A Color Quite Like JadeNo catharsisfor the art-addicted.A brain is taught to thriveon neoprene and sweeteners.Soft, lilted confections burn the stomach to molasses.Thoughts stick like flies in the glacier.Visible, but prisonerto the artificial feed.Synthetic clones will buzz and droneone day destined to churn outthe next great idea.Gobble and grovelat the pusher's mercy.
AdolescenseI think there's a thousand songs the wind tells me.The wind still whistles in my ear whenever I push up against it, as if reminding me how childish I really am. When I yell questions to no one in particular, except maybe God and anyone far away from my heart to truly listen, the wind sends back a copy of myself so I understand what they hear. They hear a child, wailing, lost, still pondering life as if she had just been alive for seconds. At the same time, I'm older than most children, and my voice grows more like my parents each day. "Adolescence," everyone tells me, but what I'm feeling now is more than just one mere word long.There's a
BITTER HERBIn the darkest seams of your immortal psyche,where the nude brushstrokes of pitch sweepsagainst the inside of your skull, where theEarth is deep with relics beaming timelessness,will you plant the seeds of Prejudice and Hateand fall so far beneath a fathomless shroudthat not even a bed of opium poppies couldawaken you from the death you chose to own?Will you empty your pockets of deboned sweetsand fill them with poultices of bitter herbs?Will you trade Love for Hell's Hate and Compassion for Bigotry and Blame? Will youfurrow your soul with dried Desire and theashes of Purity long cooled in a stream festeringwith promiscuous pois