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Think about it.Whether you believe in heaven and hell, reincarnation, that you just become the earth once you're gone, or that you cross over to someplace unknown–– all these beliefs can still come to an agreement…we are not our body, this is a temporary state and it is as fleeting as the thought of it.
Where does that leave us?
That leaves us contemplating existence in this transient state coming to a thousand and one conclusions about something as unknown as birth to us when it's happening.
We were all born correct? Ok…and now we're all alive for the moment…and we know the inevitable…our bodies will stop while we... may also stop, or we may continue without it.
This is as mind-blowing as it gets… and this is our lives.
Right now, whatever your now may be… which is all equally relevant and true… is it.
Why fight with our own.
Why discriminate against our own.
Why judge our own… when we are all part of the infinite all?
Why bother wi
you're standing in your way.I want to have a thousand different lives, right now.
I feel like I belong in so many things I've merely witnessed.
I want to travel to all the countries I feel connected with, and be part of it's culture, while still remaining myself.
I want to dance to the music that moves my soul, in as many different places I possibly can.
I want to connect with people from around the globe that have felt what I'm feeling right now.
I want to breathe the air into my lungs, knowing I live somewhere I've never lived before, and it's home.
I want who I am to make sense in a dozen different languages.
I want to know streets intimately, when I've lived my entire life across many oceans from them, thinking that was it.
Who says any of this is impossible.. a year in any place can feel more like home than 60 years in the same household.
I can be peoples home, they can come to me when they're done with their day, and I can wait for them with a bottle of wine to talk about life's fleeting instances.
Rest in peace.Dive into the deep blue sky and let it take you by the hand to it's secret hiding place beyond the hemisphere, where every piece of love for you is catalogued in shades of burgundy velvet.
Fly freely alongside millions of coloured paper cranes in the highest clouds granting wishes, while I look up at the sky thinking about the endless possibilities surrounding you.
Eat delicious dinner's with your once lost family and friends, as your serenaded by a choir of angels, playing tango at your request; while you sip the finest wine, and hover above the most tranquil of waterfalls.
Dance with the golden sun rays, teach them your steps as you sway with the highest trees inviting them to sing a refreshing breeze; hypnotising the world for hours at a time.
Then when you're done––
Drape yourself on the crested moon, with eternity as your blanket.
Rest peacefully, amongst the white sparkling hopes of a billion lost souls.
When I imagine you... I imagine you like this.
© Rocio Beli
A stranger walked up to me today...A man walked up to me and asked me for a cigarette… I told him I didn't smoke anymore, and he asked me why? ––I answered "because the person I used to smoke with, isn't around anymore", and he replied…"that's why I smoke."
A woman walked up to me and asked me for drugs, I replied "I have several in store…his eyes, his smile, his hands"…she whispered, "that's not a drug"…and I laughed as I said.. "if only you knew."
A child walked up to me today and asked me to play a game, I told them I was too tired to play games, i'd been playing for years, they replied…"then you must be a pro!", to which I said "yes…a pro at losing."
An old woman stared at me today, and I asked her…"is something wrong?" she answered "I was about to ask you the same question."
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Work of art.Don't wince at my scars, instead use them to find where I am broken, and put your body against the cracks.
Don't let me fall out of myself again, the parts might fit together, but the breaks are never clean.
Sometimes I feel like glass in the middle of a war zone, just the sound of goodbye may destroy me.
I've picked up the pieces before, cut myself with shards of who I was, carefully pasted them together with who I am, hoping no one would notice.
The trouble is the masking tape I used, doesn't seem to mask anymore.
The trouble is I leave tiny bits of myself behind me, just so I can be found.
The trouble is my heart is made of clay and it might just break with one more fall.
Maybe that's the wonder of me, even once I've broken…I can break again.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
My kind of love.I want the kind of love that forms colourful wings in my stomach that fly in circles because they're disorientated from my hearts heavy beating.
I want the kind of love that's so radiant, I can't even bare to look in it's direction without closing my eyes first–– it burns brighter than the sun.
