Shivers—the kind that tumbles down your lower back and spreads from flesh to soul; like an icy wind-blow that frightens you at the first lick of quiet winter. You zip up tighter, pulling up the collar of your much-too-thin jacket. A single thought of her warmth embracing you, the electricity that was so real but short-lived, passes through one of the distant channels in your mind. The pain of "[having] the memory of an elephant"; to have the ability to forgive but not forget. You hear her voice in the music you listen to; see her in the bleachers of your old high school stadium; feel her from the library of unspoken books that forever turn love into a question without answers. What is this emotion, but thin fabric sewn for the purpose of being ripped apart?

She's gone, but unforgettable.

Here. Always here. But you don't want her to be. Like an itch of affection you can't get rid of.

Inseparable, you believed the two of you were. She was the balance in your chaotic self, the antidote for a life not worth living. If only she understood that. To know she was the air you breathed in abundance; a beautiful star in a dull, grey-meshed sky that radiated the Sun's warmth a hundred folds, and maybe another hundred.

Sometimes the world misleads you into thinking you're deranged. The passion you feel is intoxicating, perpetual, forever growing. Time has frozen over, stuck in reverse; replaying the kiss you thought couldn't get better. But it did. It fucking turned from amazing to ineffable. Your empathic sense turned to its highest output level. You can practically feel her brown hair flowing from your fingertips and the sweet niche that covers from ear to neck.

Deafening heart—

Beats like music fill your ears.

You exhale; you feel lighter; something's amiss—her.

Side note: I know this story went off-the-rails a little, but my objective was to show how powerful words are when telling someone you love them. Sometimes opening yourselves up to that person is all you need to do.

Under the red sun

Entwined in limbs and lover

Noise fills the virgin

#firsthaikuiveeverwritten

It always begins with a surge of emotion—love, despair, grief, and so on. It requires a passionate heart, but an experienced mind.

   Poetry, is manifesting one's inner self and giving structure to it. Poetry can be the words you're afraid to express in person; or it can be the voice—the real voice; the you that speaks with strength, and power.  

   If a genuine poet is what you are, then surely you've come to realize that it is/was never your hobby, but a necessity. Hence, why the words fall onto the page as natural as ever. This would be the period where writing transitions perfunctorily into pure expression. What you feel in those moments—the emotions, themselves—will be stripped to their rawest form. And you wonder whether the reader can truly sympathize, or empathize.

   The question, "Can they see, as you feel?" arises.

   Being brave, is what defines poetry.

The world is grey and mute. I wonder if the people I walk by on the sidewalk can see it, or feel it—the black poison that writhes perpetually in the recesses of my wavering soul. I've sinned as many others have; though I carry that weight with me as many others do not. How do they forget so easily? The crimes that they've committed, or the rows of conjured lies. I keep myself buoyed, in hopes that a powerful light strikes me at its fullest, eradicating that sunken darkness in my chest. It's painful, and distracting. It draws my attention away from my familial duties like a dreadful nuisance. The pain I speak of is different from anything physical. Invisible, and intangible. There's a slight tug on my heart, as a terrible memory flashes in my mind; like a fleeting wisp.

   Fly away, go away; far as can be, and away; just away, I say.

   I do not want to think of the past, when the poem I had written for my elementary crush was rejected (those were days of shameful persistence); nor the days I broke a potential soulmate's trust and heart. Oh, how I neglected her sweet, tender care. How could I push her away when all she had given me, was for me and me alone? I took her for granted, and now she lives to be my worst regret.

   Away! I say again.

   I'm sitting in the garage. The cigarillo in between my finger tips seemed brittle, crispy. I start from the scrunched end, breaking a line through it's length. When I finished so, I emptied it's tobacco guts into the trash can. With the fillings begone and the need for a smoke thriving numbly—like skin it unfolded, as my thumb and forefinger kept it splayed open and inviting—I reached for the grounded bits of herb to the side, making absolute surety of an even spread along the cigarillo's body.

   Equal distribution meant an even burn.

   Time had frozen over, as I worked meticulously. Tuck and roll, tuck and roll. I continued those simple instructions from the west end to the east, sealing every open crevice with a lick of saliva.

   I pearled it; perfectly rolled, ready to be consumed. The summer heat worked furiously, but with the Sun away—and it's sister, Moon, alive in it's slumbering wake—the outside temperature was just right.

   Placing the newly-rolled blunt behind my ear, I fingered the button that would lift the garage door. A breeze swept in, kissing the sweat that bubbled along my forehead.

   The lit-up driveway where the motion sensor lights blinked on would do just fine. Yes, the stars above would add to the coolly atmosphere.

   Retrieving the blunt, I held it before me, simultaneously pulling from the pocket on my shirt the 7-11 lighter I had bought for the occasion. It took a single, downward strike of the thumb to liven the flame. I soaked the end opposite of where I would place my lips, dousing it until an orange-smoldering light stilled on it's tip.

   Puff, puff, exhale. The cloud of smoke that left my body seemed to take with it the aforementioned darkness. The weight was lifted. Mind and soul falling into equilibrium once more.

