Poet.

And what you'll find is, your highness
Can paint a picture that is vivid enough to cure blindness
                                                       ­        - J. Cole, January 28th


And because they have never before seen a naked soul,
they ask me
if I am being deliberately provocative
with my pen.

And then I paint.

So that they too can undress
that mental amnion that has cocooned them
since birth; which itself became still-born
as it was followed by an undying funeral 
of parental expectations.

And then I paint.

So that they too can reclaim
that aborted clay and mould their burial
into gestation, and shatter
their amnion coffins
from the asphyxiating breath of non-existence
to the respiratory lust of Being.

And then I paint.

So that I too can remember 
that I am they. A victim
ejaculated into the darkness of lost light,
dreams deferred at birth;
who still focuses his pen on this canvas
to cure his own blindness, to see
and paint his naked soul before me,

which we then call Life.

Midnight Philosophy on Facebook.

Sometimes I like to wonder,

does my pen move

the same way as yours?

Does it

             dance?

Does it

             sing?

                        Does it

impel a grateful piece

of paper to smile,

and laugh out

tiny bubbles of its dream

to be admired in the Louvre?

Or does the paper bleed

angry droplets of deep-coloured

ink-blood from its ink-heart

from its ink-soul; or does it cry

little black tears

from its dark fountains of literature?

Does the paper feel

all of these things

as you sketch your last

line

or as I write my last

word?

What then, when every one of your pictures

makes words in the thousands?

How many more chunks of eternity

can you paint versus my poetry?

                    Yet you say I understand you.

Sometimes what you paint

flickers like in the movies,

and every frame

makes me wonder

if the way my pen moves

is just something someone animated

in her free time instead of studying.

Maybe then it wouldn't be too much

to say that sometimes

you sketch me into life.

Maybe then, this is why, sometimes

                    you say I understand you.

Even if I can barely hear your oxygen

over the noise of glittering pixels

that often disappoint us when we seek

more

than these strange profundities online,

where emotion is a commodity

and not ink... not paper...

It doesn't matter.

Because maybe my pen

was sketched by you.

And maybe

your poetry, your art

Dances. Sings. Smiles.

Laughs. Bleeds. Cries.

                                     Breathes.

                    So you can as well.

Happy Birthday Bianca! Thanks for always being fun.