I crave her,
her imperfect past,
and makeup-covered scars.
I crave her stories of being
lonely and afraid,
under cold tear-stained covers.
I crave her bottled-up emotions
and unspoken words,
from her dark red quivering lips.
Come to me flawed
I’ll swallow your pain,
divulge in your being, with you.
And, before you’re mine,
I hope you reciprocate the favor.
I’m like you; I’m flawed, too.
Remember me as I was:
blood, bones, insides, and
splattered dried-up ink,
dripping into a puddle beneath me;
words unspoken
regrets buried skin deep,
my soul creative soul dying to escape.
Written here, on this page,
I speak in a soliloquy.
Share my words,
keep them under covers, or shout them aloud.
Promise me, you’ll hold these words near,
in the darkest of nights.
Sleep with them,
love them,
personify them;
speak back in whispers,
ignore them altogether
or curse them in response.
Read or tossed aside, my spoken thoughts
are shared, exposed to the world,
never kept in (my) mind.
I write better in ink,
words are dangerous.
Some words burn deep, others
speak of love in whimsical ways.
Air pushed through lips, softly,
can speak the harshest of curses
or the most beautiful of melodies
in rhyming lyric
and coherent thought.
As for me, I’ll drench my emotions into letters,
press my lips firmly against yours, and
refrain from dangerous, spoken words.
White her dress,
black her mind,
open her chest,
red her hands.
Running black mascara
streams down
a once alluring-like face.
Her dress swirls behind her; her heart is ripped.
Blood trails and footprints follow.
Gone, damaged, free.
Dance with me,
spill your
darkest secrets.
Grab me by the hand, intertwine our fingers, whisper in my ear empty your soul, and tell me every one of your flaws.
Hold onto your sweet-nothings, your perfect smile crystal-blue eyes; I don’t want them.
Expose yourself, inside, I need to know.
I promise your secrets
are safe with me, here
in the dark, dancing under the moonlight
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.
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
If you’re a racist, shed me of my color.
Sexist, go take my gender.
Perfectionist, strip away my flaws.
I’m left with an empty heart,
lifeless body, and nothing,
nothing at all.
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
is beauty
the delicate imperfections
differ from the norm,
and it’s why
we’re afraid to look without staring.
In our minds
broken is taboo,
broken is frowned upon,
broken starts conflict.
I’ll be damned
if broken is anything
but beautiful
Together, we can give voice to the voiceless,
sew a broken soul, and tell
stories in minutes.
We’re missing a heart, but we
have fingers and a voice.
Not artificially, no,
the words aren’t our own nor
will they ever be, but
strum us together
or apart
and let us
tell unwritten stories
through the melody of music
It’s fun to imagine
the taste and touch of a colors,
and not just their appearance.
Red is said to be hot and burning with passion,
but mixed with black, the color of fear,
no one would give it a second glance.
But what if red is ice-cold and blue
is ice-hot then maybe colors need
more than just sight.
As judged on appearance alone
it would be a terrible, terrible life
for a world full of colors
between these lines,
within these margins
stories are told.
With a few letters
strung together
into words and
a hint of feeling
it can spark an emotion
and connect between
two strangers.
One reader,
one writer,
one journey both
can have,
together.
When words run out
and the lines turn blank the
reader leaves
writer writes,
and both go on
living parallel lives
miles apart.
Always connected together
through the simplest of words
We envy the silhouette
and not the mirror
knowing a silhouette is
faceless, weightless and above all, perfect.
In reality, a silhouette is merely
a lifeless shadow here to tell us
perfection is bliss
beauty is skin deep
and a silhouette,
above nothing else,
is a temporary stencil
vinnylanni 
