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when the winds of whim & woe 
threaten to whip and lay waste 
our weathered, winnowed vessel;

as emotional electrical storms erupt 
emitting intermittent lightning strikes, 
causing men and women alike to scurry home
to society’s cerebral shelters;

i am an anchor that tethers;

in a sea of scienter and temporal tempests
threatening to toss us to and fro at high tide,
against cragged, unforgiveable coral;

which, would we make its’ acquaintance,
would spell the end 
of all we love, hope and hold true, 
in other words - we’d die.

i plumb the depths.

rusty, crusted and stolid,
i am an anchor;

long may i anc.

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please stay


like oxygen to fire

sun to the earth

life to the heart


I will be consumed by your absence



and make me your home

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My best friend has fallen in love

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How long shall this winter last?

Vast ocean to ice.

At least your breath warms me.

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water drips from faucet

             distant motor sound


loneliness is unbearable

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24hours/7days a Week


Randomly I pick things off
like lint on my sweater
small things
that piss me off

the worker bee
giving it all
for the one
who makes
a drop by appearance
and is crowned queen

useless to bitch about
no one would care

but the lint balls
on my sweater
that reappear

wear and tear

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Over Exposed

You race
my blood

like apocalyptic rains

douse me
in fire
off your

my addiction
cryptic words
on display

is my mind
is this ride

like a secret
I have nowhere
else to hide

you expose me…

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Tarnished Pages

People seem to have this odd notion,

That all great writers and artists one day just get compelled 

To pick up a pen or pencil.

Oh! How are they wrong!

Sometimes you meet someone.

Sometimes you lose someone.

Other times you just hit rock bottom.

But you do not have a choice.

One day you'll wake up with ink covered hands,

Stained from all the words you've yet to write.

Or colourfully painted checks from all the tears,

You have shed during your sleep.

And you want to get them clean,

You need to get them clean.

You spend countless hours feverishly straining over a desk.

Desperately trying to rid you of those tints. 

But your filthy hands will never be able to touch a blank page again.


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Pais Tropical

Do you still remember

the eternal


you and I once



The balmy air


tropical trees,

your hair smelled like



Do you still remember

the sands between

our toes

and the blue ocean,


W  i  d  e


as it merged with the


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If you could treat diseases with beautiful smiles, she would have cured the world.


Her blue eyes were not made of ice cold ocean depths but morning skies in autumn.


She’s a daphne in a field of roses; she could give you a berry kiss. It'll kill you.


And if perfection wasn't rooted in opinion, she’d be the right answer.