Let Us Be Human…
It’s Asking
It’s romantic
even if it hasn’t
been true for a while
I want you to believe it
so it may be once more
We’ll find our way
if it was from beauty
we were once born
It can be decided
your bones recall
within its city walls
entirely defenseless
An old hymn returning
your undying colors
It’s asking
Dark red, bolder
beautiful and tortured
Its gothic heart extending
for all its hopeless darlings
It’s awe-sparkling
in the dampening rain
the air vividly pungent
from soaked in desires
But it’s asking, if you’re returning to
it’s serene and somber residencies
Would you undefine it romantic
carrying ossuaries underneath
Would you call it enchanting
if you could kneel below its
acoustic, aquatic sanctuaires
It’s asking
It’s a paradox, it’s a sin
It’s a flower so bizarre
It’s an arousing confessional
Untamed and untrying
Feeling, knowing, dreaming
It’s asking
Don’t dull your despair
It’s better in the blaring
lamplight, let it be fear
or pain, all she wants
is to know you, it’s asking
Reference to: The French Romanticism and Gothic art periods. French Symbolist poet, Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal (The Flowers of Evil)
Let Us Be Human
Let us be human.
Let us be be real
for conversations unrehearsed.
Let us love like it’s okay
to believe we can do better.
Let us try out our voices
for a different rhyme.
It can do some good to
not feel so right, but laugh
with our stumbling hands.
Why are you over edit ing?
Some things need more
sp ac e to marinate.
Passion comes with typos
I won’t regert. Reader, if
you can read this and still
know what it says -
Let us be human.
CryParty
Are you overwhelmed yet?
Some seasons in your mind you will drown.
If you stopped to feel the cold deep beneath,
what are you really feeling? Could you tell?
What if you can flow?
It could be so delicious to know. If I can bleed.
I can taste honey sap from the bark.
It’s a cry party. It’s a funeral for feelings.
Some seasons, you will pass away. Some occasions,
your nightmares want to save you. In some kind of light,
you will be so potent, even if a vein of you is the sacrifice.
Where is desire with no vein?
Imagine if I was an artist and
never honest with myself.
Seeking places I won’t matter
only to never find them.
An old habit I can’t itch.
I’m always so denying of this life, only to be proven wrong.
Like it’s even more real and unreal than I led on.
This year, I’ve been touching the earth more,
my hands soft on my body, finding its rhythm.
Where is my desire with no vein?
Who will hear it?
Sulfur’s growl with no faith.
The humming with no meditation.
Hunger of dawn with no saturation.
If we were human
we could feel our hands ache.
Is this your intention?
It’s a slow motion undoing
missing from my breath,
in muscles overstrained
playing the same haste
with these phantom veins.
So returning to the rhythm
of things has become
my undertaking.
I must go gently, it’s a slow
unraveling for the reservoirs
bridging our bones to baptize us again.
So Soft, Too Much, More Spicy
I could pull you in, tell you a secret
that’s yours you never knew
While there’s too much in your head
Balance sheets nibbling your day
Isn’t there a better way to do this?
Everything just tastes okay
If I pull out my Shuk’s harissa
will my forecasts be spicer?
So soft for this loose earth
Over again, I die in its arms
I can’t love more than today
but I can, when I surrender
I feel tender life in its pores
Because it’s so much, it’s too much
to be a functional human,
an infotainment vending machine
If there’s a pulse, are you alive?
If we’re dining with no appetite
I want to know this story
If it’s worth the risk
If I was saying things on my mind
If I let you in my undercurrent
If I could just laugh with you more
If I could interrupt your thoughts for a walk
If I could close in the silence
will the muse come in?
Could better things be real things?
I want to experience
I want to be experienced
I want to arrive in culture
where time is lazier
I could commit to this life unthreading
if it’s playful, it’s purring, it’s willing
so I will.
