the trembling.

fear grips
as i
fumble for
the light.

im reminded
that there
is nothing
in the
nothingness of
the night
but i
feel the
nothingness stare.

the senses
fall victim
to the
fear gripping
at all
of them.

then they
are flooded
by a
sudden sense
of relief
as the
shadows are
sent to
smaller corners
of the
dark-less room.

where can
the victims
hide in
this room?

under the
only light.

and now
that the
fumbled light
has broken

the fear
grips my
back again
as the
eyes wander
to places
i don't
want them
to ever
wander again
but they
see this
every night.

fear gripping
my field
of vision.

fear gripping
my back.

the door
shuts and
the fear
disperses behind
me but
i know
it's still
there hiding
from me
as i
hide from
it again.

behind that
door is
the fear.

inside this
room is
the trembling.

© 2010 The Still Air



Why can't   i hide,
in   a  box  for   a King
filled   on   the inside
  with   all   that   hard work   could  bring?

Why   can't    i   hide
on     the    throne by   the queen
     living   so   wide   -  eyed
without    the   city  scope    scene?

Why  can't   i   break apart
or  dismantle      the  core;
the    way    the    heart
has   been   run  so far?

       and   Why can't  i   tear into
    the       story   i wrote
  and    change the    pages  construe
     onto    a        more amorous   note?

well,          noone   said i can't  .

© 2010 The Still Air


don't blink.

don't blink for a             second,
you'll  miss   everything;
your   m nd   w ll   not   f ll   in,
the    things   unseen.

don't    lose   track
when  lost  in   a    mo ment,
   but  fall   into   it
rather   than   falling in   resent  ____

© 2010 The Still Air



singing is an action .
an   action  of passion .
while painting   is the emotion .
withstanding  great  notion .

   Dancing   is   the    action
of portraying     PASSION
through painting             invi sibly,
   with the      free      flo win g        feet.

              let it take you          where it wants,
  let it      sustain,             let it       ha unt
let it    compose   its      w ords
     as    its  rhythm   continues       upwar ds.

yes, i wa nt        to dance,
under  stars    in  the    expanse.
yes, i ch oose   you
not because your fancy footwork intrigues me right through,

but because dancing is the action of portraying passion. 
                                                                           devotion  .

© 2010 The Still Air


The dream

The dream is staring into stars,
wishing they'd  stare back at it

the             dream is
   waiting   in the airwaves

mingling amongst   the     otherdreams
waiting       for an   imaginer  to    open

their     mind    and    let things     exist
the        dream  can   onlyexist   in the beholder

if the beholder exists in the dream.
the beholder only exists in tragedies.

© 2010 The Still Air


a little movement

a little movement,
can  cha nge a day
a little movement
and  you'll   convey
a little movement
to   make a heart  obey
a little movement
you'll feel  de fray

move a little
and  feel    a new
move a little
and   pursue
move a little
and   stare into  vast blue
move a little
until you  know it's you

no movement
shows  you 're headst rong
no movement
makes  time  prolo    ng
no movement
can be all   you are   lifelo ng
no movement
doesn't  putyou   where you    belo ng

so move a little.have a little movement.

© 2010 The Still Air



it was not forced upon me
it forced itself upon me
ruined me, shaped me
it is why i am me

it is shattered, and it is concrete
and it has shattered its concrete
till the initials and prints in the concrete
are shrapnel of concrete

i was not born for the events,
so why put me through the events?
i am a major part of the events
but what was the point of the events?

i do not think i am who i could be,
but i am glad i am who i should be
rather than who i would be
if i was not shaped into me

© 2010 The Still Air


the stranger.

i was the  wakeful
desired and hopeful
as i watched the turning event

i'll never see again
the stranger i called friend
i can't   claim resent

i'm not the angel
on frontlines  of hell
i'm not alone, nor the saviour.

and if i fall at the line
it will  come the time
when the friend becomes the stranger

© 2010 The Still Air


mind, eyes, and body.

when  we  fall               tired,
           our mind,
           our                    eyes,
    and our body
                             work against us.

when  we   fall         in love,
         our       mind,
         our       eyes,
  and our       body
                            work with us.

© 2010 The Still Air


I'm not the one who set the world on fire.

if i had done something so spectacular,
as to setting ablaze this world,
i would non-doubtfully accept,
that i was the one who made events unfurl.

starting the revolution is out of the question,
but being part of the ignition that set,
a set of hearts into a forward, marching motion
is not something to forget.

i take no credit, because I simply can't;
it wasn't me who started this,
and i couldn't say it was you,
but it was that simple kiss.

© 2010 The Still Air



My room has    no expiratio n       date
it s       a little  more     than a        sanctuary
and it       leaves me wi th        no threats
it   leaves me  not        a  statuary.
i m        here.                I want        to be here
iwant        to          feel           your            presence
reigning all around. raining all around.
even   in        a       tOTAL    absence.
 my  room   will start   the    ascent,   and   my mind will    assent:
because ilove to        REALIZE   the  love behind those    REAL EYES
that have got me        DAZEd      on DAYS        like     toDAY
and when the wall's    aligned   FLECKS    begin     to FLEX, I'll realize
                              moments  likethis     bend this     room,
         this         room i m      bound too
and      it will  expand,  and never        collapse,
while    in this room          is                           me&you   . . ..        .

© 2010 The Still Air



Rainbows cannot express true colours
felt by anyone reading the letters
from that someone, listing the ways
love commits amity and sets hearts ablaze.

Rain cannot express true emotion,
felt by anyone reading the notion:
that the standard love won't ever last,
but the determination let's love surpass.

A poet cannot express true quotes
of the feeling of anyone reading the notes
of to-do, do, don't do,  and I do's
written perfectly, impossible to refuse.

A fire cannot express true warmth,
of the prominent skipped beat when all is read forth.
That letter; sealed and locked away for the last time
has written in it the words you had in mind.

© 2010 The Still Air


I'm not

I'm not the type to set the world on fire.
I'm not the type to walk along thin wire.
I'm not the type to try my luck with fate.
I'm not the type to ask of anything great.
I'm not the type to think of any question.
I'm not the type to wander into a lesson.
I'm not the type to decipher the answer.
I'm not the type to infect like the cancer.
I'm not the type to burn the surrounding.
I'm not the type to bring about buildings.
I'm not the type to design and construct.
but i am the type to become an abstract.

© 2010 The Still Air


November air.

I glimpsed it  s       arrival
    i ll         say it   glimpsed  me
and    i saw    it   toda y
in  a way    only  i could   see.

I    felt   it     surr ound me
in it s         breeze       i  had       awaited.
it s          air         had not  stopped
had   not       given  in       or    hesi tated.

I    heard      it
  and       in       a way     I avoided it
by  layerin g       on         resistance
that         made      me          admit:

I  am   not        a part  of  weather
i m          merely   breathing       a ir
and as    i          accept the    art of    everyt hing
i ll     breathe      again             i  swear.

© 2010 The Still Air