   This cycle of up and downs would continue for many years forward.

   Another puff.

What motivates you to get through the day? Is it the fear of failing? Or the need to support your family? Or is it simply the joy of life that pushes you to the finish line every day?

   There's not a single person that I know of who isn't dealing with a problem at every moment, every hour, every minute, every second of their life. Even the ones who seem the most successful, or even the happiest. No matter the size, everyone carries a weight on their shoulders.

   The person next to you, however bright and shiny their smile could be, might have an underlying weight so crucial and straining that if you tried placing yourself in their shoes, you'll end up finding yourself toppling over, crawling for a pocket of fresh air in a world that sees nothing but smoke. Sometimes the weight gets so heavy that one can only wonder how that person isn't dropping dead on the floor. But they are, not dead per say, but on the floor they are. They're on the ground, lurching forward even if they're moving slower than others—one hand clawing past the other with one foot planted against the earth, propelling the other leg a few inches, maybe only one, or maybe even none. But they're not dead. They haven't given up. Although somedays it does feel like they're dying. Somedays they even contemplate giving up, but they never do. Why?

   Because giving up is scary. Sorry, giving up before accomplishing anything in life is scary. Sorry again, dying, before accomplishing anything in life is scary.

   The majority of you guys are struggling on a daily basis, and maybe even feel anger towards the other people who on the outside, look as though they're breezing through life in graceful speed. And true it may be. It's possible that they've faced less obstacles and were blessed with an overall easier life. It's possible that they never faced the harsh experiences that you have. It's even possible that they don't even understand what it means to truly struggle in this society of ours. How incredibly lucky they are. Why were you, selected to go down this rough, arduous path? Why couldn't you have been the lucky one? Well, ladies and gentlemen, you are in fact, the lucky one. You struck the jackpot and hit every single lottery number. The ones you hate, haven't been given the experiences you've faced. They haven't hardened their spiritual core like you have. They haven't stared "struggle" in the face and said the words, "fuck you life," and kept moving forward. They haven't become as strong and powerful like you have.

   Every experience you've came across so far—good and bad—has shaped who you are today. If you believe those experiences have twisted your character into a being you're disgusted by, or dislike, then put forth every muscle fiber in your body to get up off the ground and stand tall and run forward like the ones you cursed for having an easier life. The experiences you've been forced to face in the past do not decide how your life will be in the end.

   Life is ever-changing.

   Only you, the owner of your destiny, has the right to decide whether you live life to the fullest, or crumble down because the weight was too much.

   "You deserve better."

   I, myself, do not plan to fail. It's not even an option in my future. But how about yours?

Silence.

   A complete stillness in the surroundings, almost meditative, relaxing.

   It's 3:35AM precisely. Peace and quiet time, I should say. And yes, this is another night that requires a slight flexing of brain, spirit, and fingers.

   The inner and outer world in muted suppression—no cars passing by, no dogs barking triumphantly, no birds chirping in hymn, not even the familiar flush of wind has made itself present.

   The perfect setting for creation.

   Me, myself, and I, and this soul-sucking device in my hand.

   I must confess that I'm undoubtedly, but figuratively a night owl. A night owl who loves to prey on the juicy topics that one would either find interesting, or boring. But tonight I'd like to go about things differently. Tonight, I am an interrogator, and the suspect in questioning will be one of the greatest mysteries of the universe, Life.

   With a crackle of knuckles, I started my interrogation: Life, couldn't you be a tad bit easier, less daunting, less painful, simple and without the unexpected turns? (In some similar shape or form, along the same lines, you've asked yourself this exact question. You've wondered why Life for you was difficult, excruciating and exasperating even to the breaking point—the "I hate Life," point.)

   Why Life, are you filled with both dark and light, depression and joy, tears and smiles? Is it fun for you, Life, to toy with our emotions, to bring us up and tear us down in a single blink of the imaginary eye?

   If Life was an entity that bore a mind of its own, I'd like to imagine His/Hers/Its response would be something like this: Yes, hooman. Experience the beauty of me, Life. Here, have a taste of happiness, joy, love, and when you're absolutely content that you've reached the peak of Life, I will take it all away, happiness and everything. I will plunge you head-first into the deep abyss and trick you into believing that the world you live in is against you, where depression itself writhes in agony, where loneliness is a blessing, where death is an option, where living is not. To beg for mercy would be to give up. At times you'll find yourself crying in pain, believing that doom and gloom is all that remains at the end of what seems a perpetual tunnel. But know this, for if I was to be lenient, and if all you knew was the good of me, then you'd never know what it means to truly live. I am a journey with surprises and lessons at every twist and turn. You look to the skies and ask for guidance, to which I say, 'face your fears, swallow your pain, leave and vow to never return.' There is strength and understanding in my brutal ways. The choice is yours, though. To live, is to learn. And to learn, is to live.

P.S. I wrote this a while back but couldn't help but feel a certain attachment to this piece. I hope you all enjoyed reading it, as much as I did writing it. This post was one of those "In The Zone" writings, where the mind becomes lucid and the words flow naturally onto the paper.