Weary and wanting from the ache inside
No emotion at any depth I try to hide
A hollow pit waiting for something to burn
You can fill up the spaces but there’s always a way out
Down through the tunnel and out to be more
Th urge once again rises and the search continues
No absolute but a constant hope to be fulfilled
Something sufficient
Providing contentment
Would the pursuit transform into another
I beg for a new world
Or perhaps a new heart
No matter how hard I try
Trying is the opposite of actuality
A veil over reality by our thoughts and layers of excuses to manifest
In the end there is nothing and in the beginning there was nothing
The gap that leads into infinity
An understanding of a black hole empathically
Maybe it really does hold a universe
How natural is it to be empty and yet create boundaries of space and time
We perceive the outside but in essence is it truly empty
Or is it a hole even?
Perhaps we perceive a sphere but in higher dimensions we’d see it as what we understand to be a tunnel
Where would it take us
I think it will only take us to another land where we translate the hunger into a new form
The multiverse is just another reason to keep searching after we’ve only found half the answers in this one
It seems we never even finish what we start
Because we fear the end
We’ve made it fatal in our minds
When our soul knows nothing may be permanent here
There is a universe that came before all of this
where we truly exist
And know this is a game that we’ve played for eons
To entertain ourselves
To evolve as the divine always has
Transcending labels because it moves regardless of our insignificant judgements
Will the static stagnation into a dynamic situation
Simultaneous reaction
Awake while in a dream
Looking for an opening and the maze will always grow
Let it go

You know
you're aging
when silence
becomes a major
part
of your
presence

an inchworm, up-ing and down-ing its way through my
intestines is not bright
green as it traverses the dark gloomy
lumen of my
insides.

darkness requires complete
darkness, no color, just
darkness, but at least it is
warm.
i do not know if the inchworm can
see but i hope it can feel
comfort in the
dark.

dear inchworm, i wish you
good fortune on your travels as you
measure my insides with
tenacious tickling loops.

Loads of bubble wrap piled behind

and it crackles like how a stomach

gets twisted on itself after

eons of sleep

decoding it's diaphragm to follow

the blips and beeps and bleeps

encrusted on trusting

a tight gut reaction to

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



Loads of suds creep up

forming in cysts or scabs

upon stomach encasings

all slimy and orange inside

with a stretchy cover all

deep royal purple with

dark pink veins coursing

through it encoding the

rapture of film recording while

the lining inside gets all clammy

with arousal secretly clenching

this yearning and aching just

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but



it is a necessary step to

colloquial banter within

the clustering of organs all

internally arguing while the

overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums

all quiet in the corner

because she knows she runs



the show.



And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to

the actual world of living folks

and climb out of his bundled

fabulous fantasies in order to

make reality plausible.



And in wanting you



and in waiting



I've found myself in visceral shock

to the point where I panic and

all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.



And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch



and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much



I'll collapse under the weight

and never get up.



Loads of words hide beneath me

resting in tubes that resemble

the small intestines in looping

nests of unbridled questions.

Will it be enough to see you

and not touch you?

Will it be enough to talk

with you and not kiss you?

Will it be enough to be chaste

and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?

When all my brain wants to do

is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?

Wipe me clean of bitterness:
left over is a bland weak limp
thing who cannot stand
out in a meal, gets
eaten for lunch
no consequences for the
stomach that restrains me

Aunt Lottie had a slow and careful walk
every step could jar
the delicate balance
of the fragile grand piano
she had swallowed.

It was no ordinary instrument
it was entirely made of crystal
which added to the fears
of its disturbance
or destruction
by the simplest slip or stumble
or missed footing on a step.

It was a slight inconvenience
she had taken in her stride.
Matters concerning the said piano
were only discussed in hushed tones
on Wednesday afternoons
and only with her dearest nephew, Ludwig
who sensitively seemed to understand
the precious nature of imagination
and the tickling discomforts
of digested furniture and such things
as fancy may create.