I was a dead body, decaying in decades of wreckage, buried in my tarnished land. Shape shifting into a muse that acquires its sunday best to stand tall, relentlessly.

And yet life is much wiser than to all of my whims, molding my heart as a vessel of my misadventures, and veins that bears my broken dreams. I still dance on a hard wood floor, memorizing the creaks on it; memorizing the fear of falling.

My skin and bone grows in unfamiliar love, shaped into a misery, it is morphed on my own garden of heaven and abyss, relinquished its life in romanticism and death.

Will the star
show up on my way?
Take a shot in the dark
I can't promise
to the firefly.

The moon will
morph to the sea
in the dark
swing and sway.

The robin doesn't need
to sing to the tuberose
that doesn't delay
blossoms on the way!

Shine on most brilliantly my bold, brave lass
Whine no more over misgiving's past
White robe awaits after crucible's blast.
Write of your struggles to all whom this life batters
Trite experiences included, for your testimony matters.

The pain rots and sheds,
as it smoulders her bones
and burns her skin third degree.

Loss and jealousy enwrap
her scorched heart into ashes,
while lava flows off her tongue
as it promises vengeance.

She becomes a vortex of emotions
engulfing her own life,
dwelling in the
merry go round thoughts.

Until she picks up the pen
and tucks the rage and ache
within the 26 alphabets
stringing words,
to sentences to paragraphs.

Ashes and embers stain the paper
as they ebb, blot and flow,
crafting the cathartic relief
until the paper stains darker
than the shades of her mind.

The blues that would pour,
become the budding flowers
in her chest.

She remodifies
cobblestones into steppingstones,
amplifying her narrative.

She tosses the losses
into words
and crosses beyond the horizon.

A candle flame burns deep
inside her solar plexus
as she transmogrifies the shards into a mosaic;
the strings of the web she was entangled in
weaved into embroidery to embellish her soul.

The cries and lies,
made her wise
as she built from the same sorrows
she was drowning in.

She put her ache on cadence
and turned up a brain wavelength.

She finally found her salvation
from abandonment
a dive deep and wide into
the depth of introspection
pulling from the cronies and nooks
the parts built and undiscovered.

She armed herself with
empathy fueled passion
as she has burnt, learnt
and learn to yearn the better
while she steers forward
with a transfigured mindset.

For the people who came,
now leave as poems.

My room does not
evolve or become;
it morphs instantly and before your eyes.
Things move and fly they burn and cry.  

I watch as a dust devil conquers invades
Two minutes later,
waltzing brooms on parade.

I stuff my room full of
glass metal wood.
Some would say hoarding
I reply misunderstood.

Most of the glass is pretty much broken,
the wood is all scorched, the metal contorted.
All of its stays because my hand has spoken.

My room is a magical place replete with spirits and souls and little doors to inner-space.

It likes to listen to music, the scent of a dog... It begs to get ****** off a good Sensi fog.

My room inspires my hands to create...
Whether with torches or pencil, hammers or lathes.

I often ponder
what will become
of my room when I die?
Perhaps as I come back
to bid farewell....
I'll leave a piece of my soul to guard it at night

Alone by a wharf
Peaceful yet forlorn
Wishing I could morph
To mask how badly I'm worn
Wish I was strong
The way I used to be
But where I am, is where I belong
The pain will pass, there'll be jubilee
But first I have to crush the glass of the once before chary and elusive me

so many different ones
that i chance to wear
so many that i have
decorated with care

there's my angry
for my stress
and my anxious
for my work
and my happy
for my friends
and my golden
for my family

sometimes they get stuck
and i cant get them off
and have to just keep acting
until i've forgotten
the face that lies underneath