The infinite is perfect; it is infinitely perfect,

But perfect is impossible for sinful men like me.

And so we keep on reaching and through hard times progress,

But many will not find the light because they will not guess.

They make observations, put the universe in order;

They give everything a name and place, limits and a border,

Describe things they can't even see and tell us what to know,

But then they say they don't believe in things that we can show

They base their belief in the world round about,

And yet they say that things we know are nothing beyond doubt.

They know there is a mind as well there is a body,

But he who knows the Spirit, he really is somebody.

They say the real world is in the earth, in the air,

But what happens when we go beyond, what happens in Elsewhere?

When science cannot answer it, it must not exist;

A man must kill another for his freedom to persist.

The world goes mad around us, and therefore so do we;

it tells us Truth is not really how we need it to be.

Life is all objective, and yet we have no aim,

We are chemical reactions, and death is just a game.

...

A small something inside you tries to tell you that your wrong,

But the deaf man will not listen when he cannot hear the song.

Be quiet noisy world! Say not another word!

Then maybe in the silence, and answer can be heard.

Today I want to write, but I don’t know what to write about.

I sit here and think, then just decide to start.

I write about what is on my mind: not being able to write.

Things flow in circles, the not being able to write.

I remember the praise from my teachers when I finally succeeded.

I remember my mom, not giving a damn.

I think there’s something inside me that knows who I am.

So far I can’t write, but I don’t give a damn.

I write for myself, not someone else.

I am not a writer, there is nothing to rely upon.

I write what I want, whether it is good or gone.

Eventually my head runs out of ideas and my heart starts to think.

That is when real things start happening; when my brain collapses and all I can feel is my soul.

That is when I write for me, instead of the entire world.

I write in rage or in wonder.

I write of seas and I write of plunder.

Then, suddenly I am surprised when I can’t write anymore.

But I keep going because that’s what life is for.

on the seedy undersides

of host leaves

all sticky and sweet

the sap-sucking aphids

have sex

or not

as the mothers may birth

female nymphs

born pregnant

boys unneeded

like baby virgins mary

but without the adulation

of divinity

Any second, the loss... unclasped from hand

and we are falling, in sense and person

disparate, separated by a muted past...

a totem of figures, and long shadows that hug

and laugh... at efforts, so easily disorganized

...lost some place along the green, tallied

expanse, the face of the master mime,

tick marking in space, still, and rolling

forward, by luck, in the calendar

returned back, to me, affixed to the wrist

... the sundial on my heart

In a world where whispers weave the dawn,

And twilight sings of hope not gone,

There lies a path both clear and true,

Where words can paint the world anew.

In this realm, where ghosts might tread,

With careful steps and thoughtful head,

We speak in tones both soft and kind,

In search of peace, in hope to find.

"Real conversations," thus we yearn,

As the stars above us turn,

With words that heal, not those that steal,

In each gentle phrase, a lesson to learn.

For in our speech, a power lies,

Beneath the open, endless skies,

To shape our deeds, our hearts entwine,

With every loving word, a sign.

Here, humanity's dream takes flight,

In dialogues through day and night,

Believing in a shared embrace,

Of every soul, color, face.

So let us talk, with hearts so vast,

Where in our words, the future's cast,

A world where all can coexist,

In the realm of gentle words, persist.

I am expected to fail. Encouraged to. Been threatened with it.

Been threatened by the unlikely cause of me succeeding.

I have feared for my life until my skin has sagged from the burden.

I have covered my scars with ink,

devastation raining until the blood ran black into puddles by my skeletal feet.

Starved until I was little more than a drop of myself.

Something tells me to fight, a voice in my head quiet as the still crowd to the seat of a beheading, so I retreat into my very own powerless mind. It is lit only by fury, only by wisps of horrid remnants I pour over until I am half dead and scarred.

Absolute and desolate in my retirement, for a year. Twelve months of only my own torrent of thoughts, an audience to a maelstrom of faces I beg to forget.

I purged my soul onto page upon page, until words blur into veins.

Until veins burst to stems.

Until flowers are solidified into floral carnage.

Until I am no longer weak.

Until the little girl, hated, is dead and no one will ever know me close enough to hold and ressurect. To know and wish you hadn't.

Like my ascendants, I rose from the dying farmland, stood from impoverished seats to survive off hardwork and smarts.

No one knows what I overcame. No one knows my name.

I will sooner exile myself to exaltation of my enemies before anyone will ever know a fool queen.