The kind of love that starts off slow then gains on you like a cheetah, devouring you into itself, for sustenance, creating a pattern only known to the gods.
A love that scares the fear, out of my life; making anything possible again.
A love that regresses two adults back into kids, playing hide and seek with their future.
I want the kind of love that's a Sunday in the middle of the week––inconvenient.
I want the kind of love that dances at a funeral––inappropriate.
I want the kind of love that's a muse to an artist––inspiring.
I want the kind of love that's a .44 magnum revolver in a trunk of BB guns––authentic.
Love that sparkles in t
The end.Touch me like it's the last time you'll ever feel my skin under your fingertips.
Kiss me like it's the last time you'll ever feel your lips against mine.
Hold me like it's the last time you'll ever feel my body in your arms.
Love me like it's the last time you'll ever feel me love you back.
Because it is.
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Law, war, poorWhat we see and hear is processed, we don't get it raw
we get the altered, tampered hand-me-downs of the manipulating law.
We wear it like it fits, pretend that it's our style––
coz they're the ones stamping "approved" on all our fucking files.
We switch the channels, thinking we have a choice
we vote for irrelevant reality, thinking we have a voice.
We're a grain of sand, in the world's largest beach,
tossed on the shore, with everything out of reach.
They want us to be scared of being strong leaders,
so they can declare war in a tux, while we're the tagged-up bleeders.
The rich guys riding on top, the poor taking it down below,
thats the way it's gotta be, that's how the money and power games go.
Too bad it isn't in reverse, I would love to see that shit,
The minorities ruling, the politicians taking hit after hit.
If they were the poor soldiers walking right into death,
would they be so quick to talk, or would they hold their fucking breath?
If it was their sons and daug
Let me be your poem.Let me melt the cold pain from your skin, transform into the sun and heat your hurt––so it evaporates into white clouds of hope that inspires the trees to sway.
Let me touch you like the first story I've ever read in brail, after deciding to go deaf before letting another sound replace your voice.
Let me shatter every tiny ounce of doubt from your being, using the weight of my love for you–– to demolish it's once relevant place in your thoughts.
Let me carve holes in to the night sky, so you can see how my universe revolves solely around you, making the moon shine bright with jealousy.
Let me fly you to the nearest nebula, so we can finally be as high as this love makes me feel.
Let me drive you crazy like a mirage in a desolate desert, making you crave it so much you imagine it in front of you, dying for a taste.
Let me be the sun to warm you and you can be the rain to cool us down, and we can make the sky blush a million different colours.
Let me be the baseli
BeautyI'd rather wear flowers in my hair,
forming a delicate chain
Than diamonds around my neck,
covering my tender blue veins
For with every precious petal
and every lucent leaf
I'm a living lesson
teaching beauty can not be bought
But rather it grows and flourishes
with every living thought
Expensive LiesI sit and stare at the toilet bowl.
A guy I know is bulimic.
When we compliment him
I see the twist of agony in his eyes
as his brain reprograms it
to sound like an expensive lie
that costs him another tear
in his tattered dignity.
Friends hurry to him,
to reassure him, to love him.
They tell him how beautiful he is.
We didn't know him before,
but he's definitely not fat now.
We whisper things in concern like;
body dysmorphic disorder.
'I know you'll never believe me
but you are so gorgeous -
not just on the inside.' Not just.
And they're right, I join in,
because they are right to say it
because it happens to be true -
he is stunning. Not just on the outside.
And we want him to see himself
the way we see him, beautiful.
And I join in because
I've felt that strangle of pain
in my stomach, bowels and belly,
when someone used to tell me lies.
So I know how he feels.
Only, he is beautiful on the outside
and I'm not.
He's not seeing reality in the mirror
and I am.
And people rush to correc
Fearing MeI'm not afraid to cry
and I do it
a lot more than you would guess.
