I wish I were an artist. Trace your curvature of lines in vivid detail and remark on the thickness smooth lips as they intense with hues of graphite and stencil. Wish I could paint vividly. an encased reverie of just you and I to become we. oh, how I wish to be the stroke on your body and retrace its endings and firm beginnings, retold in pastels, water soluble paints and revamped historical perspectives. I only wish to capture the image of you. Recapture the soul and eyes of orbs encased in the human skull so hard to shift elements in globs of watercolor. tell tales of high cheekbones and broad shoulders free following of a pencil in raised eyebrows and sympathetic frowns. A white eraser clings nearby, swiftly chasing hopes and dreams, lines drawn dark holed black and now vanishing  in dematerialized crumpled portraits. -b.r.rivera Poem 22 of 30, April 2012 #30in30

This one particular man stands as prolific in my mind. Something about how the wild bird doesn't feel sorry for itself even in its frozen state. How secretly a broken wing challenges the raw Rocky-esque like stature the creature has. Screaming Adriiaaannnn!!!! with blackened eyes and sweat glistening from silken feathers. I don't know if I believe in such things. Here. Now. Sitting in chronic pain, barely able to move injured disks that stab burn stink in prolific meanderings. I mean, who can call their self an orange fiery flamed bird, beaten down by life and spit out in graves, turned to ash only to rise again? I am not that bird. That quiet, beaked, songstress. Attempting to flutter bloodied bashing's against a steel cage, minuscule perforations of seed scattered unto the recreated soil that can't fool earth. Self pity. Woe is me. The woe is me mentality framed in photographs where flight leaves the orbs of my eyes and ...

He loves me. We call this our secret place. our holy divine shining from the sky awkward and amusing feeling in the nook of your shoulder sacredness. here, I am hidden from all those that want to destroy me. you, my glorious prince and beautifully sun-kissed with no white horse but still defend me. and I want to live here. In this space. Forget about all time and dimension, hold unto a little sanctified beauty and lose my religion at the mere thought of you. He loves me not. We call it not seeing eye to eye. A fragment of losing control and too much stimuli. How raised voices become the ever present norm Cold shoulders and turned backs become the norm. here, I am the bitch you kick in the corner forgetting I snarl and bite back so who's to warn her of sleepless nights and insomnia filled moons Forget about everything and nothing and lose myself in doom at the mere thought of you. He loves me. We call this our beautiful beginning. Another day mark...

I want you in me. As me. I want to know all about you. Discover a little egocentricity and possible falsities that lie deep and are undiscovered underneath. I want to ripple your wave be the shadow replica of the movement in which draws your orifice into being. I want to explore you. Be the origin as navel (0,0) go across undiscovered planes and rudimentary shape shifting. You are beautiful. And I want to trace you. Draw little lines with my finger where ink hits upon warm skin supple fat and coarse stubble from 5 after 5 ante meridiem. I want to be your sunset. Force the colors across cumulus clouds and earth shattering hailstorms. Be the west end of equinox and its flaming orange and red bursting a fireball within you, as you. You are my truth. My beginning, and my end. You are the simplistic of words and the complexity of Babel, scattered tongues that all equate the same meaning. And I adore you. Want to sit front and center as your student Where...

he must be a god. Exhume him as a cartographers secret fetish twisting lines and deep curvatures as mountains stretch forth east and west. Ripples and valleys more. Much...much more. i am his center. Enveloped in the sweet moisture of his breath fuzzy memory of auditory beckoning shadow his reign over me. the unlike cliche of deep sound  where it meets vocal command even the whisper of him makes me listen. I hear him. Mouth and lips more. I listen. Cadence becomes undocumented synchronicity the mere parallel universe where I once escaped from emotional purgatory. Could you imagine a yell? His raising of octaves would command oceans to part and separate the seas from the salt of the earth, counting grains to become glass struck down from the result of the Heavens a faint sound to open ears. He's calling- and I come. No hesitance. No second thought or momentary lapse of indecision. He is so much more. he exists as truth, and I am his philosoph...

Does a hope inscribed begin with subtle little lines engraved in shallow letters and hardened dreams faced with cursive lines and silent pleasantries How can a borrowed memory Become a shadowed past Fuzzy with details distastefully described In purgatory of Jacob's Ladder Worlds collide and clash and within, I find lies.   When a love letter becomes a complaint Where two wrongs become a right falls play to victim and Heavenly Saint When excuses become statements fallen from the lips Where complacency holds no wrongs because ultimately ignorance is bliss Where entering a home becomes a hostile territory When opening a lock becomes synonymous with dread from the flick of a key Does hope inscribed begin with subtle little lines Shaped as certificates that mean nothing Rings that are not eternal and dreams that give birth to become woeful funerals Anniversaries as impending doom A interruption to something- A toast to life, raise your glass Two young lo...

