A Shadow Left Behind

An incumbent shadow lurks behind
A reflection of the disillusioned
A chalked outline of a crime scene
A photograph,
enriched with black and white
Static of a tainted televsion screen
Shimmer of a hologram
Shed of  a snake's scales
Simplistic in all rare forms
The evaporated tear's remnants
The two-dimentional silhouette
The varient translucent soul
casted by the directional sun.
The street cleaner unnoticed.

Examination

A relationship is like an exam. You can study for days on end, hours and hours of information cramed, cocooned into a small porportion of the brain, but come test time, nothing you studied for is on the exam. It's not like you haven't put in all of your effort to obtain that grade A, just circumstances didn't pan out as predicted.

Drowned

Blank, worried stares along side the cluttered, lingerie infested isles. "Katie are you okay?" Tears gushed from her Hazel eye ball sockets. "N-no, I just don't feel well." Then she glanced at the harsh texted words. She rushed into the bathroom to compose herself. In the mirrored reflection of her 'not self,' her thoughts flew out of her ears, circulating above her golden locks. Whether or not the agony caused hallucination is questionable. What was written in bold red letters is "I feel that I deserve to be alone..." The trembling hands were obnoxious. The pulsating heart pounded her chest like a butcher and his rib-eye. Anxiety streamed through veins of Safire. She thought aloud--no one deserves to be alone. And then to herself--If alone is the answer then I should have the privilege. If that was the case, she would, yet again, be stranded in the centered most point of the Sahara Desert. Abandoned. Without her camel. Without her canteen. It didn't. It didn't happen, but what if it had? Then, shatter, shatter! Glass on the hollow tiles. A faded fossil due to years of erosion. A dagger piercing the once known Sense and Sensibility. The ceased pulse drowned into the depths of the Mediterranean black sea.

National Greeting

Hi, Hello, and Hey. These are the national greetings. Hi, how are you? This is a national greeting that does not expect an answer further from "good and you?" Just "good" is the usual. "Bad," "exhausted," "my brother just found out he has a hernia" is rare in the American culture. People are very impersonal. I, myself am very impersonal. I'll let people dig into my mind, but barely into my emotions. It's the opposite for a lot of people. I mean, those that I do know are emotionally driven. No substance. Merely happy, sad, anxious, angry, distraught. This person said this to me so I felt this way. This person said that to me so I felt that way. Really? The word conversation isn't justified. Then why is it that the national greeting is just a vague response of reality. No one is good all the time. That's, inhumane! Robotic almost.

The Lovers

Him: I like when you do that.
Her: Do what?
Him: Draw circles on my chest

Eavesdropping

Costumer said to ex-boyfriend: "You're like the worst sperm that came out of you're father's nut sack."
Sales Associate: "That's so mean."

Just,

Imagine the roads and the hallways and the roads and the pathways.

Repetition

Crash, crash, crash, like a ditz into a parked bicycle.

Me as in I

I'm an adrenalin junky. I thrive on controversy. Investigation is my internal Law and Order.

Roses of Ecstasy

Is poetry a way to express a feature, a factor through metaphors? Is it straight forward, blunt, to the point? Direct illusions of truth. Alliterations of the magnificent. Continuous segments of thought. Period until it ends--if it ever does. No poem ever ceases, but no poem is a novel. A short story, maybe. An allegory, maybe. Maybe is such an indefinite word. It's more probable than concrete. Probability is statistics. Statistics are politics. Politics are based on probability. Either avoid the situation at hand or run like a bull, horns thrusted into the Golden Gate, full-force, and shatter! The puzzle pieces of the complacent Eiphel Tower cement the dust beneath gravel. The soil of a wilted weed. One flimsy missing piece pollinating the sunflowers that listen. Not hear, but listen to the sun's rays drifting from sunrise to sunset. Periwinkle tangerines engulf the fog. No, I am not on acid.

Champagne

Do you know that moment, when time stops, and it’s only you and that person in the universe dueting bohemian rhapsody; every single symbol, every note, every heart beat streaming through the veins of fantasy versus reality. It’s the new reality of time and space within those precious breaks against the river bank. Against the steam boat’s chaotic churns of rapid paint of blues and purples; the color of silence embodies the soul of wonder and loath. The loath of what could be the sea of a twin identity, not me, we, there, everywhere in a land of doubt to the infinity of seconds. Seconds of blossoming beauty we shared in despair. Confidentiality weakens the limbs before the seel crashes and burns the beauty of what was known as a, “low blow,” for what I thought was brilliance ended in resiliance.

Phoenix

His fire is a Bazaar sequins-layered Moroccan belly dancer

caressing the phalanges' tips

The tip of his bishop pulsating

to every stroke of Her hip

The embers brand pulchritudinous 

Yes! irony sheds light to the amused Hyena

I am an eye parasite--

A sight sucked inside;

Plush, scarlet lips

The ignite of his semen

Bursts! from creamy vanilla

to salty anchovies--

An occult like the Ku Klux Klan;

Exempt bigotry

Flickering ecstasy

as the penetration devours the walls of Doomsday

The pulse races to His flame

The Sin City front runner equates to two scalding orgasms.