My skin is soft as yours

Tillandsia L.

Once there was a girl

tripped all over a boy

begging him to love

he stayed untouched

an inequivalent state of a tug of war

dark over light

sun over moon

unrequited 

I am a story teller

I tell stories through my actions, not words

a mime, or a clown

inward, essentially 

I love having stories collected

secrets on a deathbed

obsession of ideas of the obnoxious

love notes dispersed with the wind

enthusiasm concentrated at the front of dilated pupils

I pocket them soundly 

into my bloodstream, my rhythm

My collection of stories don't recycle

they emanate with my being

as solemn as a vampire

as flamboyant as Gothic architecture

I believe I've always pulled off a good show

my prospects well entertained

some stayed, some came back for more

they only care to be amused, and delighted

you see

My stories need not to be told

It is what I do that matters

sometimes when reflections overlay, I overspilled, side tracked and

started feeling for myself


I became an audience for my own fable and

empathized,

sorrow and ridicule of my own

every time I do,

I feel like dying


just so I could be given a new life





Helianthus L.

When she talks about him

her eyes sparkled

her thoughts so fluid

her body expressed

organic, altogether

there's no need to hide

you know what they say?


she's in love