My Pink








My Words

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

A Piscean Conversation

... the people came
they saw no shame in this terrible game they played...
... and the children cried
for they felt the pain,

the emptiness

locked deep


... the businessman businessed,
the busdriver bussed,
the mother mothered while her little child fussed...

... the clock kept ticking yet no time was lost.

... the hungry stayed hungry,
the ill stayed ill,
the lonely lost hope,
time stood still...

... while all along the stars shone bright,
through many a storm,
through the darkest night...

... bloodstained hands escaped reprimand,
fickle hearts remained disguised,
innocence left experience arose...

... the world was coming to its demise.

... the waves of life kept churning and turning,
the fires from within kept right on burning,
and my dear heart never stopped yearning...

... lovers entwined in a tender dance,
a forgotten man who had no chance,
a virgin heart that now stood still,
a strong young man who lost his will...


The dividing gate.


... a clear view of my foggy world,
a crisp sound of a muffled cry,
a tender kiss,
a bittersweet goodbye.

... a broken bridge to fill this gap.

... hopeless hearts prayed,
seekers lost their way,
while those who cared not never were led astray.

Paved Roads.
Virgin Paths.

... an endless wall in a borderless space,
an expressive abyss,
a blank dull face.

... endless questions endless doors endless paths


... time stood still and the voices faded.

... crisp dreams,
vague realities...


a new beggining.

An End.

A Piscean Conversation.

Pink by Miz BoheMia :: 10:05 AM :: 8 pink souls


Saturday, September 30, 2006


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~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.
~This poem is a villanelle.

Pink by Miz BoheMia :: 5:55 AM :: 15 pink souls


Tuesday, August 22, 2006

a phone call

you called me sister as you held me tight, tighter than you had ever held anyone before that point I assumed.

too tight.

tight into territory marked taboo because my mask did not gel with yours and beating hearts, in unison, entwined in the dance of an embrace that remained as our masks fell, with our bodies,



down into the realm of sleep where bed served as a refuge against the noise that was hollywood outside your door and...

there was safety in your taboo as my beating heart I entrusted to the comfort of your mask while my smashed walls crashed



down into a million little shattered fragments, scattered pieces of illusion in wolf’s clothing miraged as truth that was and is no more,

shattered by the very calmness of your voice, the weight of which leaves me gasping for breath, desperately searching for a way out of the pouncing darkness that envelops me as I attempt to lift my head, to reach out and grab the whizzing black and white memories as they are rushed out of the punctured vacuum of my heart into a world of vivid technicolor dreams called reality,


pouncing past sepia and straight into a new awakening that leaves me a frenzied sunny side up as I am thrust towards a blinding sun, resplandescent in the depths of the mirror that holds the image that is this trembling, bare, crash and burn no longer called expectations but forever renamed


Pink by Miz BoheMia :: 4:22 PM :: 9 pink souls


Sunday, August 13, 2006

Don't leave me with a question

Where are the words I seek?
Desperate attempts to give you shape.
Don't leave me with a question.

In my world of eternal night,
you live only in my dreams. So,
where are the words I seek

to strip off your facelessness, to mold
lips for your kisses, hands for your caresses?
Don't leave me with a question.

I remember you, you I have yet to meet.
I, an empty well, a blank page cry,
"Where are the words I seek?"

I search for dreams where you live,
for a reality that holds you, where you
don't leave me. With a question,

I slowly breathe, afraid of the cold that
stays when with dreams you leave. Love,
where are the words I seek?
Don't leave me with a question.

~This poem is a villanelle.

Pink by Miz BoheMia :: 12:35 AM :: 12 pink souls


Monday, July 31, 2006


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~The following piece has been added as an image. It is a visual piece that does not translate well unto a web page. To read it, click on the image.
~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.

Pink by Miz BoheMia :: 1:18 PM :: 15 pink souls


Wednesday, July 26, 2006

twisted thoughts of you

with a bit of blue beneath me,
I reach out to you and
I feel the magic of our meeting ground.

I am a dog facing the sky,
eating from the earth
with a bit of blue beneath me.

a toe floating before my eyes
and breath my driving force,
I feel the magic of our meeting ground

for I am a warrior defying heaven’s wrath
by watching angels fall.
with a bit of blue beneath me,

I levitate on my piece of sky
in search of my holy phoenix as I cry out,
“I feel the magic of our meeting ground.”

on twisted limbs I lie
as you shine above me, the true light of my path.
with a bit of blue beneath me,
I feel the magic of our meeting ground.

~Explanation of symbolism, in case of questions, in comments.

Pink by Miz BoheMia :: 11:40 PM :: 14 pink souls


Thursday, July 20, 2006

San Francisco

I opened the terrace door to lock the outside gate. The crickets’ dark serenade transported me to childhood nights... sleepless nights spent listening to their song… an ever comforting song that shrilly whispered, this is home and in its certain embrace calmed my restless heart as I drifted off into a land of dreams, an escape from the suffocating reality that was childhood...

... but that was then...

As I fumbled with the keys, for a split moment, the night engulfed me and in its dark embrace I was atop my stoop, on Bush Street, walking down the worn-in, wooden steps of our 1900 Edwardian building... familiar with every crack, with the feel of each unique step and the maneuvering required as I entrusted it with my body’s weight whilst avoiding every potentially dangerous irregularity all as one breathes without giving the act a second thought... I stepped off the last, ever-creaking step into the fresh, crisp San Francisco night which greeted me with its habitual chilly kiss and dissipated, all too quickly, into fog...

... fog in outstretched hands yearning for home but which are now busied with the task of fitting keys in a lock meant to imprison, heart heavy and fresh off a crisp smack of mist on my hands... yet another night away from home... yet another night paralized by a song that belongs to a woman that I am no more, a woman I buried long before I knew of her demise whose life and desire once mapped out the life I currently live that is no longer my own... the shedding of skin marks my search for that tiny glimmer of hope, for that flicker of light in the ever engulfing darkness that shall show me the path back home as I stand on a photo album of weathered, aged pictures of long ago, that fade with each multicolor breath I take as I...

... technicolor me in motion atop of a yesterday that never sleeps, search for the elusive path to tomorrow, away from the sepia memory of a long-forgotten archive of my now...

... away from this sweltering heat that does nothing but melt the desperate longing for yet another chilly kiss that was once the silent song that filled my nights, safely lulling me to sleep, and that is no more in this land of transparent cricket wardens, lurking in the dark... nothing more than an ever fading promise that holds no weight as it drifts off back into a past of San Francisco nights as I...

... I weep behind my smile, weep at the duality of a recent past that is to be my tomorrow... someday... fighting to fuel sincerity into the act as I place both feet on the ground and ready myself for the long and arduous task that is to be my journey back home... thankful, at least, that home now has a name.

Pink by Miz BoheMia :: 4:00 PM :: 9 pink souls


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