I’m sitting alone at the cosmic stump,
Sipping my soul, and I’m vodka drunk.
Thinking of goals I’ve not yet done,
Fission control, visit me in my head.
Cataclysmic logarithms, picture dreams that are dead.
Bickering silence, word by word, I fell into your haiku,
Only heard what you wanted when I told you I love you.
Nervous, respond. I fell into the lust pool,
Mouth of sin, out of breath,
A spell was cast on my lungs too.
She promised me passion, she promised me endless,
A synonym for forever. All I got was a toxic expansion.
Mantras to mansion, so deceptive it hurt,
Quoted my tantrums, like an excerpt from a book.
Don’t mention the looks. I wonder how you mention me now?
Sat on the couch, watching Netflix. Forget heaven and clouds,
Came from the kitchen with a spoon full of sauce that you fed into my mouth.
Cilantro, “Does the chicken francaise taste good, my love?”
Now I find spooning so distasteful. It sucks.
Double entendre tornado, a marksman from the start,
Haloed your heart, rainbow, and darts at the bar,
Volcano and smog, now I counted a hundred horseshoes,
Barely put into words how much I adore you.
So scared, and it hurts, I’ve come to assortments,
From arid. It’s gravid, it varied, of course.
Marriage, like cherries, best pick to engorge,
Eviction of souls, dependent on the glare you reflected.
You sold me religion, with laissez-faire in effect.
I flare up, I gave up on describing this feeling,
Inscribed when I speak, shine on the shrine I requested,
Dried my lips on your teeth, a psychic connection,
Read the Braille on my tongue without trying to French kiss.
Assignment: Accepted. Binary in sign language,
With tension so hectic, you’d barely bury the knife hatchet.
Fury. Attachment. To the universe that emblazoned,
The jury and gavel, as well as the executioner faceless.
Fell into Jupiter’s orbit, and you didn’t notice,
Consumed in your work. My mutation was forced.
I knew it, of course, I ballooned and transmogrified,
With evolutionary pose, soon to be broken, I
Cocooned. I was born, alas, a new metamorphosis. Rise,
Using the moon’s pull as a force, so isotopic,
The butterfly, psychotropic, new skull and a heart.
Germanian Forest Whispers: Seasons of Solace
I’m Polaris. Stared at with an Aryan soul. It’s
platinum-toned chariots in Her Majesty’s orbit.
Her pheromones, barely grown through Germanian forest,
With thick nefarious groves, in between crystal green basins for worship.
It’s… an aerial focus, ripped by an egomaniac’s warship.
Thickets of woodlands dismembered by this sultan and emperor.
Mission accepted, twisted machete to my indulging adventurer.
The teasel combs shied at my annulment of atonement.
The lulling hypnosis, dull and precocious.
When I’m alone, my evenings weathered.
I go home and read your letters.
Feeling bold, uneven-tempered, where her solstice meets December.
I hold, I flee, and whisper in a lowly weakened blend
Of a golden bleeding sepia, where I cross over an avalanche of paragraphs,
Where we spoke as seasons withered, and I wince and moan to myself,
‘I really hope she’s feeling better.’
Lustful Vantage: A Journey of Understanding
With a lustful vantage point, step into puddle’s path,
The homebody’s anthem, gearing up for my dozenth bath.
It’s because I understand it that I don’t want to let your ends go.
We met in muddled meth smoke, reactive, puffy sense probe,
To enact the touch your breath strokes; extract the abstract of subtle innuendo.
Signing off to damaged goods, living lavish in asylum bunks.
Silence is the final language of a lasting boom, to liven us,
From the seismic cusp on the violet moon’s cyan crust.
Dying love, psilocybin. Blithe consumes. Time is up.
We go from sighs exhumed to lying too, the biting of our frightened tongues.
From lying entombed, next to you, I died and grew, like a plume you feather dusted.
