in that flow state
where everything is a brushstroke

end to end
grow fade air is buried
I'm as ancient as I am unknown

period.

weary kids make the best
clearly dead adults;
my fabled gilded career tree.
if I built it they would've came, right?
cradled wilted;
the mirror me waving at me
when I'm not looking.

should have been a comma.

on the interstate
I feel like a virus in the bloodstream
of some massive beast.
I feel glad to be here.

I feel alot of things.

I feel ugly is underrated.
I feel apathy like hearing rats in the walls.

at least I feel anything at all.
really.

As if I wasn't
Knowing you with all your faults
All your aspirations I knew
They didn't include me.
So in this winter night, your knight of shining winter didn't include me in your plans of merriment.
Tis the season
But I was prepared for you
To leave.
Yet I still hate myself for being
So prepared

My brains mushy turkey leggings in the freezer out the box and waiting 3 months rotting in the summer suns running lean from the gnawing marks that carve the brittle bones into witches hex crowns
Now we create the sated space for cattle-brain pacers following infinite prompts paved pavements ending in a death that's somehow sooner than intended
Wretched runes of wretched wretches'
Held higher than I've flown remember
Glow down softer touch the ground
In slender light it feeds the being the beacon is centered on seeing receives relieving reloquaries of recollections recieved frequently tieing up the process of feeding.
What now do I need
Asked heathen skull seething from hulk to steeple creep peekin' I scream at these demons with treats and some healing I'm dressed in vermillion not sequence barely a squeel to my zealous request now a feeling.
I'm not that excitable.
I usually dress in work clothes
And wear the next days pair to bed
I just got excused, from life for two weeks in quarantine. Even my probation officer won't
See me now. So this drunken poetry fumble tumble quickly to it's end in 10 minutes since we've met my bedroom surroundings -Atchoo-  nice this time of year I treat the -Atchoo- season with a-h-h-h sense of -Atchoo- respect, mainly because of the perfect -Atchoo- weather. I Hines. .. Honeszszs....
A-Atchkooo. .
Honestly can say that I love this cold weather with my warm heart. I don't get paid leave either. Yay chrismas.

Black lines drip down this canvas
Of blue tinged white like fallen snow
I know it's grown colder so this
Feeling of surprise climbs without reason
Like finding santa's presents this season

This cold feels warm somehow
My body and mind disagree
Viewing my hairs stand in memory of freezing winds, changing a tire in sleeting weather, but all I remember is laying on the floor fireside with my familiar.

but why do we always have to be
writing to or at someone?

mirror talk.
cheer them on until stars die,
all of them.

i wonder if perspectives could be
even more slippery than they
already are?

mirrors shatter in our faces.
blood in the sink.

all of it in all of them.