The world is a missing music box,
Where the voices are lost.
All spirits are dancing, in spaces, between-
Madness and laughter, A child's tale.

Narrate the stories and ingest the thoughts,
The world is a missing music box,
And You are not what you rather seem to be-
Your religion, Your place, Your position in between,
A lost truth and and a crooked meaning.
A child's tale.

First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.
First as a river flowing,
then as a dawn mist glowing.
I Cannot but think of you, our souls,
like lost little clones, swimming in a pond,
With dreams to fly, I am learning that I've pride.

First as a cold winter day, I love the
gift of light.
I understand that you hate the mode,
of fright. It is easy to float, like bubbles
of wine in my throat.
I am not trending as a goat, And you are loved,
Therefore we are dreaming to fly,
I am learning that I've gorged with delight.

O! Happy days, Happy Happy days.
There was an age of suns and glory,
And heroic similes.
Fortunes favor the brave, I have been dancing,
over the grave, the gravest of thoughts,  
As an ashcan, Like a patient on a table, etherized.

First as love, then as hate.
Burning coal in my hands, I understand.

A body needs a soul.
The flower blooms at dawn.
The motion hides a force,
A jumbled overdose.

"I am an addict.''

"What do you take?"

"Not ****** or marijuana.
Or even alcohol or acid."

" O that's awkward..."

"No I mean, I am addicted to Reality."

"As in?..."

"I expect. I dare to communicate."

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.