Echoes

Echoes.

Of the nylon nets you cast

to try and search for golden trinkets

polished in soot

And through the yellow pages you flip and

the numbers you dial

to deliberately hang up on one name.

It exists as your diminishing sight

like all the colors your human eyes

will never see.

Echoes.

Of all the radio frequencies

you try to blur within

And the weakened pillars 

of your mind you try to paint

They stay upright and

tight-ly wound to your

blemished psyche.

Impoverished, like me

you try to get your

comfort back.

Like me,

you never had any.

Mademoiselle

Sometimes I wish
I couldn't smell how people smell
How her hair betrays her trust
and sends me a whiff of the sunset fruit.
While my mind betrays mine -
papaya was never my favorite.
Or how her neck still exudes
patchouli, orange and rose and she knows
why she probably chose that perfume.
Floral decadence is my fate and I hate
when strangers on the street
turn my head into a disappointment.
Or how still underneath all of these
she flaunts another, a deeper one.
One so personal it escapes her entirely
and beseeches my sole admiring seat.
Of which I know no other description
but earth and oil and human; just words.
Like heartless critics, they do her no justice.

Sometimes I wish
I couldn't smell how people smell
Would probably save me a world of hurt.
Sometimes I wish
I couldn't love how I love
Would probably save me a world of hurt.

This Part of Me

What do I say about this part of me?
That does not want to be me
That does not want to live in this house
That knows not it is better to be free.

It hides behind a smoky shade
Awake or asleep;
I do not care about these concrete stairs
That are hard on my feet
I only admire the blue in sky until
It threatens to seep into me.
Only at the sound of the first fallen leaf
I no longer if ever desire to meet again
This part forever bereft of me.

But this time, I say:
Wide open are my long locked doors
And here's the key to my property
And I say to you, worry not
If the bird in my cage no longer soars
And my being is wet from all that pours
If my part in this play isn't cast
on a stage that no longer lasts.

With no promises that I shall remain.

What do I say about this part of me?

You need not remember
On those forever stairs,
how I danced on my feet.
You need not wonder
Whether the blue in the sky
Is the same shade once a part of me.

Black 60 inside a red ring

Facilitations of the path ahead seem just fine.

Growing pains in surly times don't count for much and such are the traveling guidelines.

These street lights: dim and bright; all alike

as they are equally blinding.

Lost alleys still feel more comfortable than these highways and days feel shorter now.

True meanings of these street signs in foreign languages under empty skies, I still wonder. 

They must be helpful for their demographics.

Only comprehending numbers, it's a rocky road.

They probably describe how far I have come or how farther to go or neither.

Wish me some unsweetened charcoal luck as I might just find some places to go and I

might just find the traffic unstuck and since

'Highly motivated' is a requirement.