Pressed flowers
Forgotten in the pages
Of the that book
Oh what was it called
But anyway,
That book is sitting
In my father's bookshelf
Somewhere between
A history of the civil war
And an encyclopedia from 1949
It is lost in the depths
Of my mother's bookshelf
There the book with the pressed flowers
Covered in dust and memories
Waits for me to recapture the lost moments
Collecting and absorbing the words
And ideas trapped within the binding
Lost flowers, pressed in time
Lost in the pages of my childhood
Bookmarked, forever.

What if I told you I found the sweet spot, the perfect combination of want, desire and satisfaction, the perfect balance of risk and thrill, the best adrenaline rush.
I'll share it with you.
Are you ready?
Can you enjoy the dark and lovely, that beautiful spinning moment, the freedom?
It's mine, it can be yours too, breathe it in, **** it down, devour every taste and color, savor it, it won't last forever. Revel in it, drown in it, wicked laughter and twisted minds, wannabe gangsters and the real thing. A sea of crazy and delight
Who are you?
What are you?
I'll show you the art of spinning out of control. Time to unwind and unravel.
This is my dream, my wild unbound satisfaction.
The writing on your face.
The drugs.
The *****.
The crazy.
The dangerous.
Its all mine, and I soak it up relentlessly.

As the sun reflex’s an immaculate glare.
Upon the flowers and as the honey bees acquire their nectar.
The breeze of wind from the west blows east as the young tribe sets to feast.
From the belly of the beast, from the ground and to the trees,
We were once sunflower seeds.

So small and so innocent, without a care in the world to say the least.
We should look back and acquire the imagination, as children it was amazing.
Astonishing that we could be
Anything we ever dreamed and desired.

Picking fruit from that apple tree, the juices sweetened just for me
So lovely a day it was, playing games with the neighbors across the street.
The feeling of being free is a virtue, a God given right not just for me, but for thee.

Back then summer time felt like a lifetime, never having to tip the hour glass over.
Man those were the days.
But we grow up not sunflower seeds, yet sunflowers.
You see, the sun still shining but a little brighter on me.
Because my path is different, and I’m not just a ****.

I was time
I was pictures and I was poetry
I was a pond and the fish that swim in it
I grew limbs and spread across the land

I was coffee and I was tea
I was the sunshine on your face in the morning
I was a balloon
  Held down by a five year old
I slipped away, floated to the heavens
  And faded from his eyes

I was flowers on the table
  Waiting to be walked in on
I was my grandfather's mustache
  Tickling my mother's cheek as she was tucked into bed
I was a playground
I was the monkey bars, the swingset, and the slides

I was a raindrop
I was an ocean
I was tall buildings and the sky that they scraped
I was the orange in a sunset, the warmth in your heart
  Leaking out to cover the globe

I was a bicycle
I was the first ride without training wheels
I was Christmas lights
I was a glowing city at night
I was a bunk bed
I was a rooftop
  I was shared by two brothers
I was a little boy who wished to one day be as big as his father
I now only wish to be as great as him

Search. Search. Seek. Seek.
Cold. Cold. Clear. Clear.
Sorrow. Sorrow. Pain. Pain.
Hot flashes. Sudden chills.
Stabbing pains. Slow agonies.
I can find no peace.
I drink two cups, then three bowls,
Of clear wine until I can’t
Stand up against a gust of wind.
Wild geese fly over head.
They wrench my heart.
They were our friends in the old days.
Gold chrysanthemums litter
The ground, pile up, faded, dead.
This season I could not bear
To pick them. All alone,
Motionless at my window,
I watch the gathering shadows.
Fine rain sifts through the wu-t’ung trees,
And drips, drop by drop, through the dusk.
What can I ever do now?
How can I drive off this word —
Hopelessness?

My heart is curled in my chest, sitting low; it can't be bothered.
You and I are both deaf. You cannot hear me screaming for you and I cannot hear myself wailing "STOP."
Even the tips of my fingers cry out and good lord does it burn;
All of this is deliciously hateful and ******* it - it should be illegal to make another human being feel this way.
We are no longer a mixture dear, we are a solution. I am saturated with you. There is no going back.

Why do I want you to write psalms on my body in ink blacker than night?
Mark me up, please.
Cut, cut, cut.
I am whining and desperate for you.
We are inextricable.
Oh, you must abhor me!