Satin and Snapdragons: A Poetic Tapestry
Puncturing flows of buttery colors, exposed in
Post and pre-nuptial showmanship. Function control,
Amusing instrumental, effusive ode to hold this angel to a centerpiece.
Basil, with cloves, of energy that exposed a masterful synergy,
A weeded rustled drone that tumbled a quiet depiction of the color blue on a petal,
Succulent. Moss grows on my archer’s boot, and a straw of grass clenched by my jawbones,
A flux of rusty trombones that exude music through its metal.
I’ve heard poetry spoken in crux, bolded by a bellowing, bolstering,
Underlined by a snake in the grass, it’s so mellow. Just hold me,
Boisterous, soaked in droves of this sorceress satin.
She spoke in a language obscurely molded in Spanish,
Her lips curved, Sagittarius furor. Sandals and codeworded for passion,
Prescription for cures and an ailment aimed with her astrologer’s arrow,
A hollow barrow, and a node I focused on with a ridiculously pure heart.
Fluent in affluency, forehead kiss, and bewitching allure,
Potion and magic, with an inflection of sultry enchantment.
I’ve met a beautiful queen that I spoke to in Latin,
Aztec rituals led to a madman’s mystical matchmaker,
With slurps of a spiritual flask, drank from a vase of snapdragon,
Curvy dress with cottony ripples slightly past bony knees,
Impervious to the dogma your thighs created. Your soul’s a speech,
Red in a loud voice, in a cabin with a fireplace, abrupt,
Where the fire grows irate every time your feminine tone erupts,
Sensuous, cold, the scent is insane. I could hear your perfume luring me with incendiary allure,
Had enough with the tempestuous situation.
Where an ice-cold gloved gauntlet haunts your lightly toned marked garments,
Misses maestro lust. Larva finds a crawlspace where it bugs my life’s oak carcass,
I tithed to our religious cult-like chemistry,
Where memories like centipedes held life in their arms,
So magnificent, mount me to a crucifix, slow,
And show me the coloration of the sounds that I used to know.
Portuguese picturesque beauty,
Whisking along with curly-haired brunette insouciance,
Where a degree of our separation detonated my inner vignette of Vesuvius…
Flown Off Course: Navigating the Uncharted
Vaudevillian. I’ve flown so far off course
That my radar doesn’t even beep;
It’s silent, instead it weeps
For some recognizable aura of man to detect.
Signature heat, thermal readings, nothing.
I’ve become so abrupt in my comings that most of my time
Is spent twiddling my thumbs.
I’ve flown so far off course, like a meteorite
Whose path was altered in a slight trajectory by space debris.
It could be my new home, if it ever passed by me.
That’s how far off I am.
I’ve flown so far off course that my wings don’t even flap
In this new dimension of flying; we fly with our minds.
I’ve flown so far off course, global positioning
Isn’t a satellite thing anymore —
It’s how I view our galaxy from a light-year away.
Mars and Mercury are tiny stars;
Venus and Neptune are off,
But furthest, but not least, Earth is the last of the equation,
Where a place full of life could make me feel like an alien.
Electricity of Words: A Burst of Emotions
Incandescent, I’m pregnant with my words,
Pregnant, as in, ready to burst,
And give life where it’s needed, or not,
Irreverent, a moment of shining,
Where bulbs of luminous lime invoke
A poisonous vine. It’s similar in fashion when
I couldn’t feel a feeling twice,
It’s only one time that I felt it,
Like I can’t relive a moment in inception,
To revive the electric vibe
That enlivened me in a second.
So terrified at the ghastly future that I stayed in the present,
Played with ploys of my past,
Avoiding a void is like moisture in cracks.
Over time, the crevice loosens its solid texture,
It falls and becomes decrepit over time.
A dam is an unimaginable creation of man,
And I was that, an image of grandeur,
But with just the constant pressure of water,
My only vulnerability turned into a disaster.
