I don't want to know your name.
I don't want you to come inside.
I don't want to see you twice
unless there's business to be done.
I don't want to meet your friends,
or know your ideals, your dreams
you better keep with your change.
I don't care when it becomes personal.
Because I hate crying.
It's true.
I remember doing it every night
with every little story.
Now I know it's all a trick.
So I skip the parts that I know
that will see me hurt.
So, believe me when I say,
I hate crying for you.
It's not fair, man.
I have to cry to forget.

(RIP, Golden Girl.)

I entertain my demons in private parties.
They show up for tea & stay for the feast.
I wonder if ever there's a time they do not exist.
But I guess at some point I needed them to live.

They pick the bones, sing little songs & merry all around.
I wonder if I should ask them to stay until dawn.
They jeer & snicker & point out all my facade.
Then I'm alone again wondering what I did wrong. 

1.

The artist's responsibility
is following life wherever it may lead.
And to create life outta that humanity
without judging anything.

2.

Never had a morning like this before,
sunbeams gently warm,
illuminating the sanctity of this polarizing world
then lick, sweeten & heal the wound.

Birds belting out the sweet perfume.
They know nothing but the truth of earth.
Give me a moment to reap the reward.
It's moment like this I was waiting for.

3.

Sometimes, it's better not to pluck a chord
and let the silence do the work...

I dreamt I could play the piano.
Melodies, symphonies pouring outta me.
Then I woke up to be dumb & forgetful.
A sufferer of bouts of poetry.
Maybe something still won't flow.
All stops & starts inside my head.
Wishing for the confidence to be whole.
Not quite sure if it will be safe & sane.
I wish I could play the piano.
And sing for the heart-aching souls.
Can't help but reject the sentimental.
"It's not original, all played out & sold."
 What good is a piano made outta wood.
Taunt strings ready to strike sounds hollow.
Still I play the piano with scores old.
Something about them helplessly beautiful.
It's to be played when truly alone.
Someone overhears, it dies & be reborn.
When the keys pressed it's the ultimate quiet.
Under the cover hides thunders & hurricanes.
All the players grudgingly dwelled then left.
Maybe next life I will have the steady hands.  

I solve you like an equation.
NP-complete just need an equivalence.
Finding the family of known complements.
Adding up the sum of the differentiations.
What's a soul in the grand scheme of things.
However big or small in a fractal dream.
Where the Xs & Ys find their roofs & ceilings.
Watch the pen traces out the local optimal.
Whoever awed by infinite decimals.
Whatever helps to grasp the imaginary.
Still master of null but some odd fellows.

I really try hard to grow a heart,
but the road gets narrower & more dark.
Does every life ultimately knows its path?
Why is mine so distant as if lived from afar?
Things I'm wishing for I dare not have.
Dead-end to dead-end though have no regret.
Maybe a life drifted too far from the shore?
Always outside looking in wishing that I had.

It's all fun & games till someone burst a blood vessel,
or the sandstorm steals the apocalyptic show,
or the brain simply throws away the control
then maybe we will be on the same level.
Mindfulness, calmness & progress meaningful,
no place for reflection or the contract is null.
Feel something? "Oops, quick, change the channel!"
More ways to hell than there's God's people.
Vices, crisis, which ever the wind blows.
The most apt to disasters are the most successful.
It's all fun & games, just get at the table.
Just one shot & you're the shit & it's all so natural.