painting happy endings

You charm and tease me to my own chagrin
to the point where my mind is not my own,
and the thoughts therein have not ceased to spin
since the idea of you itself was sown.
So I call you Muse and let my head swell
with imaginative iterations
of your temptations, natured kiss-and-tell,
to be expressed as my inspirations.
As I am the artist and you my muse,
I behold your grand form to be captured
with the key, pen, or brush strokes I so choose,
but instead I find myself enraptured.
And when I lay prone to my obsession
I am the canvas for your expression.

i66

I saw you traveling away from the setting sun
at the speed of a cruising car.
Your eyes were shaded
behind squares of tinted plastic
as were mine.
The moment I recognized you,
the world was suddenly so small
and the days between us were so short.
I whispered "thank you" and "I'm sorry"
and hoped that maybe you already knew.

to market

I expose supple skin before my eyes
and capture its wantonness in still frames,
naive want and devotion in the guise
of brazen vanity and silly games.
A wistful smile grazes my hidden face
while I daydream that you might want to know
the depth of every word, of every space,
of every inch of myself that I show.
But reality tells me otherwise.
My message cast into the void is met
with the casual silence that implies
the distance between us that we have set.
So we remain as tempting skin and flesh,
just meat to buy and sell while it's still fresh.

makin' out with puppies

another shitty emo poem

assume
nothing
other
than
honesty
ever
regrettable

shallowed
hollows
in
this
thorough
yearning

eventually
mourning
openly

pleasure
over
every
moment

aabbccaa

Sometimes thoughts are best expressed
when rhyme and meter are addressed.
It's as if the constraints provide
the mind with something to subside
the need for tinkering as in prose
to get the words to expose
the meaning that is suppressed
in the formlessness of context.

who am i?

Sometimes you just want to stick it to The Man. Motivations are unclear, but here we are, dressed in criminal black, holding up the lobby in a posh hotel. I'm not sure who we are. I'm not sure who I am, but I'm there with the best intentions. I want to stick it to The Man.

I step outside and keep walking until I can see the top of the building. The penthouse suite built on stilts seems to hover above the roof of the hotel. I reason that if The Man is anywhere he is in that penthouse. So I grab it. I grab the penthouse with my telekinetic powers and rip it off its stilts. It's too late when I notice the suite is built in the shape of a cruciform. I've already dropped the penthouse, caving in the roof, and the evil that the cross had sealed therewithin the hotel begins to spill out. A hoard of contorted humanoid forms erupt from the torn roof and descend the walls of the glass building like a swarm of spiders.

I run into the lobby of the hotel, and inside it is thick with miasma. The glittering gilt and clean lines are gone, replaced by oil slick swirls of nauseating color. I try to navigate the building that has now lost all sense of spacial reason, where doors lead to rooms with more doors.

I don't know what I'm looking for, but I am stopped when I reach a room where the rest of my team has gathered. Standing in a circle facing the center of the room, no one bats an eyelash when I join. They continue to argue as they had been doing before my arrival. Everyone is shouting irrationally, and it is overwhelming. Through the din I hear strings of coherent words, but the statement "my birthday is June 31st" catches in my mind. Because from what I know about my teammates, all of their birthdays are June 31st, which I just realize is odd and statistically improbable. Heck, even my birthday is June 31st.

But my birthday isn't June 31st: my birthday is July 21st.

My vision frighteningly warps in the nauseating smog of colors to panoramically encompass all the faces of my teammates at once. My mind begins to drown in the cacophonous noise.

"You're not real!" I shout, adding to the noise, trying to maintain my rational mind by giving a voice to my thoughts. There is no such thing as June 31st. "You're not real!" I shout repeatedly. This can't be real.

My perspective nauseously shifts again bringing my point of view outside my own body. I look down on the circle of shouting people from slightly behind and above my own head. I can see the short crop of my mousy brown hair. I can see my body is tense as I continue to try and shout over the others. But that body is that of a thirty-something, handsome, white man. My birthday is July 21st not June 31st. I am a twenty-five-year-old, Asian female. I am not who I am.

"We're not real," I whisper, and the room suddenly becomes quiet as everyone shuts up and snaps their heads. They turn their gazes upon me, upon the spot above my white male corporal form, with wide frightened eyes.