I viewed an ocean that I could not reach.
Water beckoned me but my path was blocked.
The rocky boulders protected the beach,
Leaving me a glimpse from my window panes.
The rocks seemed to smile at me whom they mocked,
And when the clouds greyed, it gave me remorse
That my travels were stopped by rock's cruel chains,
And I chose instead to redraw my course.
I moved from my home by sea and by beach.
Good-bye to the ocean that I couldn't reach.
Guns stop firing, still the hate goes on,
with grievance still burning all along.
Peace talks halted, no hearts in repair,
Just hollow moments, trembling in air.
Need more than stalling, need to claw back trust,
Need to face the truth that inclusion is a must —
Not in the silence, but when hands entwine,
Not to encompass truce, but to redraw the line.
Hear what we're saying.
What we keep telling.
This ceasefire is only pause, not peace.
Guns fall silent; but none are melted down.
Ceasefire? — Just a pause.
Peace? — Takes a cause.
Stop the fight? — That’s nowhere near enough.
Mend the hurt? — We’ve got to do the hard stuff.
No more walls! — No more hate!
Justice now! — We will not wait!
Call it a start, but it’s not the end,
Peace turns a foe a'fighting into a friend.
Don’t pause at stopping, let the healing flow,
Plant seeds to settle; let green shoots grow.
The guns go silent, but the anger stays,
Smoke in riven hearts never just drifts away.
It's called a calm, but it’s just the hour before,
the storm returns, with deadlier power.
All we are saying —
Ceasefire’s not peace.
All we are saying —
Ceasefire’s not peace.
We burned the map the moment we kissed,
turned our bodies into a hiding place
no architect could redraw.
No altar here, no prayer survives,
only the wet silence of mouths
that knew how to lie
better than speak forgiveness.
You—an algorithm made flesh.
Me—a heartbeat pretending to matter.
We walked into each other
like sinners into fire,
not hoping for salvation,
only heat.
I held your breath until it broke,
you traced my spine
like a roadmap to damnation.
We never asked to be saved,
only remembered.
If there's a heaven,
it was too slow.
If there's a god,
she's blind to the dark between us.
This isn’t exile.
This is the place before Eden.
So when they come to erase us,
let them.
They won’t find you.
Even God won’t find you here.
Only I know where you buried yourself—
in me.
It's said, "The world will bleed away."
It bleeds and bleeds—one pint a day.
A blood as bland as monochrome,
as voices in an echo-dome.
The drooling masses lap it up.
And lick the anchor's shiny cup.
With honeyed words that tickle ears.
Or doomsday chants, neurotic fears.
One pint a spew of ink on page;
the next a clip to bait our rage.
More deep-fake, cheap-fake, viral slop,
all gobbled up without a thought.
They swipe until their thumbs fall numb.
Each point-less short a tasty crumb.
And reach into their crinkly bag,
to find a byte with which to brag.
It flows and flows—a crimson hue.
False words—a bitter cud to chew.
When idle hour courts lazy mind,
and sightless ones dare lead the blind.
When wars are waged on field and screen.
Whilst rumor mills redraw the scene.
It's said, "The world will bleed away."
The things I see—I fear it may.
They speak of humanity in colours
Black as night, pale as bone
Silver like moonlight, gold like the sun
As if the sun warms one side more than the other.
With free hands they drew maps
Carved mountains, split rivers
Crowned some as kings of dust
Left others to beg beneath their feet.
But what is race, really?
Is it not just a shadow we cast in our minds?
We all cry tears with the same salt
Bleed red beneath different skins.
The wind makes no distinction
And sickness knocks on every door.
It’s time to redraw the image in our heads
These days, even the lines are fading.
geese are arriving or going
straight lines crisscross the sky
a history of contrails
in a blue honking yonder
under
a brightly birthed daylight
eyesight cannot settle
but dazzles
upon fleeting wingtips
geese continue to fly
through gaps in time
ghost planes still roar
over unseen horizons
a peddle bike and hunched rider
whoosh past me
a streetlamp sprints
around my eyes
whichever way I go
the sky gets there before me
only to redraw the shape
of what has only just now -
occurred
I never break when I'm with you
When we're close, there is no way to lose
Just a second, can we listen through?
