bus #45

we catch each other’s eyes
and smile
for the seventeenth time
and I notice
the words stuck in your teeth
they seem to complement
the space around us
as the distance
keeps getting shorter
the days pass

and I find myself
closer to a place
where the smiles
seem to meet
and our bodies
don’t need words to speak.

another abrupt stop
and you spill the words
on the floor
I bend over
to help you pick
and I can’t help
but catch
from the corner of my eye
your phone sticking out
of your pocket –
alive and full of familiarity

you put your earphones in
and disappear.

three photographs.

“There is nothing wrong in deriving your work from someone else’s life.”

He told her, and paused.

The fresh rays were entering the room draped with dark velvet cloth that blended in with the furniture, but not for long. Each deflection exposed a corner, and the lines on his forehead.

To call out someone isn’t forgiving, but to honestly critique someone is even worse.

His dark, wavy hair took the spotlight while his surroundings were busy absorbing the nature’s glimmer.

He looked away from her, his eyes half closed focused on the wooden floor. The crouched back gave his tie some freedom to breathe over his immaculate blue shirt. She could sense the room getting brighter, but her eyes weren’t ready for it, yet. What could she possibly do more to express herself in her art, even if her creation was an extension of someone else’s life?

He looked towards the window and let out the smoke he’d been holding back. It threw the light of its path and distracted the peace of the velvet drapes.

“You’re starting out.”

He pointed his cigarette at her. There was an amiable smile between his thick mustache and beard.

“Your friend who you are borrowing from is good with colors, but if you want to master the lines, study Picasso.”

She was still looking at him when her lips opened up a little bit, to pour out a critique of their own, but she ended up looking away.

dead leaves and colorful hearts.

The colder shadows hide fast
steel fence shell shocked with a sudden grief
footsteps creep as they walk past
the court that’s a victim of, a summer brief.

Shaking, I seek out the ebbing cries
from the mouths that look like arched rocks
weary, to sleep, even to their surprise
their beating hearts no more than a red, frozen block.

The funeral of the season is upon us
dead leaves open their arms to greet
the lovers, wrap them around the colors and hide
the yesterday’s summer from my plain sight

just a constant change, never a goodbye.

strange smiles.

busy life flashes by
blurred people on the sidewalks
dazzling, blinding, in the sun
almost an unfamiliar setting.

brisk walkers, ice creams
in hand. arms across each other’s
necks. hands holding up
phones, focus on what’s
relevant. specks of colors –
alive, loving, and desolate.

the city breathes in its
own painting
as I jump on the next
stroke and catch
some of its leftover paint.

I keep walking
taking joy
in unapproved glances
and strange smiles.

yes, you can call it anything you want.

i am a cause of dusk
waking up as it all
settles, in the dark.

there is no feeling
in the colors of the sky
it is as is.

but it isn’t the same
between the lines we write
my being feels strange.
i dream without seeing
the dreams that i have.

it engulfs me.

bianca and rosso
become the small talk
as we move our glasses
closer, and closer.
i’m filled up to the brim
the sensation in my spine
has gone past
the threshold
for normal, long ago.

we’re sober
and our clothes hit the floor
in the night that remains.

a candid arrogance.

your equivocal smile
curves every hope of mine.
I stretch my hand
so the good can no longer
be distanced.

the blinders protect us
from the outside
that hides in the shadows.
my body encircles itself
with your physical thoughts.

with all the candid arrogance
that this morning light
comes with

it can wait.

$5 a poem

I cannot speak
because I’m feeling.
my voice belongs to another.
my feelings speak of her.

as I slowly climb the stairs
with my voice quietly settling back in its place
I notice the loneliness
of the paintings on the wall.
art can be vacant
like the inside of the shoe
while the humans howl
in the sun.

I walk into my room
and a tidy bed awaits.
it certainly wasn’t expecting me
this late
or my new habit
as I pour a glass of wine
and open up my journal.

I have my voice back
but I still cannot speak.
I’m feeling
the echoes in me
as I bring the glass
to the horizon of my eyes
and paint the walls residing
in my mind
on paper.

poetry is what happens when
nothing else can.

surprise surprise

Hello there lovely people,

I have some exciting news today for y’all. I have been working on my first book for a while now, and it’s finally here! It’s called “Three More Days” and I couldn’t be more excited sharing it with you 😀

You can get your copy on Amazon (I’d say get at least 3 copies, you know, just in case) and share it with your friends as well who are into poetry. It also includes a shoutout to all my wonderful readers, so yes, y’all made it in the final version! Honestly, I would’ve never thought of writing a book if you were not this amazing with your responses to my posts here, so it’s really all your fault that this book is out now.

So accept your responsibility, grab a copy, and let me know if you liked it (or if you liked it).

Cheers!

take both, my dear

I force my eyes to sustain
the little opening they can afford;
wish I would have listened to him.

with the spirits starting to dance
and breathe in the air
I sigh
and stare into the eyes of
the night, when he made the crowd
swoon over the blues
of his fingers.

I pause like photos
as the silence of the dark whispers
empty streets murmur whistling tones
the haze of street lights
and my eyes have found
a resemblance.

it’s all going dim.

to know is to…

“to know is to possess, and any fact is possessed by everyone who knows it, whereas those who feel the truth are possessed, not possessors.”

-e.e. cummings