I just love you so much that

I can't get over you

I love you so much that

I just need a touch from you

I need a look into your eyes

I need to tell you how much...

I loved you!

How much I need you

How much you meant to me

How much you can heal me

How much this is so painful

And how much of pain

I'll have to live with 

Without you

I love you sooo much that

Even my dignity couldn't 

Beat up my love for you

Your love burning my soul

And my dignity cuting

My lungs open to bleed

Aches and sorrow 

And here I am

Lost. . .

In between 

Of

Burning love

And

Beaten dignity 

#love vs #dignity

weeded from the pacific ocean 

freshly baked in the sun 

curly locks 

greased 

glory 

shackled 

to the chains 

of 

the 

land of the Sahara 

dashiki

prints 

embroidered on her flag 

negro veins 

enriched in her soul 

niggerized 

by 

the white men 

mouth 

lapped 

shut 

with 

chicken 

grease

bolterising 

brown eyes 

bursting 

with 

bravery 

voluminous 

lips 

speaking 

the wisdom 

of moses 

sailing 

our 

dreams

to the northern 

star 

the freedom 

train 

waving 

her 

colors

of 

libration 

bloody reds 

youthful 

yellows

and 

glorious 

greens 

giving birth 

to 

the movement 

that dared to speak 

or the one 

that dared 

to raise 

their 

fist 

to 

the heavens 

that grew 

from 

the 

roots 

vaginal 

canal 

of 

holiest

the 

rebirth 

of 

an 

nation

hard 

toiled 

soiled 

in the sand 

waved 

from 

the 

waves 

of the pacific

brought 

down 

to 

the knees 

to 

knuckle 

down 

in 

the 

dirt 

and 

wash 

my 

skin 

in 

bleach 

to 

scrub

away 

my ancestors 

that 

bleed

so 

that 

I can 

be 

born 

in 

the 

purpose 

that 

all 

men 

are 

created 

equal 

this 

dream 

that 

she 

sang 

in 

her 

ears 

as 

we 

slept 

on

puffy 

white 

clouds 

of 

dreams 

of 

a better 

tomorrow 

I am

     the soothing tide

     drifting on back strokes,

     footprints left as treasure

     in dawning foam

     of lapping teal waves.

I am

     watching weeping

     white diamond wind

     tossing oceans in

     salt of briny breeze,

     kissing azure ocean

     of white capped dreams.

I am

     skin of the sea rising

     to frothed crescents,

     canopy of waves

     sheltering my soul,

     alone, holding ocean

     in my sieved fingers

I am

     rich cobalt view

     of serene passion,

     floating above surface

     before diving into depth,

     sunlit smile and silence.

I am

     uncharted waters waiting

     for you to decipher

     blush of shell-toned sky,

     a soaring seagull

     at cusp of cerulean sea.

I am

     sailing my ship

     to unknown horizons

     in destiny of ballads,

     strolling endless shore

     of no regrets.

Every time he pushes the needle into his vein, Peter sees Tinkerbell's last moments. Not that he needs the drug for that; all he really has to do is close his eyes and he's back there. Nothing has felt right since that day, and of course now that she's dead, he's stuck here.

Here. Here is London. It's pouring rain, and Peter is huddled in the alley beside the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, getting soaked. It's late evening, and people are rushing past the alley mouth under umbrellas, hurrying home or to the tram stop. Peter hunches over, rain pelting the back of his neck. He wears a wool stocking cap all the time here; pointed ears draw too much attention, lead to too many brawls with other street boys.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, he is able to slip inside the Hospital and wander around and just curl up in a corner of the lobby for a few hours, before the watchman notices him and rousts him out again. From there, he always comes here, to the alley, from the mouth of which he can watch the front of the Hospital building and see who comes and goes.

Whenever he goes into the alley, he reaches into his pocket for the school chalk he stole from the parish school near Haymarket and makes a mark on the bricks of the alley mouth, above his own head, but eye level on a grown man. Peter, as ever, looks like fourteen-year-old boy.

The little needle trembles in his hand. He's running out of veins; he's blown the ones in his arms and ankles. He had to hide behind a stack of broken crates and garbage just now and use the vein in his dick. The drug slithers into him like a burrowing worm and he leans against the wet brick wall, growing oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the London sealing him off from Neverland.

Peter forces his eyes to stay open, even though his lids feel made of solid iron. He tries to watch the comings and goings at the Hospital, but it is no use. His long-lashed eyes, bright green - the most beautiful eyes a boy ever had, a man once told him - fluttered shut and there was Tinkerbell. 

