In the Middle of a Stream on a Rock

Not one for idle looks, I, myself betook
To linking fine fancy onto fancy.
Through the rushing, bubbling brook,
I pondered questions, and answers sook-
Though the position precarious, and the deed so very chancy.

Mercy

Mercy
love mocks me and I laugh at its jokes
it is the only comedian and magician that can sell me the same act.
Every time, I pay the same price for a show I've seen before
I can sit through the same movie and still cry at the scene where she walks out the door.
It shows no mercy, even when you are clearly defeated and can take no more.
tell me I don't have a role In your dreams and put my mind at ease from the constant thought of you.
tell me that when you hear my name your heart doesn’t smile,

then mine will forget yours

tell me you can't see your soul through my eyes and that our fates are just coincidence

and I will abandon the concept of destiny and the belief of a soul.

tell me love has never been our religion and that we haven't used our minds as a temple,

and I will no longer be a monk of love, instead I'll find more comfort in being an atheist.

Tell me I'm not the sunshine in your paradise and you will destroy mine,

the harsh reality of your words will leave no room for sublime imaginations or fantasies conjured by you.
Love has in seemingly sadistic manner given me the ability to find peace in loving you. Yet in a beautiful contradiction, it makes me withstand a torture by not letting me have you as a lover.
I am a prisoner with the key to his cell
(blinded to the key hole with magic by love)
it's making me pay for a gift.
Blessed me with a curse.

Given me strength as a weakness,
pain as happiness, certainty with doubt.

I’m drained to the last of my resources,
no more artillery, no other defense, and the begging white flag of my ignored surrender, bandages my beaten heart.

How much longer must I withstand?....

.....give me mercy...

Paintings

Once, I tried to paint a picture of you,
With words. It didn't work.
Somehow my colors didn't reflect your light
In just the way I wanted.
Frustrated, I tried again to master my brush
And set it to it's task,
But forcing it only marred the picture,
And that - I couldn't have.
I finally had to tell myself that I had tried
To bridge two worlds.
For my hued words were but your simile,
My painting - Your doomed metaphor.

Remembering

Remembering,
it was the not knowing
and the tears that made me a poet.
I reminisce about my passive voice
that claimed all pains
and joys absolute,
alloting each emotion its century of existence.
It was my incorrect grammar
and my ability to love
and know what love was even inside
the black hole of my identity
that allowed my naked soul
to translate itself to verse-
And God would speak through
divine cracks in my rhythm.
It seemed that ruins derived the truths
of my infinite subtleties,
and my sadness was the dark matter
that kept the stars in place.