[inside brackets I tell truths] [outside I must lay my heart in syntax and form] [i love you] I must hide in metaphors on the] outside. I am the bird and you are the sky. [that simply are trite] you are my wings. [I am my wings, I thought you were the sky] [why am not allowed to speak, truly and freely, within stanzas of poetry?] [is it in the rhyme schemes, self-imposed, or within the romantic boundaries of a medium thousands of years old] [maybe it is within me. Maybe I don’t let myself spe...

[inside brackets I can tell the truth] [outside I must lay my heart in syntax and form] [i love you] I must hide in metaphors on the] outside. I am the bird and you are the sky. [that simply are trite] you are my wings. [I am my wings, I thought you were the sky] [why am not allowed to speak, truly and freely, within stanzas of poetry?] [is it in the rhyme schemes, self-imposed, or within the romantic boundaries of a medium thousands of years old] [maybe it is within me. Maybe I don’t let mys...

Voluptuous bulges lack veracity and wonder bras removed tell truths. Copulating kids kiss and surreptitiously make fervent love in the back of cars. Looks lack love and pregnant single woman line up in front of clandestine fronts. Kissing continues as death is doled by doctors dealing with teenage traumas. Aboratative acts incite protests by mindless masses. Kissing continues. Lacking veracity, protests push nowhere. Love lingers in copulated cars.

[inside brackets I can tell the truth] [outside I must lay my heart in syntax and form] [i love you] [I must hid in metaphor on the outside] I am the bird and you are the sky. [that simply are trite] you my wings. [I am my wings, I thought you were the sky] [why am not allowed to speak, truly and freely, within stanzas of poetry?] [is it in the rhyme schemes, self-imposed, or within the romantic boundaries of a medium thousands of years old] [maybe it is within me. Maybe I don’t let myself sp...

Jump up, take charge. Make life don’t just live it. Hold the collar of destiny and steer. Oh! I am not fortune’s fool; I am fortune and life is a map I take advantage of. Using the map, I trace my life in the between the colors of moments. My pencil breaks. I have no map. I am a stranger in my own life. Where to now?

Droplets from the showerhead hit hard on my body. I look up and stare at the man made waterfall. Water hits my eyes. I blink. Dropping droplets in a line persist on the path from showerhead to my head; two in one conditioner is washed out by the stream; then dripping down my body, washing away dirt and grime of today and yesterday; to my toes, cleaning the crevasses between; then floor, then drain; funneling out to pipes and the ocean.

'Tis not the fate of men to die, but only to survive in memories inside of lovers minds. Such is the bittersweet kiss of mortality, that touches lips of lovers and brothers and mothers. Such is the fate of Romeo and Juliet: living love till poison and the dagger.

Tis’ not the fate of men to die, but only to survive in memories inside of lovers minds. Such is the bittersweet kiss of mortality, that touches lips of lovers and brothers and mothers. Such is the fate of Juliet and her Romeo: living love till poison and the dagger.

And in the midst of all—there she was. Like a derelict factory, refusing to fall, she stood, proud. The advancements of society were trivial to her. She ambled, with her umbrella under the sun and her hoopskirt leaning right to left as she walked happily along hapless streets and peacefully along war-torn avenues and she didn’t care in the least. Her pink umbrella, quivering in her hands, floated, an anachronism in the modern age. Her hoopskirt seemed to have an ardent glee in knowing that it...

And in the midst of all—there she was. Like a derelict factory, refusing to fall, she stood, proud. The advancements of society were trivial to her. She ambled, with her umbrella under the sun and her hoopskirt leaning right to left as she walked happily along hapless streets and peacefully along war-torn avenues and she didn’t care in the least. Her pink umbrella quivering in her hands floated, an anachronism in the modern age. Her hoopskirt seemed to have an ardent glee in knowing that it d...