I Am a Little Planet...

It is like losing my vocabulary,
Losing an integral part of me,
Which I know glows ever more dim.
It is silently thinning away,
Letting reality blunt and un-marvel it,
So I pick up an eager routine behind closed doors,
A disinterest to decipher people and their ways,
Stooping as low as stereo typing,
Color marking and cramming.
The death of color runs in my eyes,
As life undo’s and un-intends…
itself on my conscience.
Is this where they clip my wings?
Pluck every liberal follicle on my head,
Tame the span of my flight,
Riddle me with volcanic ash?
My mind’s a maze
for the wanton and care free…
following a channeling voice over speaker phone,
might as well be dead and gone.
But an occasional butterfly,
Disrupts this enslavement,
Ever so delicate and imposing,
My presence here is likewise felt,
For I am a little Planet!

The tyres caress with the gravel,
the old men play guitars,
our girls dance with the rain drops,
the boys are going to war!
they are gone to conquer our world,
Having dreams for dreams,
with little details coming amiss,
in their translation to this world.
but press on they must do,
write their letters an' close with glue,
to leave their ladies with some clue,
that the heart still feels so blue,
from the teasing scurry of heels,
lips...tips...and imaginings,
the readiness an' mask of skin,
praise their ripe and vigorous form,
with cliche an' modern norms,
from a little lonely planet!

Little ant lines can impress,
for nature holds more order than chess,
even poet lines hold no less,
free thinking so compressed,
to enable mental plug-in,
freeing minds from collapsing,
under vague and impish thoughts...
Poetry is like a home,
with strange an' visible influence,
like space, time an' matter...
it reveals what works in this world,
we are made of proud influences,
n' time has never walked by,
some have made conversation,
aging with words so gracefully.
like you, poetry has a pulse...
and now it will have to wane,
emptying into an ocean,
space;
that room for invention,
sums up my narration,
from me an' my nation,
I am a little Planet...

ink-festation

Black ink blotting on paper,
the sages are brewing vapor...
onto paper for the educator,
A post script for the narrator,
To spell the doings of investigators,
those who pride through ruins...
collapsing castles in this fluid...
of black residue,
forming points into an avenue,
Questioning clouds while the sky is blue...
We need it to be clear,
Our thoughts and what we hold dear,
We need to be here,
To learn our minds and be near...
to everything that has become clear.

It is an ink-festation,
signing letters and shining leather,
giving birth to thoughtful process,
The flow of wordily progress,
The joys of the gushing torrent,
as the pulsing vein,
like ink, paints and scribbles,
brings life in ripples,
like soft dimples on people...
contesting authority,
over the grain and grass,
of a growing conscience...
an educated guess,
a clumsy feeling is suggest,
by the wave and wind of bold,
letters coming into fold,
joining man and his world,
blood with the sap,
ash with the dust,
breathing and touching life..
yes its tangible,
like a laugh it ripples through...

An ink-festation,
a disease spread consciously..
an addiction to the poetry,
A position savored quietly,
A picture captured directly,
speak truth fluently,
like spreading an epidemic!
the equipments of the academic,
a solitary verse,
to an eloquent mass,
the birth of a generation,
with wills of penetration,
to wink and guise,
The height of their amplitude,
a steady chase of a heart beat,
waking, wanting and asking,
who spread this epidemic?
Am up with an ink-festation!

Naked angel...

I knew peace when I killed,
when I heard that terrible rhythme of her heart beat,
like the interview with a vampire,
I knew she missed me again,
in the silence,
she missed the blood in my veins.

A naked angel on your back,
how cruel could you be to yourself?
now,
there are black wings on your back,
you had your white fangs on my neck.
Yet you spared me..
that naked angel on my lap.

Dried lips and a dead tongue,
I speak ancient language,
like a mummy from the pryamids,
we are made in the stars,
made to go far...
wonder further,
called from abscurity,
called by name,
I would like to think if this is an evil,
then it is properly documented for assessment.
so I can make an arrangement,
contest in an engagement,
a fight to the death,
an end to the myth.
of my naked angel...

So I shall persist in this rudeness,
grow some spine,
speak what is mine,
invest in some wine,
taste these grapes from the vine,
spitting out the dying,
and sipping in all the life...
before my naked angel..
comes to rid the world of me...
reduce man's misery,
for a beautiful write...
killed angels from the sky,
with how to make words fly..
Only one knows how I die.
A naked angel on the back,
an inscription made in felt...
pen with black ink.
How cruel can I be to myself?
in my dying moments on her lap...

Cut and broken...

Cut and broken...
went through a glass once again,
little pieces of what once was,
still embedded within,
tearing at me,
making me bleed.
My eyes are all open,
but I cant see, cause am swollen...
is this how it feels to be hated?
is this how it feels to be forgotten?

