two hundred-sixty two.

elimination of uncertainty.

we don't

i don't

she don't

he don't

they don't

want

ambiguity.

save it for the

flooded streets

and the crowded malls

- where it'll dissipate and

fade away and it'll make sense

in its own current state - it'll hold

true to its significance,

ambiguous.

monthly movements.

august,

you have thrown me a curve ball.

i can't seem to catch it. my palms are too small, too weak to grip it.

can you leave the credibility of my words (of my emotions) alone?

i don't want them to start fading the same way your days do.

be easy. be cool.

two hundred-sixty one.

pulsate.

i begin to worry

when i can hear

and feel my pulse.

it feels abnormal,

surreal, almost like

a malfunction in my body.

i get a little weary

when i can hear and

feel my pulse, bounce.

the art of, patterns.

the prints that are inside of the patterns are what flatter me. what keep me. what leave me. what come to me. what attract me. it's the prints that are in the patterns. and if only i could create my own pattern that communicated something new to you, to them, to us all, that has never been seen or known or touched before, i'd give it a try. i'd like a pen that scribed new patterns for my mind to understand each day, that is creative. that is free. that is spontaneous. i love solids, don't get me wrong. but they don't excite me the same way the the prints inside of the patterns do. because they are so bland. so mundane. always communicating the same thing. that's why i swim in an oasis of love located in the middle of the desert, where i can't be found, where the prints that are inside of the patterns cannot be found. it's beautiful out here. in here. and i would blast the moon with star bullets if someone would even dare try to take away the patterns that drip from my newly created felt tip pen. i would create them with feathers and pieces of the cloud to distinctly formulate prints that are inside of the patterns that no one will ever know, that they never knew. just be honest. how long do you think i could go on about the difference between the prints that are found inside of different patterns and solids? forever may not meet the tip of my tongue.

patterns are like habits, they repeat themselves. but if i could create this pattern, it would break the reputation of bad habits, bad patterns. life is worth living.

two hundred-sixty.

work to do.

she's learned what's best for her.

he can't accept it.

so, he manipulates and he plays.

and she moves further and further away.

she's loyal to her lessons, won't forget 'em.

each day gets better, slowly, she forgets him.

two hundred-fifty nine.

the story of a girl we knew.

she's thinner than she'd like to be.

her heart thrusts through her ribcage

and she can see its shape up against her skin,

she's so thin - and she wonders why , she hates

looking at herself in the mirror and wonders why

her body was made to see all of her insides, and

she understands why people can read her through her

eyes because she's transparent, she's thin, like the wind.

and she can't keep her food down, her mouth is the

crown of her volcano and from it erupts the disgust

she takes in each time she has a meal , it's violent.

how can she love herself?

will she ever love herself?

'09.

your mind ...

two hundred-fifty eight.

ˈhīˌko͞o : six.

you are too much of

everywhere that i don't want

you to be. please. leave.

EVERYDAY, I'M HUSTLING.

two hundred-fifty seven.

love poems; III.

lovers touch,

lovers speak,

lovers laugh,

lovers think,

lovers hold,

lovers wait,

lovers walk,

lovers dream.

privacy, please?

two hundred-fifty six.

wasteful whispers.

don't believe the scandalous whispers

that find way to your virgin ears - that

whisper ideas and drive you closer to fear.

she would rather take that ride than to experience

the joy that has been set apart for her, especially

and uniquely for her - she'd rather ride to fear.

don't believe the scandalous whispers

that find way to your virgin ears - that

tell you ways to mischieve and deceive

the truth that your heart feels, wants, longs for and desires.

what you know is what you know, that of which you trust and

Who you trust. let the Truth see you through.

two hundred-fifty five.

melodrama surpassed.

he says he doesn't want to use you

to be his muse, his inspiration - - -

so he pauses, takes a second to sit back

he observes the situation, this moment

he takes his hand, carves a moon-shaped

crescent inside of his chest in an attempt

to collect the organic passion he feels for

her. for you. this is new. and he doesn't

want to use you as his muse, no. he is

filled with a raw and untouched love -

now, and he wants to serve you with it,

freshly delivered from the crux of his -

heart - oh, love. just relax. just trust.

me gusta viajar.

my weekend , this is .

some day, this will be my life.