My desire loses me.
I want I want but I will be had
regardless.
I will belong to you.
I will take you in and assume you as me.
When you fill my body,
you spear straight through to the heart
and suddenly
pain is pleasure,
violence is pleasure,
death is birth is pleasure.
Have me.
Use me.
I belong to you.
Every twitch of your thighs, your arms, your lips
is my pleasure.
Every moan of your pleasure, your desire, your climax
is my utter obliteration.
My mind loses to something
and becomes empty but clear,
a pure pool for you only to swim,
and I am fascinated
by losing myself as I become us.

Pour my future in the bottle

to replace its wine that now runs as blood.

I was told flowers would sprout,

but the colors never came

from the brown of mud.

Oblivious Springs sauntered by joyless years,

oblivion courtesy of bittersweet beers.

For the strength to raise one heavy chin,

I spent instead raising ten bottles of gin.

My beautiful flowers, my promised colors never came,

so I sleep or wait and play a drinking game.

How blurry and funny can I paint the air

before my condemned dream no longer cares

The lost boy

found the fountain of

winter mornings.

He tasted then drank until quenched

but found that satiety

was false.

The lost boy found his need:

Winter mornings,

deep and white,

forever trembling between her lashes.

Well, the blizzard hums,

have you ever been inspired?

has misery every felt you?

have you ever laughed?

Yes, the blizzard hums,

that ache in your breast is a souvenir, a postcard of proof

from love itself

dated from your birth, corners stamped with a mother’s kisses,

dated from your favorite class, edges singed with the first flickering of passion,

dated from your multiple memories, surfaces marked with strangers’ generosity.

Yes, the blizzard hums,

look out upon my snow and appreciate your sight–a forgotten miracle,

look out upon my gusts and feel loving arms melting over you recalled at will–memories,

look out upon my frigidity and feel it in you–alive and warm.

A time to appreciate the forgotten blessings of being alive. Life is too short to question love. I must remember to embrace it in each flurry and blizzard.

Thoughts swell to near frenzied obsession
only to sigh out
into the mental oblivion.

Swell, and sigh.
Swell, and sigh.

Insomnia, especially, induces
the mind’s quiet rhythm
to hyperventilation
and even enlists the heart’s loudness.
If only we could break insomnia’s insistence
on filling that space beneath the skull.
But in this madness, I remember
the mind is breathing, albeit
with crashing swells and subtle sighs.

The mind is still breathing,
and I am thankful
I am still alive.

For those Xangans who might be curious, I started medical school a few months back and I’ve been super busy. I wish I could write more, but it’s difficult even to get leisurely reading inbetween all the studying. This poem is a tribute to pre-exam anxiety. Yay! Now back to studying for my 3 part final on Monday.

http://www.economist.com/node/21564511

@myhomeiswriting

Our sliver of venn,

overnight, waxed a full moon.

Two lives become one.

Spoken is surrender.

Between syncopes and seizures,

comas and convulsions,

the organ oscillates on

the outcome of this love.

At times, temptation tears

at fear, my fortress.

At times, analysis appeals

to acts of aloofness.

For now the defense holds,

love and heartbreak on the threshold,

but a dog’s bark may be enough

to call this feeble bluff.

Tonight, I skip across a night lake, toes barely touching the surface.

And the air ripples when I pluck at its liquid glaze. 

A desire strikes me. 

I want to see us in embrace, arms and legs entwined, consciousness swirling together like coffee and cream upon floating reverie.

How the night glitters for us in ways the day could never. 

How cool we dream in perfect suspension of space and time,

where snowflakes drift in a summer breeze.

We lucky lovers know what fantasy is, and tonight,

I sleep with you atop a lake we could never cross outside this reverie

to reach each other.