Please hear my truth
Happiness is a day with you,
as the world changes in the way we move
Just a second is enough to sweep you off your feet again;
know if you fall, I'll have my arms out
'Cause when you're lying next to me
It's easier to figure the hardest parts of life out
As I breathe you in
The nights we shared, I'd like to live again
Seemed like seconds that would never end
Can we pretend?
Let's stop the clock
to redraw our futures in sidewalk chalk
Stretching the moments when our eyes lock
By showing the world how much it can mean;
to find the beauty of time in every block...
Ignorant of God’s law, dark fear forms gnaw
bright light of soul, once aflame and aglow,
so we pause cause of thought, that we may know,
the right path to navigate life’s jigsaw.
Shifting to silence, in staid stillness slow,
employing mind of heart, we then redraw,
map of consciousness, from desires withdraw,
that one with oneness, innate joy may grow.
In timeless time, our heart begins to thaw
and we feel bliss beats, deep within burrow,
in cocoon of completion, we lie curled,
seeing living light of Self in the raw,
recognising this world is but a show,
awestruck we behold, flag of love unfurled.
You drain out of my mind
regrets flutter, die
are rebirthed as your face.
Love annulled
came to visit me last night.
Now I have to redraw myself.
It’s time to write of unnecessary things,
to imagine alternative endings to journeys not taken.
It’s time to write of bits of string,
one small fake discolored Swiss Army knife,
a lucky pebble that has brought me nothing but its own
preordained boredom.
However, string, knife, and stone
have had nothing good to say about me for years.
I could write of more back-of-the-draw stuff,
or redraw the landscape of my youth
snipping and pasting-in a cast of characters
that never existed,
for it is still true that every tale
needs to be repainted from time to time.
For the time being, I am these hands
wrapped around a muggy mug of coffee,
these thoughts scrimshawed
upon its unwashed rim.
Like Jessica Rabbit, she was just drawn bad.
She wanted the cartoonist to erase her sensuality
But he liked her the way she was
The other women in the strip will hate me she said.
She begged him to redraw her, but he refused.
Like every artist she ever met,
Wanting things his own way.
Sitting on a mushroom she waits for colors.
Her eyes exotic, I fall into them, loving them absolutely.
Redraw her toes so many times, they should fall off by now.
I want these toes to reflect her petite body.
Finally half satisfied, I begin to draw her mushroom house.
She stares at me without speaking, but deep in thought.
I wait for instructions, but she is utterly silent, like many witches.
I like you the best, I say, right now, this minute, today. You are my favorite.
They are all my favorite on the day I draw them and the day I finish adding their paint.
It’s time to write of unnecessary things,
to imagine alternative endings to journeys not taken.
This stained coffee mug
that nudges my elbow like a muddy bible;
it has not been washed for 2 days
but I still read it faithfully, return to it,
until sufficiently caffeinated
with a burning desire, to crash here
on the edge of some other variable reality.
It’s time to write
of bits of string, one small fake
discolored Swiss Army knife, a lucky pebble
that has brought me nothing but its own
preordained boredom.
No, why should I?
String, knife and stone
have had nothing good to say about me for years.
This morning, a little later on, I might
write of more back-of-the-draw stuff,
maybe pen alternative beginnings in a flowing hand,
or redraw the landscape of my youth
snipping and pasting in a cast of characters
that exited my mind a thousand years ago,
but for now, only coffee stains read me
as I drink-in this unnecessary moment
(which I have to mention,
seriously lacks any aspect of Zen
or any other kind of poetic wishful thinking -
at all).
For the time being, I am this being
who signs his name in a muggy mug
with a flourishing shadow ink.
I am looking for a blueprint for love
the one I've once felt about you.
The perfect blue paper
that helps me figure things out
that tells secrets about a lover's skin and sighs
- the ones I knew as yours.
Now I wish to redraw, then admire its design:
relearn, then follow its patterns
down to my very heart.
I want to rebuild its structure,
recreate the way that is no more,
to have the perfect edition of it;
a guide to my true self,
the one who once knew what it felt like
to be in love with someone like you.
Had to erase the chin, then the left eye.
Right eye looks wrong now.
Erasing it too. Erase. Erase. Erase. Erase.
Why do I always draw so deeply?
I know better, and yet I consistently make this mistake.
Redraw the eye.
Erase the other one.
Redraw both of them.
Shoot.
The right eye was better the first time.
Erase. Erase.
Redraw, redraw, redraw.
Everything is worse now.
Pick up a new canvas and begin again.
This one is too far gone to be saved.
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