The Lonely and I

green walkway

The blue wave sounds corresponds like freeway traffic
let me revisit my self,
let me revisit my self,
reflections of the sky and the sky moved
towards my melting soul, in the ground uplifted
by the lavished movements made by memories of today.



Obsession, obliterated the constraints. 
Solitude, fastened the catalyst.The catalyst is my release,
And in isolation,
The beloved and cursed,
behaves and warmly insulates me,
In the dance around a flame.

Alleviate, sequences that reminisce,
of an allegory that never dies.
Experiment with eyes shut,
The openness of mindlessness,
an absence of restraint,
annihilate what used to keep me here,
manic depression is a parenthetic severity with nothing to recollect,
with a home – at rest – I’ll never forget. 


Remember the time,

The sunset ran away?

The moonrise was slowly welcoming us,

and the music ran a little longer than we expected.

The scent of your flowers seeped through the backseat,

and you turned around to grab them,

placed them on your lap,

and wished this moment would come along once again.

We don’t love enough unless there’s a reason to replace the pain,

we wildly hop into the backseat and trace a brand new pain,

and time is running forward, it hurts to see it end,

We don’t love enough unless there’s a reason to leave,

we unwillingly climb back to the front when we’re finished,

unfolding our wretched souls,

bending it to mend a new home,

hopeful of a time we can run away with the sunset,

and our passion can rise like the moon again,

and the music can run a little longer than expected,

and our minds can unfold like a blooming affair. 

“Art does not address herself to the specialist” (Oscar Wilde)


The appeal of all Art is simply to the artistic temperament.  Art does not address herself to the specialist.  Her claim is that she is universal, and that in all her manifestations she is one.  Indeed, so far from its being true that the artist is the best judge of art, a really great artist can never judge of other people’s work at all, and can hardly, in fact, judge of his own.  That very concentration of vision that makes a man an artist, limits by its sheer intensity his faculty of fine appreciation.  The energy of creation hurries him blindly on to his own goal.  The wheels of his chariot raise the dust as a cloud around him.  The gods are hidden from each other.  They can recognise their worshippers.  That is all . . . Wordsworth saw in Endymion merely a pretty piece of Paganism, and Shelley, with…

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When Isn’t It Enough

 Most of the time I’m drinking two cups of coffee, one cold, one new, and thinking about a recent lull moment I’ve had. 

Wondering how far I could’ve gone down the deep-end; just self-loathing once again. 

Maybe it’s because I haven’t taken a nice self-reliant drag of a cigarette in a while,

and this whole quitting-for-health-reasons-phase isn’t so much a phase anymore than just a new subject in another new chapter.

I have the gut feeling that I’ll continue to find the urge to accept the vices of my tendencies, to feel like I can rearrange the past with a

new cigarette, a new hope, and an old faith embedded in my veins.

The Silence of Sound

You clenched my wrists like a post-dramatic experience. Every scene you depicted with those eyes reflected a bigger picture in my senses; with sonorous laughter you beguiled my lips into the shape of your choker.  You insisted on driving every Tuesday evening, even when I imposed my backseats having more leg room. When you’re driving, I’m mentally falling in the deep-end, with perfect form. With one hand invigorating percussion taps, your hand grazing my leg like it should feel safe here, and my other hand independently pulsing an undercurrent of impressionistic tendencies with an imaginary brush; the drive devours our void, and the silence of our sound souls, with a timbre that rattles tendons, the beloved sun-drips into your pupils and yet again the reflection of your vision, portraying the frame that I’ll be determined to die for.