Black hole sun.

I am guessing there’s a constant.
Some sort of repeated beat
that falls in between words
Arousingly erotic,
marking the rhythm.

There must be
some sort of coherence,
A string pulling out the photographs
On a stalkers wall. 

Some sort of trail.
Some sort of clue.
Something I’m not seeing.

But I also believe I
just got to used to it.
(and I refuse to blame my ears for this)
But I’ve lost my ability to listen to it.

I’ve lost my ability to hear
My own driving beat.

You know, I’ve been called a star before. That I shine bright, maker of my own light, they said.

And I might have burst into a bold supernova and became a black hole.

I absorbed my ability to shine.
Or sound. Or beat. Or rhyme.

I clinged to the idea of
listening to the sound of others
until I found my way again,
but it just won’t do.

What’s the point of lurking out of others drive,
just to remain silent, avoidant.
Where’s the line between not interfere and being a coward?

If you improvise a poem in space,
And there’s no atmosphere
to transport the sound…
Is there a poem at all?

If there’s a poet in the void,
and not a soul or air to breathe,
is there a poet at all?

Two rivers make a lake.

Even through the rain
of stars and wonder
our fears drops, madly,
without asking for permission
just like a tear.

One does not ask for crying
(well, you can, but, this is not the point i’m trying to make)
a person just cryies and
continue crying,
till the crying stops.

Well we didn’t ask for fighting, but
life itself feeds on us.
Like a river
we put ourselves in the way so
people can drink and feed from us.

But we don’t have to be rivers,
or at least we can be poisonous ones.
We can be poisonous rivers who join into a lake,
without fear or take
for the world to see.

We don’t ask for fighting,
but as rivers we drag our worries
our sadness
and even madness
to the lake,
without wanting it,
or asking.

I do not ask for your forgiveness,
for all I drag behind…
I just ask you to join me,
on the making of a lake
so vast and unmensurable,
that we can drawn or sadness,
even our madness away.

And when the lake is too big for us,
we can go back being just two rivers,
draging what the lake has left behind.

That, or that i just love and i can’t say shit without making it poetry.

A poet .

I’m a poet,
not a fighter.
So when I do fight,
i shoot words.

I use lipstick as warpaint,
and my lips as a gun.
Move my tongue,
pull my trigger,
I’ll strike all your erogenous zones.

I’ll make love to depression,
coal with opression,
i’ll get drunk to happiness
or love.

I’ll make you shiver
just by putting a tone.
I’ll bleed for you, scream for you,
and confess for all the sins
you haven’t made yet.