Your lips have been dethroned and disposed of properly.
In the filthy back bone of a jungle, they lie; never to rule again.
Medieval recycling is always honest, you know?
You know this.

Perhaps someone will write an Epic about it one day.
After ways are parted and enough people are broken; then unbroken.
Perhaps the life of fire starting isn't for me anymore.
Perhaps I've been burning for too long now.
You really never know with these things.
With these things you never really know.

A glow in the dark,
Spilling.
Organs with edges and cross traffic with the lights living assumed.
Happy pockets fill with stolen thunder.
Gunpoint robs the room eyeless,
And curves me to mercy.
Please, preserve that satchel of blood; so neon, so flaunted.
On the rocks.
Smooth.

We lock love up.
Cuff it to our unbreakable.
Because, you love, you go behind bars with an infinite amount of trials and life sentences.
The world blinks every time you show us your evidence.
So, you stay here because you broke the 'unbreakable.'
You join the arachnoids in filling the space between these bars with home.
You figure your **** out.

Wildly left out, thrashing ***** flavored love at hospital graffiti.
Now H-E-L-P drips from this safe place.
This place where love goes to leave, and never return to its trees.
The branches and I have no choice but to morning stretch towards the Earth.
That, or turn our daily conversations into slip-n-slides.

You write until you wake up on the paper.
Until every breath, a sentence, and every swallow, a piece of you.
Drool wrung tongues painting fluid ounce upon fluid ounce of poetic word.
You don't quit until you've taught all of your selves to do the writing for you.

The young gnaw at doughy mornings as a zombie of night; no longer.
Pulling the dusty blinds' cord that isn't a string to the moon today.
Come back.

Organic eyes blast open from a free fall that is(was) dream.
No fireworks get to happen, and the rusting coffee isn't quite morning brown.
Alarm clocks remain the loneliest chunks of Earth.

I was seven when my dad taught me how to tie my shoes.
I was twenty when I called to remind him I tied them for the day.
Go.

I'm wondering why they've never named the newest hurricane 'Nostalgia.'
I don't sleep well at night because that storm preheats my psyche crisp and repeatedly.
And i'm currently overcompensating.