What’s tragic?

Is I’m alone, alone forever.
Alone without hopes,
Lavished and manic.

No amount of physical pain could overcome the emotional one.
A lifetime of scars carries within the heart.
A burden for everyone
To star and take start.

The scalpel, I don’t care, cut me.
Open and drain me of the collection of pus.
I won’t make noise, flinch or fuss.
I’m hardened, not pompous like a cold rich man’s pardon.
I’m alone, a solo known rose in an empty garden.

These tears raging hot and steamed mean nothing
Like easy money.
They’re just thoughts stuck in unfurnished dreams
Running ugly.


Breaking Night Bike Travel


There was something infectious about that bike ride in that dark night, the glutton for scenery, swallowing trees, east river and city lights with wide eyes.  There was something contagious about the fear of putting myself in another’s care, allowing them to be tolerable of me, testing their patience along with every dirt rock of the road, every bump that went thump, every crack in the concrete checking my maneuvers, balancing acts, wheels and brakes.  And the freedom, the wind running through my hair, my thoughts escaping my face, the way I didn’t own a worry or a care for time or space.

There was something transmittable about how he whispered in my ear and brought his voice low, a mischievous bass echoed in my pulse and made my body flow brilliant.  The light caresses, stare glared growls, courting my form, squeezing muscles, not a thing accidental.  But I wished it were.  Who would have known what could have occurred?  There was something about perception being misplaced in the past and what is here and now.  How intuition skips you something experimental and presentations fall apart because personal connections turn into inappropriate intentions. Why set a bar high as the star when what will be will be naturally taken above?

There was something about constantly falling in love over and over again and the total opposite of such destruction.  There was something about idea sharing and bullying imposing.  The way he spoke like he was sure of me.  The way he mentioned my ex and wondered what made him him, and would it be possible to ever replace him?  I answered him like a human in a bind missing its phantom limb.  He asked because he wanted to be extra sure of himself, a possible bigot.  But how can anyone swim over the heart that sees nothing but the day the world of love and light went grim?