I want it to be a bellowing impact
When I think of it
Repeat and repeat and repeat
A madman I’ve made of myself
Repeat and repeat and repeat

How reduced I feel in this
Barely able to claw myself out
Just for an inkling of perspective
For what?

Hot breath and lungs used liberally?
Hands weak from a grasp unaware?
These moments of affection,
existing isolated in gossamer
drive me up the wall.

Claws that sear like roots
Into my skin like,
something. I’m not sure.

Sometimes when I shiver,
it feels gentle.
A deep breath in cold air.
Exhale into warm arms.

Easy to miss it - the laughter.
Embraces of a friend.
That cannot be all the way out here.
Where all I know is the rain.

in small clawed hands, i imagine
lie a responsibility so foul it can hardly be spoken of
spawn of maxwell and joke of the white coats
or was it the stargazers? doesn't matter.
can't stand the ******

how many speeding atoms has it let slip?
sitting upon the throne bestowed to itself
maybe holding a cute pitchfork. attempted appeal
it killed everybody and everything and keeps going
its a hard job to do i get it but still a bad move

its a shame they made sense of you
that little negative sign could bring back my family
some friends too but the Little Demon wasn't dumb
it became a lawyer and diffused it all away
they say thinking generates entropy

I can feel myself fade away in a cycle.
Thin skin never did suit me well.
Each day broken up into tiny manageable parts.
Built to be a curated filter my personality must fall through.

This is not repair, but maintenance.
An entropic form that must dilute to remain safe.
I am a capillary of my years, resentful of oxygen.
No pulse can sift through me now.
I'm alone in this vena of an apartment.

Certainly there is no breaking of barriers here.
A refusal to spill blood for the wait makes this almost
pleasant.

Such a beautiful sound,
for the birds to cry out at.
It's been awhile since they last painted for me.
Spreading wings like brushstrokes that dot the clouds as if they were born to percolate through them.

Plant

I love my new furniture. I'd always been too worried about spending too much. I can really stretch my legs in-between these walls. My family thinks I chose wisely.
My house is missing the western sunset, and I can only seem to get so much sun. The rain here isn't the same.

Plant

Crimson. It's always the beginning of the song. It sings itself in my head when I drive. Sometimes I sing along if nobody is in earshot. My youth wonders if the trees will hear me if my wheel slips when nobody is around. The sound would be so loud, I imagine.

Plant

Maybe it's the feathers floating down, or the pavement brushstrokes. The sounds are so pretty out here, where I'm no longer in earshot. Am I too far into the echo to come back?

It's my youth
what have I done
to see all this choir
fall through the sand

It's the lens,
the color flips
neon aquamarine
what have I done

It's a call from the root.
Accuse and stave rot
do you remember me?
what have I done

a constellation a day
becoming an adult
what have I done