Hook had torn her open from the neck, well, downward. Hook was a syphilitic maniac; Peter had been too busy binding up Smee to help, he thought she'd be able to fly away, tinkling her laugh as he swooped just out of Hook's reach. But Peter had been, for the first time, too late, and Hook too insane. 

How long ago now was that? He had an idea, but didn't want to think too much about it. Slumped against the wall, Peter waited, muttering to himself. He missed the Lost Boys, when he was coming down. He'd like to do this drug with them, he'd thought many times.

Peter hears a man's footsteps, a man's walking cane tapping at the mouth of the alley. Adrenaline suddenly pours into him, waking him, jangling his nerves. He pushes off the wall and faces the man.

It is Michael Darling. Thank god it is Michael Darling. He is older now, maybe twenty. They've met, many times. Michael looks over his shoulder, then quickly darts into the alley. 

"Hello, Peter," he says, his voice like a silk scarf. Peter just nods. Michael's look bores into him. Peter nods again and turns to face the wall. Michael moves behind him. The night air is cold on his ass, and the hot pain of Michael makes Peter feel frozen and burning alive at once. As always, Michael makes Peter tell him about Tink as he goes into him.

After, Michael Darling drops three ampules into Peter's outstretched hand and leaves without a word. Peter tucks them securely down the front of his pants. He retreats deeper into the alley, again behind the pile of crates and garbage. A fire escape overheard offers a small shelter from the rain.

Peter slides into sleep, into deeper oblivion. There she is, of course, waiting. How do I get back home, he asks her in his dream. He hears tinkling, like glass bells far away, and in his head it sounds like she is saying goodbye.

Hers

      Silken soft kisses

      unfolding like earth flowers

      blossoming to love.

His

      My love, the paintbrush

      brushes longing over you

      masterpiece of love.

Beautiful she lay,

Fallen Angel from love's sky,

Outside her window.

Alone in my room,

An eerie silence blows by,

Is someone outside?

we loved to eat out at bob's diner and blow bubbles through our milkshakes. see who could draw out the longest cheesy strings from our cheeseburgers. she wore waterfall-like bohemian skirts that swished around, barely brushing against her legs which were always in flight. we often went deep into the woods, having picnics while the river ran on hesitatingly, envious of our open palace of strewn wild flowers, sticky peanut butter sandwiches and crumpled paper cups of lemonade. her voice ran faster than the river, each syllable excited and hyper to be heard. she was my greatest friend. our tears ran down the other's face, entangled in hugs and worries and secrets and jokes that were known only to us. 

It all went Wrong when He came.

She whispered to me that He was The One. I was happy for her, like best friends would be, but one look at his heavily inked skin barely covering scars, and his smokey-alcohol-laced-breath uttered with a rough 'hey' froze my smile.

Appearances don't matter, she told me. He's too good for me. I can't believe my luck.

And so, she told me repeatedly that appearance don't matter. Her once free legs were now openly enslaved to tight-fitting dresses barely covering her torso. her grass green eyes were ringed with violent shades of violet - a little accident, she sighed. My silly mistake.

she was always late to our diner lunches, my cheeseburger remained well-mannered with the cheese safely bitten by my stiff jaws. 

she apologized, said she's never been happier, hoped i could understand

and then one night she escaped

to ask me for help

i was ready to protect her from Him and stop this nonsense altogether

i thought she would tell me that it's all over and that she would come back

but after she said her words i cried alone

I'm such a terrible person. a little misunderstanding, she said. please help me explain to him. I've been bad to him, I do try hard but I make mistakes sometimes, see? Just please help me explain to him. He's a bit hard but he really does love me. It's just that I'm... I'm really sorry

and she bawled

and then she stopped and stared at me

and then she stopped talking to me.

Because I told her that he was not good for her.

a month later a person with her name came to me again

Her once fluttery syllables were now laced with cutting remarks stained with curses. 

her honey hair bleached with alcohol and who-knows-what-they-give-out-in-clubs

her eyes once an open book to her soul, were now barred doors with spears tearing my own soul in shreds

i dont know who she is anymore

her wasted body stands in front of me now

shrieking at me to give her all i have in my bank account

her vocal cords are torn and tattered, tearing at my own heart strings

her hands holding a black gun, the mouth is so black and seems to suck me in

the person with her name is standing right in front of me

but where is she?

i dont know where she is

who this horrid ghost of the sweetest friend i had is

i dread to figure out

she's gone

i cry

my

tears

are

mine

alone

on the carpet

soon

followed

by

an

explosion

of

scarlet

..

paint

.

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "