This quarter is brimming with the restless,
So we rest in trust and truth,
As I profess to you my selfish mess.
My solitary thoughts mist in my reach,
I try to resist but my body creates a fist in each thirst quenching kiss.
You say you see me,
If you only knew,
What I cling on to so I can emotionally make do,
Through this cloudy blue.
My honesty cannot be accessed,
Unless we go abroad to convalesce.
Ah, I am forever a work in progress.
You are right,
It is a perversion of soul to find happiness only after there is darkness.
In my red lipstick, my mind at conquest, and in my loveliest evening gown dress,
The spotlight reveals my secrets and mental distress.
I express to others in aggress,
That I grew up without a return address, to your Palestine.
My name is my address, I guess.
All I can do is repossess my identity in every obsess and inner complex that is knotted inside my soul’s dispossession,
Of who I am, how I am and where I am.
Good morning, mourning.
But you can’t stay all day.
We hug and twist in a blessed, loved and freed unrest,
Told not to push or press, battle or repress,
But we do anyways.
We allow ourselves to strive against mediocrity and the ordinary.
For we are of the extraordinary, and our battle scars are now in holy matrimony.
These moments, well, they are no longer momentary.
We once buried our hearts in the solitary, pompous and portentous,
A living cemetery.
For now we find a home in the perilous matters of the heart’s waxing crescent,
And hope for many moons of merry.