Cold Summer Woes: A Season of Love and Loss
In my humblest woe, I loved you with candor,
Frankly, you were a rare summer wind,
Astonishingly surprising, a fountain’s brush.You took the air out of my lungs, goosebumps on my legs,
A breath out of the ordinary, for such an open season,
You were colder than most could believe in,
A bohemian, bummer bar.Right after bumper car adventures,
It was mid-July, and we’d tumble/fall into a vivid scent,
Maybe that’s why they call them somersaults,
I’d tailgate the rubber off your miniature go-kart,
We’d laugh and bump into each other,
Like that one day, we met…If summer were broken up into seasons where
You broke me, the solstice would fall ten times a year,
And it’d probably be because you were the cold summer wind,
Until autumn brushed on your skin.
Guillotine Lust: Secrets and Desires
Particle physics; radiation courses through every speck and grain,
But that didn’t mean infecting the inflections as per your hypothetical claim.
Bite the bullet, swallow the pistol; it shoots,
Harboring a hollow feeling, sipping Miller to boot.
Coil-gripped Corona, drowning out social persona,
We’re evolving into moths, wallowing toward the
Murky gray skies. Yeah, the coffee! What’s next?
Marvelous pillow talk over a body of sex.
Heel gone from the left side of my moccasin treads,
In particular, an inarticulate guy with philosopher’s breath.
Cotton linen robe; tonight, I uncover the secrets you stashed,
Underneath the cardinal chasm embedded deep in the cracks.
Try to unfurl the English through your lips on contours,
Christmas carolers’ scarf, closed-captioned lyrics encore.
Wept for concourse; a few have witnessed my character’s arc,
Behind the lighthouse, my sailor’s boat tried to signal offshore.
The shelf life of a dying love is only half of what you want it to be,
Being in love and being in dumb. It doesn’t mean I’d just drop it and leave,
Singing the songs for the markers, autumn leaves for the author,
Monastery blues, with the indents of my knees on the altar.
Statistician Jack Daniels keeping a crop of my phobia lot,
Who would’ve known behind every letter is a quarter of scotch?
A stench of me in the shirt I gave you ‘for the aroma in seams,’
With 4 inches of your middle carpal on a mobile digital screen.
A soul gazer in a trench-coat; I remember the buttons with such reminiscence,
Forgetting how to speak to me, Landau-Kleffner expression.
Promises made by executioners fueled by the guillotine lust,
Soft lips with a barbed tongue said your farewells with a clean cut.
…Shoot me in the foot, sparing me any beamed blood.
Empyrean Cosmos: Inner Reflections
Empyrean cosmos. This feeling I swallow; it’s real. It’s hollow, but it’s there. I know it. It’s growing, a hole full of sorrow; it’s weird. Some sort of eerie control. It has sculpted out a grave in my heart, it’s six feet into my soul. A clay soldier statue that’s woven and wound up by fear. Wounded by perceptions and ousted by fear. I’m used to it, ruthless, I’m near it, I smell it; I hear it. And movements that veer into me are getting boosted. It’s like every little thing is in motion for me. Emotionally, my blood pumps. It’s mundane humdrum. I’m so used to panic attacks when it happens; I’ve practiced drowning myself to get better at them. Crusted bark falling off the sharp edges of trees. Hearts with initials were pleas for adjustments in romance. CG + your initials here. Or Your initials here, + CG, because ladies go first. It’s old. And when the heart breaks in half, my part of the heart looks like a parenthesis ). It’s funny because you said I always kept everything a secret, like a sidenote, like a parenthesis. I get it, see. I’m holding the keys that unlock the deepest, boldest embarking trips to the depths of my soul. I don’t even know if it fits, homesick. If home is where the heart is, I don’t even know if my home exists.
