject ourselves from what we know
Is best; the question is, why
Do we all agree on a universal sage of unabridged pacifism
Yet the simple gift to be hurt
In honest truth, is felt
With no less integrity of our most sincere reflections
To show our jarring insecurities, is a bravery
Shunned for bravado,
Better coined for low key insanity, you named it
Only better known for what most placates me
And that was to give you the best
As a gift


Hold Still

“Do you believe in kindness?”
It’s hard to say when you’re trying to protect,
Kindness, “It’s not worth it,” they tell you, you say so too
“Maybe so,” yet you secretly hold still
To the margin of being kind, what is it worth
Winning for the sake of appearances, we must win
With negligence and ignorance and fearful reproach
For whom and what we had believed in, do you still hold to
What may be a blind man’s patch
Do you believe in kindness?



Related image

Even now I retain the fact
You broke my heart, by virtue of time
It has swallowed my gilded beliefs
Into an arbitrary tale that begs no further prod
As would the nature of belonging defer us to be
Strung together with the pulses of of a murmuring
Umbilical cord that has wrought me unequivocally
Connected to you


Image result for hand touching lips

In words I can no longer repeat, she had said to me,
“Your hands are so rough to hold.” and proceeded to laugh,
So I didn’t take it too hard.
Did she say she liked it in fact? Or commented that it was rather
Odd; I can’t recall, hardly telling apart
This language folded into my memory, since then
Translated by lane-way dreams into another tongue, foreign escapism that bespoke
A single feeling, fleeting now




What is it that you see in older men
The quench of insatiable want, I find
For wanting the better half of a wise conscience
Better known for to humor you, my love
Redefine yourself through the security, between encased struggle
Drawn from the richness of their rudimentary reserves you’re to measure by
Burgeoning rouse towards your mature peak appearing small
You can’t help it, dearest, to not rush past
The comfort in your young
Swollen with compliments
To your smart pride, considering the swift current hidden behind
Cherub cheeks, the often unseen attribute given hindsight
Hopeless bandwidth of one’s age urging reach at most, to
Know what you only don’t know, granted enough wit to seek settlement
In kind,
Not yet enough to precede the draws of the earth, still
Too much so to be still
And we haven’t been made still at all



She could hear the outcome of this dialogue
All the while she began the summary of her emotional inventory
How in fact she’s been feeling off, yet today without authority
Nothing to justify save for the simple pawn off
Against the pellet of rain who’s deliberately thrown themselves
Into the pool of their lost doppelgängers
Rather that she said, “I’ve been feeling moody today and I
Can’t figure out why.”
“Why figure it out?” The voice asks,
“So that I can assess and come to terms with
The reason why and not feel this way anymore.”
“Why is it not okay for you to feel low,” her own conscience now speaks
Separately, seeking her to consider, “what if the disturbance is to be okay
With this emotional baggage instead?

Expression 1


Staring at her nails painted the color of steel
Like bullets on end, that has on occasion severed her better conscience
Despite her best efforts, against him
She says, “sometimes I want a write off, I was so young
Surely it was a disturbing love, but I can only determine
love nonetheless.”
But he never says anything back, thoughts flashing verbatim, drumming
The sounds of war that she had painted on, the color of proud obsidian glean
Instead, unworn by time, the grayed sentiments satin stained,
“But I can’t forgive you, you were my first love and
You broke my heart.”




She was all kinds of intelligent, I’m sure
At least, being in public eye wasn’t easy
After all, somehow all that remains of her is an obscure quote
I had already forgotten where I’d read about
Her titular style, enough to garner all sorts of
Questionable wrath, to them she replied,
“Whenever someone comments, it makes me think ‘I want to pull it tighter, make it higher;
It feels like falling in love each time I look in the mirror.’ ”
And maybe it was due to the false advertisement of her life, or even the lack thereof
Of my own questionable reconnaissance
I could never quite decide where on the spectrum that statement landed
Albeit crass or bold, for if I were a man in life
Would I have no doubt, doubly fallen in love with her


A Classical

What drew me first of course, was the design
Tattooed on his temple, following the numerous imprinted jewels
He set as stone into his face
Punctuated by the girth of his rings, I had thought, “those must pack a punch.”
And even entertained to comment had he not been
Otherwise muted by his headphones
For no other reason than this tangible compulsion I felt
To ask instead, “May I listen to your headphones?”
Hoping you would not decline,
You ask why?
“On the off chance that you’re listening to classical, I might have judged you wrongly.”
Gamely thing to say, I applauded myself with the swell of wit
Diminishing as your retrieving figure stood at the corner
Of the intersection while I crossed the road
Out of the corner of my eye I saw as the bus rode past
You embracing another dark figure
Go figure, I thought, “that’s a classic.”
I finally said aloud

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