These days were so filled of the madness which of my emotions and dared
to thrust all of my tongue to dry it out by talking all of my negative side.
Then only when it emptied,
I knew where to park my mind,
Unto its unkind vehicle upon a spot where no one can see,
that unhinged wrecked,
and yes a battered worned out and decapitated,
automaton of a mind that wont rest until
it was empty of its fuel and oil.
A fear of hope
in any second is a mile
of the sky that stretches
beyond any imagination.
For the hope to fear
that my hand shall take
and grip its heel is an attack
not by something it is an insecurity
that one who gave it inside willingly.
®ohms,artsydhude all works thereof
I am trying to look. . .
The void which can be emptied and be filled,
Yet still be of nothing and something in between.
I asked it,
It told me.
Go out breathe that which is free,
Go out stand amongst the weightless water.
Go out and run into all hills of others.
You will see,
You will touch,
You can smell,
All that is and be all that can never be yours.
In some sense it was and will always be yours not to take nor make.
Only time will love you for what you are,
Not the one you are becoming,
Breathe damn fool,
© Oliver Melendez
® Ohms, Artsydhude
What is it about,
When i cannot ponder,
Why I am always thinking,
Where was my mind and
How i came into questions that
Which can never stop,
Does it ever anyway?
The only answer would be,
Leave it as it goes,
To let it go behind
The wall of
Of the love that was
Of the time was
All the longing of dwelling on and the
Past that flew in and out
Of the life that spent on
Repetitive mindless dribbles and squabbles,
Prideful grudges and stoic cynicism.
So it seems any of somewhat vices that held or lost,
Then please do held your senses responsible,
Not your behavior,
At least admit it to your attitude,
Unless it was intended,
Unless it was intentional,
For it was the brain all along that held you,
In all that was,
Can you try,
Just to adjust but not change,
Your cellulite and the scars that held you in pain,
And bathe in the rain.
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.
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.
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.
. . .
Days of old
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.