Went for a doctor check-up and hugged him when he said I had 65 beats per minute. “Really?!” I said, with a smug grin on my face. That’s 65 reasons a minute why I hated myself. Verbal vortex ripped in coercion. I’ve lived a minute for 23 years and I’ve tasted helplessness in 65 different versions. I’ve envisioned never being hurt and it’s never visioned. Feeling defeated every second, I sarcastically think, “Is that why it’s called beats per minute?????” Overly saturated covert emasculation. Social emancipation; I’m vocally allocated. Totally placid. Manipulative dickhead. Owner of phallus castle, got my troops and took over the ovary palace. Sensory sonar. Very elective and deceptive. It’s no-arms combat. I’ve learned to defeat you physically by waving a pistol made with the way my lips sway and turn words into bullets. It’s only defense. I’m the least offensive person alive. I’d totally offend you though. Don’t hurt me; I’m ready to let you go. Let us go. In an emotionless scene, an ocean or sea of developing flowing disease. I could kiss the wrists you executed me with. Puckering kiss cracks like the whip that antagonized our failure. I apologize for actions that me, myself, and I don’t acknowledge in reality. I’m molded. Grown old and outsourced. It’s like the mold in a spore. I can barely afford to pay attention to myself; how would I know I was there for you.
2 AM Reverie Again: A Journey Through Abstract Emotions
It’s 2 am.
I feel interconnected through any vine or snippet of life,
A perennial inflorescence of any 6 seconds chimed.
Success is a hive, hummingbird wings in slow motion,
Hearing the crickets sing, so monotone yet obscurely composed.
Feels like they’re talking to me, as I walk on the leaves that I cross,
Demure, you’re so provocative, and I’m surely a ghost.
Crunching of autumn is like a skeleton field for tiny trees in the fall,
To possess you is a perfect choice, and you’re as alluring, a host.
Sunbathed petals drowning in jack’o’lanterns of coffee and pumpkin,
Squash the soggy leaves after a beer, underneath the frothy assumptions.
It’s cost me a fortune, ink-jets flew the loss to the profits,
That’s just the cost out of pocket, I wore the pants, but you wore the wallet.
Living a martyr, nose-dive a dotted plane into soil,
Where waves were uncoiled, from the amber gaze, to the point where it boiled.
Hear the ether perform, a duet with 42 degrees and a choir,
Robotic vampire, nothing to do but to sink my teeth into wires.
Mechanical organism, metamorphosing orphan, with a heart full of gears,
Bleeding gasoline endorphins, pros and cons was the love you pretended to smear.
Propane huffed out of my ears, olfactory prose transposing as mutants,
You wrote me off as a human, with me begging you to hear me out. It was ruthless.
Wasn’t enough, contraption malfunction,
The sound drowned out, a whisper was like dropping a mountain above it.
Teardrops were waves, where even an arc wouldn’t suffice,
You took two of each beast that I had, so immediately, I…
Just lost it.
You whittled a soldier out of clay, from the earth a clone was conceived,
With a chisel that was made by the bones of the deceased.
You were the cotton in an aspirin, a linen in my attire I wasn’t accustomed,
To go into combat for you with a wardrobe and the cloth that it’s cut from.
Ungodly, the humdrum, I couldn’t acquire the taste,
You were so tongue-in-cheek with me, I blushed into haste when you asked if I’d want some.
All I want is 5 minutes where we understand each other completely,
Where we aren’t drunk or having sex, sigh, where you just complete me.
Developments real, the buzzing of broken street lights is loud,
A suburban cemetery, not a real burial ground, that’s the imagery.
You stole what I had, but now that you did, my soul’s deep with love,
You need so badly what I have, but now I don’t even want.
How’s it feel to have it? I couldn’t sate it but maybe I was deeply depressed,
It doesn’t diminish my character, but it diminishes you, exposes your weakness, you weren’t even a friend.
You poked fun at my features, especially crucial to the dent near my nose,
Which were filled with raindrops from my pupils. There, now tears are used as placeholders, for now they’re never exposed.
So hastily brash, sort of insane, but with class,
You took the sage and lit ablaze the incense with aroma my nasal could grasp.
