I feel the friction raising blisters to fingers.
I feel the whispers of the smoke when it lingers,
a siren rifling delirium
and biting to the throat of a genius
who questions how bad miasma hurts the singer.
It's the quintessential fever dream between us

Oh, he's so smart, look at his three page diatribe
describing his rage, he's a machinist
yeah
Go join the dire parades of craven weakness.
Admire reagents calculated to the T,
brewed and created for playfully degrading,
and raising heart rate, lying to you,
and prying from your fingers.
When they ask you why you're dying be facetious.
Just sew the mask on to your face and make it seamless.

Breath it in.

Smell the plastic and bone.
Relax enraptured in what half of us know.
We drink the rumors from a chalice,
sink in fallacies of balance,
humor actuates the patterns,
and its harder to battle the tumor after it's grown.
Then we're just grass on the road,
and we can laugh as we go,
and we can act as if inaction
ain't the crack in the stone.
And we'll be baffled alone.
We'll be the practical applicants
of a graph of a lung,
hung in a school.
Drooling hospital drones.

Stool in a bag on his side.
Try to hide the agony in seeing lagging behind
tank of life on a chain.
Banking his breath on a check,
and when it bounces he dies.

It ends faster than you think it might.

Don't even start.

I'm somewhere in the middle.
Forget-me-nots in a pistol
tripping on thought tangents
playing a fist full.

Feeling my teeth caught,
biting deep in the gristle.

Seething a heat,
not green
not at bay to the whistle

my impatience is simple
I'm awaiting the gavel
And I'm somewhere in the middle
I fear the venom and rattle
and play the innocent *******.

beginning to wait
to watch the ending begin

approaching the line

I'm Here.

Watching the moment again
feeling cold on the fringe
seeing it blow in the wind

watching it pass
stopping to gasp
at how fast it was stolen again

seeing the difference,
between a fold and a bend

Peeling the image apart
and rolling bones for the gold
on the spin

Hoping next time
I'm not a line up of bowling pins

sitting in wait
asking the past
for a day to do over again

I'm somewhere in the middle.

I prefer to rhyme.

It's a canvas my hands are forced to paint in.

It's a limit I'm given, to try for more creative.

It's a gimmick that stands, supporting what the aim is

To have purpose when pressing record,

before I say this.

I’m strung up
Pulled to full tension
Resisting the wind to
Stay steady at an altitude,
inducing vertigo
just tryna go from A to B
but can’t see the ground
like a mile high high wire.

I’m burning through paper
just praying for sustainable fuel
consuming quicker than I grow
and don’t know if I can pile high enough
before the flames die
and slough ashes around on the ground like a bonfire

I’m grinding to stone
emitting sounds to report
the dire situation. support
received from the inflation
adjacent to me inspires work
to make it off to the next stop
and walk/roll on like a flat tire

Rolling and blowing in the breeze
Dead leaves

Stowing the energy I have
Like winter trees

Rolling tumultuous waves of rage like the seas
Free flowing and open

A Spoken softly from the heart apology
for the history kissed with a propensity
for leaving words of sympathy
listlessly floating guarding an image eroding
with each sentence spent hardening
instead of saying what it meant to me clearly

The shells density spells
“to hell with it”
and kills the will to sell its self
with "superficial *******"
And continue to prepare it’s esoteric flare
And bury meaning where only he can see, for respite.

Each word doesn't have to perfectly rhyme.
We herd dozens at a time,
to service the climb,
to serve as a guide.
The burdens we find are the worms
to the birds in our lines,

further
winding along, to a life of a search
is to thrive; an adventure to mine;
to sense in the back of our minds
that a fifth of our life, will be spent
getting sights realigned.

Pining for growth,
styling the spine in our notes.
Fly if we do.
Die if we don't.
Die to the wild.
Die to the child that shoots that
fire from our throats

"Why didn't I..," You'll say,
on a day you remember, the tune
of a song that you wrote, then BOOM!

Thoughts cascade.
Brought that pain to your heart
like you fought with a ghost.

Don't get lost,

but if you do,

take notes.