In Still Life

Strangers exchange words through
damp, polluted air.

People hurry,
fill subway trains,
push through crowds,
shout obscenities.

A gun shot follows:
scream,
pain,
blood,
death.

Blaring horns,
encircle
red and blue lights,
fighting spectators,
flashing paparazzi cameras,
and chasing ambulances.

All in a New York minute,
if you can make it here.
New York (in still) life.

 

Uncensored

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Never would I dumb down my words,
take off their clothing,
add double-layered context, hidden messages,
and poetic flow on top of their naked beauty.

Love, flowers and smiles
are fiction, readers enjoy them.
Blood, pain and desire
is non-fiction, readers shy away.

So go ahead, criticize me
for my pure emotions and opinions;
Honestly, I don’t mind.

I write reckless.
I edit nothing.
I am uncensored, raw, me

#nofilter

hm-selfie-miranda-kerr

Filtered-out flaws display
a beauty on a screen;
She is a damn goddess.

Like after like, follow after follow,
her audience applauds.

They love her soft, blue (once brown) eyes,
her subtle (push-up bra) breasts
and luscious (photo-shopped) curves.

She can’t let her followers down;
she craves more.

More likes,
more follows,
more selfies,
(less human),

#nofilter

Blood, Tears

Tear_drop_by_JosCos

Instead of words
authors should let their tears
drip onto a page and tell their story.

Authors should cut their wrists,
bleed out their insides,
and show readers their unfiltered,
honest, human response.

Tears and blood
are the true emotions behind
stories of:

fictional love,
fictional loss,
fictional desire.

Authors, keep your words.
They are nothing more
than a muse for emotion.

Show me some blood,
cry me your tears,
show me the truth,

so I know your story is real
and not a work of mere fiction

An Old Kite

Kite-heart-hd-wallpaper

wrapping in and out
of fingers, held tightly by hand.

The same hand
held by past lovers
and all the others.

Each breeze, current, flow by the ocean side
point a new direction, new journey to go.

A kite inevitably follows
A kite is paper-thin.
A kite isn’t meant to last.

As a breeze turns to storm,
the kite slips from hand,
out to the ocean
into the hand of another.

Another lover,
another new held hand,
an old kite