Cerulean Dream / The Name of a Poet

I was her passenger

on a dark blue freeway.

"I want your last name."

"Really? ...but, why?"

"Because it sounds better. It's cool.

It would just look good on my work."

"On you're writing, you mean?"

"Yea! I could carry on the name.

Whenever I publish something

your name will be there, too.

You know?"

I was baffled by her proposal, but

more so of her ambiguous enthusiasm,

the seriousness of her tone,

the earnest of desire.

As she steered the old Corolla

around muted blue bends,

a dusty sky churned behind

ashy blue mountains.

I glanced over at her.

She had that subtle smirk of hers,

a purple tank top,

her skin softly aglow.

All around was a cerulean shade

save for the flicker

of indicative red lights

"I guess I just don't understand.

You only want my name?"

Pressing on the pedal

she bent her smile

and quietly 

burned down the Caldecott 

Tell me, what harbored soul

is able is rise from the depths

of fear, uncertainty, and insecurity

just as the Sun rises everyday

with grace and ardor?

Who then has the capacity

to undo all the tars and cancers

writhing and twisting within?

Who can unwind the vines

of the lessons that taught

self torment, quiet suffering,

endless stress, and solemness?

Does one ever reach the final end

to any one and to all questions?

#respect

It's true, my sensitivities get the better of me

I get twisted like a damp rag and everything

stagnant rushes out and whirlpools round

before being flushed away, down the drain

So, sorry for the shitty attitude, but something

about coffee runs after nine o-clock

offsets my trust module and I begin to

question everything over and over, again and again

And pardon me for being confrontational

It's just that I did take it personal

when our collaborations went missing, but
not before you twice forgot to mention my name