She was as effervescently complicated
As a bottle of cheap, pink, sparkling wine.
But, if eyes are windows of the soul,
Her vacant orbs told a tragic story.

I was often vaporized in her endless agendas,
Left behind in her angry, dust storms,
Spun furiously in her lethal tornadoes,
And burned completely, by her acid rains.

No one was exempt
From her pious arrogance
That had bought a home
Behind her cold eyes.

When I wake up
The sunlight’s hands reaching into my eyes
Divinity, you were a goddess I contained
We wash our pasts with the memories we regret
Skewed versions of what we want to believe
Take me far from here, to a place without fear
I welcome the change

Of Vibrations

When we speak a word
A certain vibration is generated
And
This vibration is picked up by the brains neurons and
We hear that particular word.

Likewise, once we call someone
Let’s say SARAH
The words would be
3 1 2 1 5 =12=3 as per numbers
Allotted to a particular alphabet

I so love your skin's feel
beneath my old rough fingers
e'en after a caress I steal
the memory still lingers

As touch moves on to gentle cleft
I'm filled with anticipation
of patience I am now bereft
please fill my expectation

And as each little roundish nub
also begs for attention
calling out for a light rub
and a poem's lyric mention

Just the sight of your soft curves
fills me with such delight
and never ever fails to serve
to enrich my appetite

`

Gnarly fingers
veil his face,
skin thin and crusty
at spots:
splotched parchment
of years in the sun

water
cascades
from his forehead to
his chin
then meets gravity;
raindrops

through his soil-grimed
singlet, jeans and boots;
hours of toil
simmer away
in rivulets
of forgetfulness.

`

Sadness has a sound, friend.
I have heard it
sobbing, weeping in the throat of the widow
and the children.
All wrapped up in quilts;
quilts of happy colors;
as if that will change anything.

Tears run freely down my face.

I am hearing of violence and upheaval in your country.

This athiest prays deeply for your safety,

my dearest friend,

if you you need to leave your country

I will do all I can to help.

If I can come there and help with the struggle

I will

You have saved my life with your love and compassion

I will not be powerless.

Tell me what is happening

and what I can do.

beneath my facade
million untold stories
have metamorphized

a fire within
rages before erupting
volcanic lava

I pioneered
the stone age evolution
with my flint of fire

I bear the brunt of
memorials and relics
for posterity

from my nethers springs
the elixir that quenches
thirsty souls and soil

I am bewildered
by that idiotic phrase
"as dead as a stone"

“From mom and dad dec 83’ “

That was the first thing I viewed
As I opened the book
At the half price book store.

How did this wonderful book
End up here?
The pages were aged
And darkened,
And I remembered reading it
In the early eighties.

Just a material possession, for sure,
But, it was those words,
Those very special words,
That were written, very small
Inside the back cover.
It meant something
To the “mom and dad”
Who had purchased this book
For their child.

Liquid thoughts darkens my soul.
A storm on the horizon of my heart.
Wicked muses entangles deeper than
my spirit. Brainworks burn my psyche.
The crimson flows deep and intense.
So painful, I can live no longer.

Poetry is the living soul of a writer
By Pixee

Migraines consume
every part of this hollow shell, that contains
my psyche.
home.

The potency of the brain ruch is astounding.
I cry scarlet tears. . .