It isn't always sadness,
I just feel like I need to,
feel everything so strongly
that it's the only way
to let go for a moment
because if I hold on for too long,
if my grip gets too tight
I'll break myself,
I will break you like glass
and we will both
I am a good guy
who hasn't yet found a way
to show it,
I am a good guy
who still identifies with the villains,
hides everything important
anything to throw you
off of my trail....
and I don't know why,
but I am trying.
Maybe I think
that if you could see me,
the real me,
you wouldn't want to look anymore,
want to be anywhere near me,
and the idea
that I can't add up
to be enough for you,
to be enough for me,
is so fucking heart breaking
I can hardly fathom it.
I can't say that it doesn't hurt
because it does,
it hurts a whole hell of a lot,
I've come to depend on pain,
to befriend misery
you're just a question marki met you so long ago
but back then our bodies were made of metal
and nowadays they’re made of the blades of
grass and dirt settling
underneath my fingernails.
my fingers are having a hard time
reaching the keys and
my organs are shaking mostly because i haven’t
eaten in two days but also
because i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.
we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever ago
and you say you don’t know me
that you don’t know anyone
but baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skin
to try and reach my bones, just like you.
i hope you're happy,
i’m covering the hard wood floors now
the bits and pieces splattered.
they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling it
a way to see my brain and
just how dark it has become, and honestly
i don’t want you to try and see about your’s.
i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -
A Kiss not Forgotten (a special tribute)Like a frost spread across valleys silent and dreary,
ever my longing lost in shimmers of shadow & wind
And days bled into years, the seas became deserts
But thoughts of thee would not perish
Thru memories untamed I staggered far and long;
upon solemn nights lit by the torch of your soul
O’ how deep I miss your fragrant cheer ..
Of warm evenings shared across Lake’s reverie,
watching horizons journey into Autumn’s dream
— wherest our hearts once bloomed a fabled sky
Those passions shared will forsake me not
Lest the Moon would bestow solace upon my ache:
I will lay marooned, haunted by thy seraphic-figure,
Or the ever fleeting caress of your gaze ...
So my soul shall yield to this mythic abyss; –
as I peer from my carriage to Nirvana
And thou away, from my arms, the Sun weeps
Unto eternity—my dear beloved, we are entwined
Forever our footprints cast in golden firmament
A kiss not forgotten in a ballet of light softly falling
I now bear the want
Black hole BulimicThe Composition:
I birth poems — not amaranths
in graveyards — not gardens.
sows seeds of doubt
into skeleton weeds.
A farmer plucks the bones
from Apollo's hyacinth; his
I binge on broken
cracked collectors of rocks,
of pebbles kidnapped
from barren beaches:
where crooked kings
buried in books whose
pages creak to crickets
in an abandoned abyss
of an attic—caskets on
an antiquated shelf. I
choke on the dust and
twitch in recoil.
The bickering sky
A cloud coughs—
The clock's scythe hand
swivels to the beckoning
twelve. Spastic ticking—
each bleak stroke
of a midnight heart.
The sundials do not work
now. The vampires know
I kill poems—
obligation steam machineas always
grinding the cankerous
of your cognition
until the lack of compassion
leaves you unlubricated
seized frozen bound stuck
only then the machine of
your fears will burst to steam
squealing to suckle
at the genius of my
the unsung soiled hero
of middle-class ferocity
savior of the undeserving
winding slowly deftly dying
martyr to the self-justified cause
as love for summer fades.late morning-
there's the tease of
snow in the clouds,
in the air, and the trees
have finally lost their
the sunlight is damp.
alters the room
as it graces my skin,
and for once
i don't wake up right away.
instead i lay
between my memory bitten
sheets, and i think
about all the times he said
that he hated winter.
i don't remember
when i began to love it,
and i don't care.
nothing can shatter that.
Crown of ThornsShe wakes up with red staining her pillow
and the taste of blood like iron in her mouth
It stains her teeth and leaks from her lips, and as she
rinses her mouth out, she can’t help thinking that
it’s better than dirt and ashes
it feels like she’s wearing a noose
of broken promises and shattered glass
that tightens around her throat with every day that passes
She nails a smile to her face
and doesn't let herself think the word dying
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More