What would you call the home which sits,
simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence,
on two knees and a nose sniffing ***** bones?
What would you call a thing which makes,
a thing which creates meaning, much less,
than it ***** the meaning away?

The past ushers futures inside that my parents
made, and their parents made, and their parents,
it seems I'm younger than I think. B o r n,
i n t o a w o r l d o f d e t r i t u s . b o r n,
into a
worldoftrash.

Happy. Happy. Happy.
My body will carry use
once I am dead. I
think I taste the dirt.

Happiness in head.

It's hanging in the air, the piece of you, above the hole in the carpet.
     The hole that was burned there out of anger. Contained by the voice in the back of your mind that pleaded to not allow the fire to spread. The smoke entered through your nose and when it was exhaled, took out of you something you don't remember you lost.
     Adolescent dementia is your diagnosis. You ebb and flow emotions that correlate little to the situations around you. Your eyes refract the scene around you and interprets it as inverted and skewed. You have an ocean in your mind. Stirred by the restlessness of the moon, your tides find a way to hurt you. Water crashes against the back of your eyes until you finally spring a leak.
     You're in math class.
     Pull yourself together.
     You love to walk, because the sloshing in your head now seems to be the fault of your arms gently swaying at your sides. You get lost a lot, no sense of direction. People wonder why you always hit the edges of the desks when you pass. They think you're high. Your bloodshot eyes betray you. You look down when you walk with a destination in mind. Any distraction magnetically pulls you towards it. You reel back and cast your eyes far into the scene of which you stare. Anything around you is now null. You are at two places at once. No. You've simply left your physical body to wonder a minute, you are tethered to yourself by the notion that you have no time to waste gazing listlessly-
     "Get out of the street little girl! Who holds your body captive?! Why are you blind to see oncoming traffic?!"
     You were wondering what it looked like to see a car moving towards you. You proceed home. There is calming music in your ears. You view the world in time with your pace, which is in time with the song. You step and the earth underneath your foot thanks you. It says no one has stepped there before. You're the first the conquer that patch of land.
     You hear this in your head.
     The song's instrumental cacophony ensues to interrupt your acquisition. The world as you see it dissolves into a blur of colors so vivid, you do not know their name. Its transported you far from the road home. You see smoke. It looks like pure light but it behaves like the noxious admittance from your mother's cigarette. You reach out your hand to manipulate it around your fingers.
     It's wet.
     You're outside your house now. Two steps away from your carport. You stand in pouring rain. Water is slipping off the roof onto your outstretched hand. You think for a moment that you do not want to go inside.
     You lock the door behind you as you enter.

he took love's arrow out
of the quiver launching it
at she who he did revere
with deep devotion

I'm the moon, one that shines
I breathe the seams on the Earth's faulty lines.
I'm not crossed, I'm alright
I met a girl that makes summer seem trite.

There were none so divine, it could take midnight
And turn the world daylight. I'm the moon, one that shines
She is the black queen in the checkmate that's mine.

I reap the hours
And the sleep is still coming.
I count the days down until the minutes stop running.
I am the king, she's my bride, I conquer worlds while
We we conquer all time.

She is the night, I'm to come, we climb the wind
On the hurricane's lungs, count of 3, piggies hide
These bad wolves have come to eat you alive.

There are some so divine, that hours laugh
And the sun forgets to rise.
That is her, so alive. I am the moon
That brings the oceans to life.