I grew an undefeated heart,
I have powers to turn my loneliness,
from my emptiness...
learned how to share my pain.
pulling the glass off,
making myself bleed once more..
putting the pieces together,
making me whole.
I gathered and collected at the floor,
like little gems,
claiming back my worth.
Priceless!

Cut and broken from my ore,
to fit into silver bands...
shine in everyone's finger,
rare as a stranger,
by the side walk...
I talk,
like a cut and broken tongue...
I have lost one wing,
so am busy being human,
fell off the ranks of angels.
for I have cut and broken wings.

who is my tailor?
where is my carpenter?
how is my doctor?
whose seen my wing,
for am cut and broken...

Thugs get lonely too...

Took out a pen,
sprayed ink on my skin,
made tattoos on me,
a rail way track you see,
in these rusty brown bins,
eating roasted brown peas...
Thug life sticking needles,
getting high on fear,
those who fear,
How I really look inside...
that thugs get lonely too.

I lost one,
one of my street queens,
to the cold on the streets...
eaten live by the decay,
fading by the day.
from staying away,
slowly dying away.
The thug still stay,
found a street to run,
found a color to burn,
more tattoos on his skin,
express his pain,
that thugs get lonely too.

Opening buttons,
gifts unwrapping...
feels like somebody's birthday,
a lady with table manners...
and the weight lifts over,
feels like on top of the world,
blood getting warmer,
a thug ready to stay longer,
shoot his gun in the air,
act like he don't care,
but what he's really scared,
is knowing thugs get lonely too.

walking a lady to the stop,
watch her leave in a bus,
thugs make no fuss,
pretend the heart doesn't feel...
keep losing their way,
and finding their way,
to that mean look,
THAT "I don't feel look"
straight from the thugs book.
but Thugs get lonely too.
Ain't this how we look,
thugs who still groove,
thugs who still move,
thugs who still prove,
thugs get lonely too.

** GOO GOO DOLLS - Iris **

Verse 1

And I'd give up forever to touch you
Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now
Verse 2

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight
Chorus

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Verse 3

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know your alive

Chorus

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
Chorus

I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am

Question...? Answer....!

I have long wanted to voice the dissatisfaction
I have within myself
for not having
the courage to voice what truly lies within.
Even when those things may mean great harm and pain to me.
Maybe it is the pain am afraid of,
or maybe it is just the fear that's holding me back
I don't know!
I am lost for now,
I don't know what shall become of me
in the next millennium.
Will I be a fossil of this generation of degenerates
who fuse their minds to music,
and foreign influences
just because the world imposes this trends on us.
I am not sure what sort of influence I have on my world,
except perhaps that I am carrying on,
a sane note.

Is this the kind of frustration that other youth
in far worse situations than am in,
feel.
How despair eats at them,
for lack of assurance that what "we do now"
will matter when chaos comes trotting into our lives.
Will I be able to hold my own,
as my default father keeps on insisting.
I did not choose what role that I was going to play,
maybe all this is planned destiny after all.
How else shall we start to explain
why things insist on this gradient
and curve of events.
As if unraveling any faster or any slower
is a violation to a rule,
which keeps me here,
bound to this time and space which eats at me,
of every effort I attempt
to transcend the whims of mortality.
A want to survive.
A crippling need to be loved or wanted...
who is this man who speaks
in such venomous voice in me.
Why does he not come out,
and show himself in mine eyes.
Am I not fit to see the bearings of my path,
the end off all my action.
Should I find it in vain end,
which is my retreat from the physical world,
cast along the desolate spirits who walk the earth,
still searching answers to the true meaning of life,
to what purpose I have lived so long only to dissipate,
disappear as if I were not,
a significant part of this worldly adventure set on me,
from my birth.

Indeed,
why should I ask this questions if,
my creator would drop these answers to these questions in a manner,
like manna...
or like drops of rain,
a relief to the desert sands of knowledge I claim,
and still hold much pride for.
In noon time,
I will acknowledge that am aging,
always a day older than before,
making with what I have,
however short or brief.
If pretty ladies sit next to me,
and I stray a thought of passion,
catch myself before I can utter any nonsense.
Keep my cool and realize there is no need to act like a fool.

Or is it the case of need to know basis.
Am I on a need to know basis?
There is a great deal of mystery to me,
that am yet to be discovered.
Even so, why do I despair so?
Isn't it in my occupation that I should seek an understanding
into who I am,
what I will become.
Invest in that the duty and strain of my brow
into realizing this.
Maybe I should keep my tongue in cheek,
cherish what little query I still have of death and the the coming...
For it is clear what has a beginning has an end.
Regardless,
I will carry on with this charm,
play my harp and guitar like a pro.
Guess there is some sanity and bliss in optimism,
make hay while the sun shines sort of way.