Heart rates out of the bag, but a cat caught this lung! Out of breath and out of reach,
A tongue with an abrasive touch, I just wanna say what I wanna say, without the effect of me to stay in this funk.
I don’t even try to be me, I try to be me, but for you, just like me, to see me as something else besides a jaded complexion.
You were into astrology, I read the sign of a Pisces for August 10th and copied it ’cause I knew you would make the connection.
I manipulated myself, but in that, I manipulated you,
All it took was a simple placement of emotion, for you to be the creative ink of my next scintillating muse.
Pixelating, ruse, miscellaneous, who? I’ve never been vindicated ’cause vindication’s rude.
I’ve been to places you… couldn’t move to, in a million years,
Walk a mile in my boots, where bricks from the ceiling and the steel-toe sort of disappear.
Dissipating, pointless, ventilating, poignant, vision-aided moistness,
Where physics plays a joint version of the Bible’s revelations, over and over again.
My wound is opening, fix the sutures, fix my future, remove gauze,
Remove smog, sterilize, feral eyes, then apply the ointment.
It’s 2 am.
JOURNAL: 2:00 A.M: Midnight Musings: Yearning for Connection in a Silent World
Hey there, crickets. Feeling a bit down, you know? (One cool thing about crickets is they keep on chirping even when you’re just talking to them.) The world’s in a real pickle right now. It’s all hush-hush and super heavy. Cultures clashing, problems piling up, and my mentors throwing career advice and consultations at me like there’s no tomorrow. I see a lovely lady, and I just wanna say, “Hey, you’re beautiful,” and see her smile. I spot some guys I’m vibing with, and I just wanna go, “Hey man, that’s cool,” and that’s enough for me in terms of interaction.
But, you know what? Sometimes it gets lonely. Sometimes you crave a real conversation, not just small talk. Sometimes, you don’t want those steamy daydreams but rather to chill in the grass and wiggle your toes, and you wish there’s someone right there, opposite you, doing the same thing, and you both acknowledge it with a grin and keep on wiggling those toes. That connection, man, that’s what I’m after. I want someone to be on the same wavelength as me for at least a solid five minutes. It’s a bummer that it usually only happens during sex, but who knows, maybe there’s hope elsewhere.
When the clock strikes 2 am, that’s when I really feel like myself. No one’s awake, it’s all quiet and pitch-black. You can just be you, deep in your thoughts, and the darkness kinda keeps you in, ideally in a room all by yourself.
You start noticing the signs of autumn creeping in. Leaves are slowly dropping, and there’s that satisfying crunch underfoot. The breeze carries that distinctive autumn scent. The sun’s rays hit you like they’re saying, “Hey, get ready, ’cause I won’t be shining like this for a while. You’re on your own now.” Kids are back in school, and you see yellow everywhere.
This summer, it was like a bolt of lightning, and my life changed as dramatically as the sea during a hurricane. It’s almost 2015, and it feels like I barely got to know 2014. I’m done trying to please people by lowering my standards. Why do folks keep ditching me?
Sometimes, being nice to a girl seems to send the wrong message. I don’t want to come across as just wanting sex or a relationship. It sucks when I get lumped into that category with a bunch of other guys. It makes me feel less like a man and more like a dinger. I sigh when my questions get dodged, and I’m like, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to confuse you.” Or when they actually engage, it’s like, “Cool, now I just want a friend.”
There are days when I feel too smart for my own good and others when I feel dumber than a rock. Sadness knocks on my door and whispers, “Just this once,” and I find myself thinking, “Okay, just this once.” I’m yearning for a friend, even if my selfishness ends up hurting more than it helps. Loneliness can make you pretty darn desperate, but hey, alcohol and coffee can work their magic.
