Ns wat901

The past cried its last tears,

and all of those miseries

left my head a day ago.

Only emptiness kept me

alive in my own place.

Where is the sound that love makes,

where a heart love to ache,

only then when a life has to begin its ending,

all the while emotions love to start and does end,

when the eyes swells with its own life lights up after crying.


AuVi 02.i

Time is a butterfly that has been busy loving every scent,

from a tulip that multiplies its love and gives none to the muse

of the one whom I wanted,

only that person that needed me as she gives none,

yes love is not necessary when 

Destiny does its obligations

Fate gives responsibility

and asks only for that person

to be as one with

a real love that cannot be undone.

NmBc 05w

To my dearest Mentor, 

my angst ridden,

agoraphobic and very prolific,

She symbolized all that wallowing and weeping

that poetry makes out of me,

in December to February winds.

in January to March madness of rains.

on April and May ‘s love that hatches hate that bittersweet,

kisses of unrequited letters.

Yes to you my dearest Mistress Dickinson 

am very pleased as would be a student of your love

of thine metre of madness,

of thine sweet tender butterfly verses,

and of your love in between letters.


Nsvs 567jkl

. . .

Days of old

days anew,

here i go again

with pain encumber3d

that ankle from time and again.

Yet no wonder

to cease and exist

that this mind

will try to insist,

that I need to

be at least

42 inches and higher

to ride what’s left


or even go depth charging that past

of midnight hours walking

to and fro

from Sepulveda Blvd to Roscoe.


Smil3 on.

Time flew as the eagle knew,

that all hands of space tried to bribed

my tears with smil3s of an eternal sky.


Β© oliver a. melendez.

Β© all artworks and poetry by ohms / @rstydhude



Counting sands.

Success is counted sweetest

by those who ne’er suceed. . .

-Emily Dickinson

I would rather taste defeat

first than success, coz at least i knew

how to fall flat,

eat that dirt,

then get back in the game

so I can be me.


Weight of the wait.

“I know that he exists

Somewhere, in silence.

He has hid his rare life

From our gross eyes.”

       -Emily Dickinson

        Life. LXXX p49

        Barnes and Noble Classics


Dont hide,

but be in silence.

Be silent,

yet speak to me in turmoil.

Dont hide,

do show up where i dont need you.

Be silent,

I know you are there waiting.