Gifts.

At the intersection of life,
I crossed my heart and hoped to live.
No stranger to pain or strife,
I accept life is a gift.

At first, grief was like a knife,
sharp enough to create rifts.
Until I saw the light,
I accept life is a gift.

On clear days or dark, stormy nights,
whether in wealth or in thrift,
I will not succumb to fright;
I accept life is a gift.

I will not flee, but I will fight,
so that my consciousness will shift,
ignore my urges to take flight,
I accept life is a gift.

Panacea.

My lungs fill with water,
I am struggling to breathe,
but instead of fighting,
I hold my breath, then count to three.

Wrestling my demons underwater,
darker down here than above ground.
I hear the great big sea around me,
but still feel the disconnect.

I am no stranger to conflict,
born to battle to prove I deserved a place.
Unfair though for you to ask me,
when I am not the reason why I am here.

Caged in imaginary wire,
tangled in invisible thread.
Cautious even as I kept playing with fire,
burnt to a crisp but barely dead.

Panacea could not cure me,
I am as real as porcelain.
As I float in and out of consciousness,
one treacherous side of me remains living.

Button eyes refused to see reality,
in denial of our failure to survive,
bordering on suicidal,
despite the doctor’s opinion that I am fine.

My body can no longer create moisture,
parched now from a history of crying sheep.
Crystalline and diamond teardrop shapes,
form in my tear ducts instead now then crash into my cheek.

I refused to pledge allegiance,
to this empty vessel I have become.
More numb than anesthetized gums,
laughing gas is not even fun.

It’s so easy for you to leave me,
back here where you once also belonged.
But how much more can I pretend,
it’s you and not me that keeps me here.

Lost & Found.

I need to wake up from my slumber,
this coma has robbed me of progress.
I am drunk and high although I’m sober,
floating through life, like I'm in a bubble.

Ready to move on now,
but my feet refuse to touch the ground.
My teeth shiver betraying my cover,
as my speech is intentional, despite this stutter.

Anxious heart of mine is a flutter,
afraid to finally move on.
And although, I’m ready to go,
I just can’t touch the ground.

More silent than a whisper,
more sacred than all the saints;
the less I have, the less I feel,
until my head remembers it holds a brain.

Running on empty, ambition is my gasoline,

soon it will abandon me, 

and I will need to remember 

the man I was meant to be.

Drowning out of water, 

my lungs fill up with air,
and I let go, count to three and breathe, 

then say a prayer.

"Dear God please let this be,
let my feet finally hit the ground,
Lord, I'm so tired of running,
it hurts so deeply that I can hardly make a sound."

Yesterday has lost its comfort,
the future still fills me with fear,
unless I make peace with my present,
I will just stagnate here.

Caged in a prison 

made of invisible wire,
my own imagination 

is what keeps me locked up.

And so I fight to find the words,
my strength has convinced itself that it is weak;
so I stay staring at shadows,
still too scared to sleep.  

Every corner I encounter,
conceals deeper meanings that I evade,
lessons that I have learned but keep repeating,
call me like voices from beyond the grave.

Forget phantom limbs,
I have a phantom life,
it resonates through the corridors,
the empty halls of my mind.

Silence can be deafening,
when it bounces off buildings and walls,
but all I need is some relief,
and for my feet to touch the ground.

How do I know I haven’t blown my chances,
that my demise has not already arrived?
It can seem so daunting when I play my best hands,
only to continue questioning if I've survived.

Am I in a state of limbo, or is this purgatory?
What have I done to stay trapped inside,
this sanitarium, this senseless factory.
I can feel myself drifting, drifting away from me and you.

Falling too hard and flying,
much too fast to catch myself,
I shoot across the horizon,
then slowly fade from black to blue.

I am a self-fulfilling prophecy of a black hole,
devoured in portions
though none of my parts
can be consoled. 

Aging quicker than 

ever before now,
as the sole of my left foot 

scuffs the soft sandy ground.

Granted another chance 

to make it count,
I will be renewed, instead of wasting time 

just chasing after love.

Slowly I acclimatize until
I am emboldened once again,
this is the part where I jump start my heart,
and hit the ground running. 

Divination.

My beloved,
your fragrant spirit seduces my soul,
sending it soaring through the
sun-kissed sky.

I dance intoxicated,
bathing in your beauty.
At whose feet shall I prostrate
in appreciation?

Whose ears have earned praise
for placing your hand in mine?
I sail six, and seventy seas on a whim,
chasing rumours you are an island.

Twirling towards ecstasy,
tumbling over my attraction;
coasting on caresses that
collide into me.

I locate you inside
the canvas where
my subconscious
paints its dreams.

Behold the broken shards
which I clumsily pieced together
craving comfort;
they come crashing down.

Awestruck by the sight
of your crystalline containment.
Sparkling, your eyes lead me
on a journey into your mystery.

That is where I locate your appeal;
it brandishes me in blessings.
Hark! Herald angels sing
your heart's songs.

They reveal all your secrets
which somehow replenish
ensuring you always remain
an anomaly.

An enigmatic Madonna-like muse,
innocent as the allure
of virgins;
devoid of sin.

Carried away, I stumble,
over my own two eager feet,
eternally racing in your direction,
until I faint, complete.

Whether you stare into my skin,
or scream at me in starry silence,
I stutter from
your sensuality.

I lose my sense of self.
Soothe my seething sorrows,
your touch enough
to heal my aching pain.

Possess my pores
with your pleasures,
wrap yourself
inside my blissful sighs.

I am enhanced by
your obfuscation
inveigled, sensation is
now worth celebrating.

Survivor.

Pink orchids stand guard by the window
on this sombre Sunday morning,
silently expressing their sympathy,
like sorrow's sullen soldiers.

Today, this day, no visits were paid,
for all she craved was solitude.
Long gone are the fleeting moments;
time so rarely used.

Sighs filled every corner
of this solitary room,
staining the wallpaper yellow;
clouding the air with gloom.

Remnants of stickers marked with names
remain affixed to the heavy door;
reminders of her sisters,
who had suffered through this before.

Initially, her diagnosis
stole her femininity,
until she persevered, survived,
and resilience reclaimed her dignity.

One's body is not the sole testament
to their womanhood,
their experiences scream louder than
superficial features ever could.