I want to be your disruption. Your inner breathing of how you challenged natural selection The decision to hone in upon undefined chaos and internal stimuli. I am your squiggly lines on acid free paper Brainstorms in thunder and rain Freezing cold hail dropped on a desert reserved for miraculous sustenance. I want to be within you, as you. I want to ripple your waves and have the this and that of you stir up as a complicated recipe where grams are immeasurable and teaspoons come to the lips as a sweet indulgence of a kiss. I want to be your disruption. I want to eject the stillness of your enraged spirit cast fire on the doused flames and be your Phoenix rising. I want to dwell within you. I like how the hands of you move from tingles and electric buzz to raise goosebumps within a simplistic fuss. I am your confusion. Your hues of shades discolored from the past and penciled outside the lines with broad brush strokes. Have your ink dwell within my pen and your lines of...

I wonder who will read this. Who will get monumental cries dripped from the Heavens To lay by the sulfured remains of Hell's waste side. Who will read this. Gaze upon pix-elated ink under the glare of a screen Its dark humility a comfort in a shadow dancer's insomniacs dream. Who will be amazed? Who will challenge little bits of imagery. Call this syntax a piece of prose Break my onomatopoeias oomph with a frolicking woe. Who shall it reach? Does this poem expand the thunderous seas and parched desert? Does this poem include a cartographer's map and grid like balance on A1 and below the equator where tribes still dance by fire and languages fall short of communication? Who will love thee? Who will want to adorn their heads with this prickly crown Seek vengeance in words when it is not allowed be the rebel when no one wants to be speak to their demons face to face and spit in the face of their doom like hilarity? I wonder who will read this. Who will...

(Points) "This goes out to you...and you...and you..." Hey you yeah...you. Please hush the fuck up. Let me explain why your mediocre monotonicity meanderings prolifically flow throughout the entire region. How your ratchedness has begun to systematically attack this entire generation into writing backwards this and number 3's as "e"s and how your mouth is a ticking time bomb which I sympathize with. Let me explain how your Neanderthal comeuppance is nothing quicker than making it rain how you met in a club and how you rolling on Dubs' how your conversation is shorter than the stack of bills your holding how the gap between your legs should be gently folding Into the makings of a woman That attracts the likeness of man How he should respect thee by not addressing you as a female How hard dick is not a quick sell How sweet nothings without sour truths begets lies How your worth is more than hips and thighs. Let me explain. Explain how...

I heard you say my name. last night a pregnant moon hidden from shaded blinds  eyes frozen from auditory hallucinations  and it was you. I recollect tiny sparkles sprinkling in my ear a luminary shadow from the peeked tides gravitating toward you and I could feel your breath a past memory from cold windows and warm perspiration huffed on a glass, shadowed by a finger and  swirled into two opposing curves that create a heart figure. because two become one, if I stand corrected or the absolute truth defines circular thinking let him go, set him free if he is truly in love, he will come back to thee. Simplistic notions. Simply not an ocean we are divided across time and space a continuum that supersedes time zones and past lives sudden truths and hidden lies. i would recollect another memory but I'm sure that it was not meant to be. You keep coming. Invading. Creating space within me. I shove back a dream swirl it into a nightmare, paint pretty little demo...

Si yo fuera una mujer feliz, Yo exigiría que el mundo sea lleno de margaritas de Gerber. Luminoso y brillante re partiendo alegría en los rostros de encontrado a nadie que los pétalos. Para tener esta felicidad, Voy a disfrutar de la sencillez de los medios de los pétalos Arranca una Él me ama. Y otro,  Él no me ama. Cuando lleguen al final del tallo de la flor Yo pediría más pétalos. Aterricé en la pequeña frase que no me quiero repetir. él no me ama. Y tristemente, esta mujer feliz en el exterior llena la flor de lágrimas mojados, Visible pétalos de rosa y morado. Este pequeño rocío un recuerdo Que más del Cojo lo peor más se pone. Pero  yo adoro a poner esa flor en el pelo Pero esto es una flor media y la ira en mis pechos. Tener este espectáculo pétalo el marrón glaseado sobre mi piel. Los colores suaves y tonos pastan en las líneas secreto de mi cuerpo humano. Él me ama. Él no me ama. Lamentablemente, esta flor se ha quedado sin pétalos Y me ha...

I strongly believe that incompetence is in your genes. Strongly irritated and highly agitated, I must gather my strength past monosyllabic words and increase my swearing to about 1/3 of my verbal language as the idiocy entails my environment and drives me over the edge. i see stupid people. moronic plethora's of ignorance stacked with congratulations of reading to the innocent and condemning me for using "big words" while you continue to think that the a simple thing as a tree is a verb. hmm...must be a trend. A highly disguised passage of rites as one conceals their synapses out of spite and is it wrong of me to demand once in a while that conversation is swayed more than sex, because substance is my style drawn to not education but intelligence because even a dummy will know that you can be street wise with wit and come across with a swagger of intellect and as empty vessels make the most noise (as MomMom used to say) I have now taken upon her perso...