Poem

Of all rulers and pruney moneymen, in decades and centuries decide to rule the world, for them, by them, and of them — Duping Coalescing all that is tangible, perceivable, and recognizable; all spirits end underneath a tree of luxury, robust imagery, and a priest who jails the priestess in the form of the divine. …

I think I was born with a piece of my soul missing, That’s my main theory, at least Other people seem to have been made for living I appear to have been born a different beast. Other people flirt and romance with, so they say, a spark I sound like a bad actor saying their…

An invasive species With thick ranks Religions and races deep They’ve plundered this planet Stripped it to its bones Whilst standing in thrall To the minerals they have mined The vampires multiply And cross vast oceans To be invited ashore By their colour revolutions A gluttonous feast As their celestial victim runs dry For the rose once plucked Withers in the hand

Each day when I walk in the hood. I try to do something good. For many nails in the street, I sometimes see. And it becomes very clear to…

A morning epiphany — One morning, I woke up and realized struggling to be a great writer is useless. Of course, I denied it, but then I thought — Should I believe this epiphany and not even try? And would it be best if I resigned myself to swim in the sea of mediocrity? …

A Tanka Poem — near her golden hair my little heart was pounding without being heard we were just seven years old amidst garden primroses

I never intend to bar the gates. Rather, I seek a secluded path. A lone wolf prefers solitude's balm, conceals peace behind protective walls. Always vigilant, like a fortress tall, guarding the fragile chambers he calls his own. Please don't misconstrue, kind wanderer. Welcoming guests is not my element. When you venture close to explore, I become phantom, fading to deflect. So, if you ever choose to tarry elsewhere, I shall learn to abide with the void.

by Derco Rosal between bodies of strangers and acquaintances we were pulled towards an arm-close encounter in vogue eyeglasses, sling bag, beige trousers, short-sleeved polo, and white shoes: you wore them all black sando, paints spilled on kimono, aqua blue trousers and worn out faux rattan sandals: i wore these…

life just might be good — just enough of salt and honey going down a turning of all skin into a fingerprint to touch, a mark leaving dent in space, in time a coming together and apart of all the colors in black and in white too, what is between a going up not without a going down to nowhere…