Even Sinatra on the record player isn’t cutting it these days. His voice doesn’t bring a smile like it used to. The wine stains on the glass are becoming a familiar sight, and I just can’t seem to figure things out. God, well, he’s starting to look like a convenient scapegoat. What about all those times he let me down? Was he testing me then? This feels like the longest, most bizarre test ever, and he’s the most patient proctor ever. But you know what? I’m starting to think this test doesn’t exist. In fact, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. It’s just 2 am, after all.
JOURNAL: Hot Chocolate: Embracing the Cold: A Symphony of Senses in Winter’s Embrace
I ventured out into the cold abyss today, my eyes lethargic, stinging from the relentless grip of allergies. The dog’s chain clinked against his collar, echoing like a sinister omen in the frigid night. Shadows, those distorted and enigmatic forms, spun my head into a dizzying frenzy. Their eerie, rigid nature unsettled me.
Then, it hit me—the unmistakable scent of the season, that melancholic “time of the year” aroma. It seeped into my very soul, weaving an intricate tapestry of emotions. There’s something timeless about chimneys, a quaint nostalgia harkening back to old Christmas books with Santa’s oil-drawn, bushy beard and rosy cheeks. The snowy scenes illuminated in red and green paint the backdrop of December’s icy tundra.
Entering from the biting cold into a warm cocoon, cocooned in cozy fabrics and cotton bedsheets, there’s an indescribable perfection in it all. Even the air itself seems to resonate with a unique cadence. Passing cars on the street outside sound different, perhaps because the air is colder, the rubber against pavement echoing a somber tune. It’s simply the season—the cold, the darkness, the tiny, icy gusts nipping at my face.
My sinuses, congested and oppressive, amplify the sound of my every breath, grounding me to the earth’s reality. Vulnerability courses through me, urging me to seek shelter. The vivid mental images that gradually materialize are ones I wish to share with humanity because, in these moments, everything feels impeccably perfect.
Yet, these images remain untouched by cinema, literature, or any medium. I yearn to be the first to recreate them, but my words fall short. It’s an intoxicating, leafy, perfect, and mesmerizing scent. When I say “intoxicating,” I mean it—every sense converges to form an integral part of my psyche.
To the outside world, I may appear as a mere bystander walking a dog, but no one could fathom the profound bliss enveloping me. I long to walk through snow, thick and crunching underfoot, seeping into my socks just enough to discomfort me, only to melt away as I seal my boot.
Returning home to a roaring fire and tightly sealed windows to keep out the howling wind, I’d set the record player spinning and hum along. It’d be a peaceful scene, but one brimming with life. An overlooked jigsaw puzzle would become the epicenter of attention, as friends and family engaged in playful banter, their hands darting in and out, trying to fit the stubborn pieces.
After I cracked a joke that elicited hearty laughter from everyone, I’d lean back with a puzzle piece in hand. The scent would wash over me once more, evoking an aromatic high. In those moments, the world slowed down around me, the crackling of the chimney intensified, and a grin erupted on my face.
Then, as if on cue, everything resumed its regular pace. Laughter continued without distortion, while I cracked my toes hidden within thick woolen socks, my actions drowned out by the roaring fire and the merriment of the gathering. It felt so good that, if bad news were to strike, I believed we could conquer it together.
Stepping out onto the porch, it was no longer 2014; it felt like a distant era, a snapshot from the 1950s. The illusion was shattered by a Land Rover pulling up; a scarf shielded my lengthy neck from the biting cold, a neck I had always despised for its sensitivity to the chill. Scarves seemed tailor-made for me, bringing an odd comfort.
Someone coughed, and I offered them a piece of chocolate to ease their discomfort. I understood the misery of feeling unwell amidst a joyful gathering. Perhaps I should make hot chocolate for everyone, complete with marshmallows, and maybe a bit of wine for those feeling more adventurous. In this moment, happiness should reign supreme.
I took a small sip, the liquid brushing against the brim of my lips. My eyes no longer burned, and my allergies had seemingly retreated. How much more of this ecstasy could I endure?