Wednesday, February 12, 2014

A rush of caramel scent waives through the back alley,
Addictive on my tongue,
I follow to where on the corner a candy store laid.
There the store was covered in the orange mess,
Like a big bomb came crashing,
And the bloody mess was the remains.
But as I came closer,
I got caught off guard,
And choked on the burnt after taste in the air. 
There was a fire,
That bore the mayhem,
Which was me. 

As I continued my journey in the dull town,
Choir of men and women,
Would present screams of dying children.
But I had no claws,
I even had no sharp fangs,
And thumbs,
So I couldn't possibly have done harm. 
Still they gave me hallowed stares,
And locked their doors,
Before I could introduce myself.

Since I thought the town people wouldn't understand me,
I took my stride to visit the Queen of the land.
But she raised her arms of spears,
And smoke bombs upon my entry.
The only thing that brought pain,
Was when I stepped on broken glass,
And saw crystallized blood purge the floor.

This is when I started to run.
All I could do was run,
Leaving a trail of blood on my out of the village,
All the way,
To a different town,
And hid in a baker's oven.

He was the only one who sprinkled kindness on me,
Gave me eyes that people would love,
Four candy buttons to look my best,
And a sweet creamy smile,
So no one would think I'm scary.

Once I came out, 
Warming the room with my sweet disposition,
As the baker comes up to me,
He put a hand on my shoulder,
Naming me, 
The Gingerbread Man.

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Fog is Beautiful

In the city of San Francisco,                            
Everyone is diagnosed with the rare disease of eternal blindness. 
This is true. For I was a victim too.
It can settle onto a person’s souls for days,
Till the moment we decide to move away.

This grey, silver lined sky,
That hovers over my head like a colorless blanket,
Is something that I learned,
To recognize for the first time in my life.
I even tried to go up and touch it,
Grasping the light smoke, 
Feeling like slushy permafrost that’s not too cold,
To burn the nerves of my skin,
And dissipate through the intended space of my fingers.

“It’s the wind’s fault anyways,
That this fog can’t be seen as beautiful.”
I keep telling this city.
But no one listens to me,
As it always gets swallowed,
By the sky,
And the clear shoreline,
Until it gets released,
And becomes a mere echo,
Like a fog horn blaring,
Across the bay.