I would not trade my poems for a cup of coffee,

But probably would for stargazing.

-

I got them blue flowers,


But the color of my skin, is all that they saw.

-

Have you ever wondered if the first page of a book
is constantly trying to know how the story ends?

If a chinese whisper of questions and answers,
travels back and forth from page one to page hundred?

-

His sexuality wasn't about
who he went to the bed with;

His sexuality was about
who he went to the bed as.

-

And then he could paint his canvas
in colors he had always wanted to...

-

I paint my glasses in shades of hopeless romanticism and let the smudges be metaphors for a clouded perspective; all hazy yet subtle.

-

It's twelve,
and my eloquence fails me.

For my fingers are tirelessly smashing the keyboard,
trying hard to invent better euphemism;

that sums up the state of being able to smell, the blood wasting away, from across the nation;

that sums up the helplessness, when gory recordings play in a loop, and multitudes of people begin to reason.

-

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder;

So does sleaze.

-

rest my head on the ground;
and let the countdown
burden my eyelids,
until my soul turns to dust
romancing till the end of dawn.

-

The mist on his glass window
now forms permanent haze.
And I'm pretty sure that
this is the kind of solitude he's always wanted.

Bare and naked,
yet filtering every bit of sunray
yearning to land on his skin.

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