Like an event, it’s on the horizon

The closer you get, the harder it binds you

So blinding its draw, all light is lost

The darkness extracting so great a cost

A warning to victims of its allure

It’ll devour all you hold dear

Consuming all that matters, as a matter of fact

Nothing is spared by the endless black.

Nearsighted pursuit of things which dilute

The pain, memories, shame

Leaving you only more destitute

Living as fast as you can

No one can catch the medicated man

One day, two days, three days, four

Until you realize there are no more

Swallowed up by the crashing waves of sorrow

One last gasp, the end of tomorrow.

The years gone by,

Swallowed up by a laugh

Like a great division, undone

By a master Mathematician

The distance of time and space,

All erased

A chasm, a gulf, a void, a rift

The abyss

Abracadabra!

Like magic,

They never existed.

But if that’s true,

What have you been up to?

That smile, the way you bat those lashes and wink...

Or that mischievous laugh, revealing your love of humor in humanity...

Yeah, I guess you could practice that...

But even if that’s true,

What about the way you move?

So fluid, even the ocean swoons...

Not even the wind could turn more heads, nor the waning sun cause more blushes, than your movement among the masses...

But yeah, I guess you could practice that...

But how does one practice being warm in a world so cold?

Did you really practice that glow?

Tell me true, my dear...

Was it practice that brought you here?

Perfect...

Down in the deep

On darkness it feeds

Where lies lie

And humility dies

That is where guilt drinks its fill.

Undetected, it throbs with insistence

Proposing paradoxical existence

You embrace the assimilate

Of you to you to you to you

If that is what it takes.

It is only when I'm home alone, 

Eatting alone, 

Celebrating alone,

Struggling alone,

Touching alone,

My heart turns to stone.

More than a story which rhymes,

More than feelings that rhyme,

More than rhymes.

Poetry is an abstract expression of a “thing.”* Much like a painting by Picasso which shows “something,” yet not quite anything particular, that is, nothing particular universally. But, the abstractness of the art allows each person who encounters it to have their own particular experience.

The art at once is nothing and everything.

Poetry is very much the same. There are no refined lines required, and clear concepts are far less useful. However, Picasso did not just throw globs of paint onto the canvass as he felt. If you have seen, there is a semblance to some-thing which is “real.” Poetry is also very effective when it can capture some-thing ordinary in an extraordinary way. Prodding and prompting its observers to think deeper, differently.

For poetry to be really effective,

It must ring a tune or two,

as Picasso’s paintings do,

But if you please,

Allow your observers to sing the melody.

Here today, yesterday is no more

Time will always even the score

By consuming fire, the past is burned

Never again to return

In ash the future holds, the fertile soil

Of those who’ve survived the toil

To be burned down

Reduced to ashes

A silver lining

As the past passes

Pain passes

Also reduced to ashes

Here today, tomorrow is no more

Future evens the score

By consuming fire, the future formed

Until burned once more

When fertile soil, depleted once again

Brings about future’s end

You know what i mean...

That one thing

The one you need,

Crave

Dream

Don’t worry baby...

Our secret is safe with me

I won’t tell my friends,

Family

Anybody

About the things we do...

The way you move

The things you like,

Say

Receive

Those thing are just for me...

Our little secret

The one only we share,

Openly

Lustfully

Without a care.