and the wind will blow
and you will drift
guided by chance
and an unseen Navigator  
like a ship on a raging sea
or a butterfly caught in the wind

just don't close your eyes

the light may be
too bright or too dim
the crumbling ruins
may fall hard
beside and inside you

but don't be found
holding tightly to the cocoon
when the metamorphosis
has long been completed.

It's insane, how alone lonely feels. It's truly one of those feelings that can not be done justice with words. Such a deep, empty feeling. It's elongating. Hollow yet heavy.
It makes you feel like you'll never connect with another ever again, albeit perhaps fleetingly. It's a feeling that makes you believe all of the voices it brings in tow.
A feeling so tangible, you can build a cocoon around yourself with the soft but slightly damp woolen material that falls over the walls of the maze of rooms that loneliness is.
A smothering cocoon, one you don't emerge from prettier but flightier. Harder to touch. To see. Impossible to tether. One whose easily burned by the light after so much darkness. But drawn to it regardless. And thus, covered in scars.

Butterflies spilled forth from her mouth,
Like the promises I’d only dreamt to ever desire,
          And just as heavily, entered the chains,
          Bags to promise scars atop soil, long walks.

So come the tilling, the cull and the harvest
When merchants meet maidens, ***** hands wave
          And having seen the second fracture,
          At least I could share in the shouldering.

But the butterflies, eventually to crisp and husk
Under sun, stench and eventual ends prior Eden,
          Dull blades and edges broken
          Like the backs of those that believed before;

She’d be granted her wings, her winds and pomp,
Like the nights in Matamoros had promised –
          Leaving me the luggage and at the least,
          A scent of what love could mean.

2 | 31 Poems for August 2016

A poem written by my heart so every single word you hear is a pulse.
I’m a literary writer living inside the mind of a spoken-word poet.
I still write beautiful words; you can ask Luyanda – even she knows it.
Things change, circles grow smaller, conversations get shorter and eventually hearts grow distant.
But I’m glad that Luyanda, Faith and I still manage to talk every now and then.
It’s sad to see that you’re not around, it’s like you just disappeared into thin air.
Still hoping that you’d call or text but you’ve probably lost my numbers by now.
If you’re willing to talk to me, I promise to listen like I always do.
You can count on me like an abacus, sounds cliché but you know it’s true.
Even if things don’t always go my way, I just hope that everything will be okay.
I’m learning to embrace a metamorphosis I was previously oblivious to.
It’s still no mystery why my aura will always long for the company of yours.
I’m a literary writer living inside the mind of a spoken-word poet.
I still write beautiful words; you can ask William – even he knows it.
Time is wasted so I patiently wait for the clock to get sober eventually.
Things change but I’m glad that William, Terrence and I still manage to talk every now and then.
It’s sad to see that you’re not around, it’s like you just disappeared into thin air.
Still hoping that you’d call or text but you’ve probably lost all touch with most people by now.

I. You
Aimlessly wandering this sphere of a world,
seeing it only in black and white like an old television -
soundless and dull.
The radio is spewing nothing but bad news;
in the evening comes the skull-cracking static.

You.
A non-believer, a heretic.


II. Her
Bellissima.
The fairest of them all.
A winged one; glowing.
Her soft fingers brushing against your face
makes you feel like a canvass carefully being painted on.
Her scent - daisies and safety.
Odd, but you are more than content.

III. You*
Aimlessly wandering this sphere of a world
have her palms as a map now and her face
as a guide to not be lost again.
The world sings more beautifully and every single thing is ethereal.
There is no more static.

You.
A non-believer, a heretic,
now knows how to say grace.

Getting progressively less aggressive yet
Regretting regressive Tendencies while
Obfuscating observations never rest at ease
Wherefore in the hell am I?
Introducing revolution of myself and higher
Notions of positivity, hope and resolution
Getting better at forgetting, and accountable Black Betty

Oh darling, keep me going on and going strong
Let me know and help us show the power in the now modality
Duality of reality, uncertain inevitability, love is the language spoken by the best one.
Every mess another lesson, every action an int(erv)ention
Required equilibrium, balancing of harmony.

Occupying other spaces, distant times of contemplation
Ragged lines dividing nations, abundant labels redundant reservations.

Becoming who we think we are exeunt what we believe
Every step towards a tepid order of a shorter quarter pounder to the ground
Taking one's self life as validity, intrepid sense of depth wrecked by anonymity
Tirelessly questioning, ticking box for poor & war decorum
Either tired or sick of fricking chrysalis, yet perpetual metamorphosis
Rampant maturation, semi millennial cycles of illumination. Falling floundering freedom of(f)light.