The Beautiful Expression

You are a beautiful word
a soft sound
a sweet melody to my ears unbound

The creases in your smile
the dimples on your cheek
the mysteries and mystique that speak on your behalf paint pictures so unique

Your harmony is your wealth
through seasons that change and rearrange
you are an expression that never dies
or tries to be anything aside from the confines of self


I always walk past her
watching her break over a silent march
a crack with every step
walking past in a slow wasting
without the stench of distaste
a withdrawal faced in her solitary escape

They are usually dressed in black from head to toe
the modest colors of their scarves darkened despite the morning glow
the mourning ceasing opportunities despite day break; actual only in breaking
how much can she take
without forever escaping into her cold awakening

Life goes on
as this stranger must glide by
but she stamps her feet, a slow slog
bogged down in black
her eyes lowered to the atmospheric attack of strangers eyes that never hesitate to look back

…And back into her own world she will recede
hoping you forget her as fast as you need
but remember she had passed by, passed through
and all you could do was see through what her eyes asked you…

A Thought

Our compassion never leads to critical action. A fraction of a thought spent, bent on breaking the rules to make fools of men. Who shall dispense our wealth? Who will control our health? Melt, we shall, under the blistering belts and welts administered by those who seek anything but sense of self. Look within, if it is in you to do so. To push forward who is slow, to spring up for those who do not grow but blow away into the winds of calculated changes and systematic arrangements to cause derangement in the weak that refuse to speak or know.

Those at the top have climbed so, refusing to let go and fall on their behind so other may stand up and wind up their might, what little is left of their hopeful sight. We are crushed under the weight of work, under the weights of Earth, tucked away into our crates at birth and packaged properly to uphold our states of dirt.

But we refuse to blurt outside the lines of structure, a rupture in melody caused by a treacherous enemy. Who but we in the face of the mirrors of life, the people that beg, the corporations that write checks to wipe away their grime with might? A wave of the hand to do away with man. A push of a button to undo the gluttons.  We are but lambs lined up for the slaughter. But every line and formation may not do without uniformity and order with every lamb preaching unity getting cornered.

Along the Way

Does my hope fade along the coasts of robust waves of my youth filled ways?
The springing grey that spurts with bitter wisdom
salting my pepper colored hair
removing the flair from life, adding a touch of despair to my mile long stare

I must contain, detain my pleasure
like a human religious relic that discovers he is none too clever

Planted in the middle of a crowd
no longer standing proud, a notion of past like that hands that removed the rains from the clouds
hiding from the commotion that shall pass…too fast, over my head, in my invisible shroud

Melancholy to counteract the folly of sense
the madness in the hearts so dense
but I am brave despite our grave consequence
in silence, I remain, a wise adult to save my two cents


A Matter of Instants

The gut wrenching vibrations between my ears
Draw fear upon my heart so near
How dear life shall pass in an instant
But we persevere to stay far from the backdrops of distance

Clawing for significance
Aiming our sights on heights not mapped
Trapped within ourselves like a million books on thousands of shelves
Unraveling the world but escaping ourselves

We wish to stay relevant but when we get close
We are the shadows of ghosts yet luckier than most
Living this long when others have perished
Savoring memories we may not forever cherish

A Ravenous Youth

The hunger for more
the desire for less
an appetite diminished in our youth.

Trapped within themselves, in a booth of human build
filled with the burst of energy
but quickly dispersed, viewed as an enemy

My bold youth, do not be disheartened
smartened you will remain
the mundane you shall avoid through pleasure, thorough pain
And carefully caress the window panes of life
on rainy days,
to burst out of caves on sunny displays
showing the world you will prevail


Artists with fists of furious twist, attributed to their brushes, to their mics, dedicated to the likes of those who take art as life.  To wife your craft, to marry passions emblazoned in rejection and tedious introspection is a virtue.  The pen does not set out to hurt you. The brush does not intend to crush spirits. It does not seek merits in flattery, only to spew a battery of colors that splatter across into imagery.  The mimicry of our hands across canvas can never paint the same faces, the places and moments that lie in our minds graces. They can only save us from the dark spaces aiming to erase our presence, capturing the embrace of our work in its essence.