I sat

She walked in,
Ass jiggling from here to Milan,
Like Boom the room’s doom zoomed
and sat in the corner chair.
We stared, Impolitely and inconsiderately,
But she resumed consuming the gloomy room
in her chair, crash.
She, covered in splinters,
laughed heartily and heavily breathing,
Boom, cackle cackle, Boom Boom,
The floor shook, her ass cracked the linoleum.
We were confused,
The reasons why raced in our head,
Grab a broom; clean the room,
Boom Boom.
She sat. Her stench began to wallow,
wafted towards our direction,
the perfume of doom, oh the fume,
consumes us in our demise.
We stand, respectfully, walk to the door,
Boom,
Rattled floor, she follows,
We fling the door to freedom, and begin to jog,
Boom Boom.
Our feet fumbled from the vibrations.
I fell to the floor, Boom Boom,
I shuttered and looked up at her face,
But only saw my tomb,
Boom,
the tomb I assume would consume
My body and soul in Boom
One entire gulping
Boom
scream my mind doomed to be the groom
Boom of death,
I sat.

Spotlight

Before us lay darkness,

Like a moth to a flame we flutter

Helplessly into the direction of it

And dance melodically to persuade it

To entice it to dance with us

And flicker and grow 

To love us with the passion of itself

We fly dangerously close

Willing to burn our own wings

Blind ourselves with extreme brightness

Overheat with exhaustion 

To catch just the eye of it

Which we never would have noticed

Had there been no light in the darkness

And as soon as it shows itself

It extinguishes and disappears

And we forget it ever existed

Soledad

I had in my head the most powerful phrases and anecdotes to convince the world that I am getting screwed over.  In my head, it was just a pounding rhythm like rain across the hood of your car and the occasional thunder off in the distance and a brilliant flash of light.  It would have convinced you that I am getting screwed by the world.  And then as I began typing it, it seemed more like a cry for help than a persuasive argument.  It sounded like high pitched whines in a nursery with no melody, just bleeding ears and pain.  So I kept scratching the lines, picking the scabs of the paragraph and was left with a blank sheet.  Just a giant white box with nothing to fill it.  I thought to myself, well maybe then I am really not being screwed as much as I think.  Perhaps I just want to make sense of the little things with big explanations.  And then all I am left with is myself.  Solitude.