I guess I'm just tired of being tired,

Or maybe I'm tired of being in a slump of wasted time disguised as progress

I was sent to **** you,
but which one?

The one that clings to every virtue,
or the one that weeps in shameful radiance?

I was sent to **** you,
but which one?

The one whose smile is never warm enough,
or the one that craves perfection?

I was sent to **** you.

My body isn’t mine.
I don’t have a true body.
I have a shell.
Like a snail.

My soul found me
as a hollow body,
a perfect inhabitance.

Once I’m dead,
the cycle continues.
My soul will saunter the universe,
searching for a new shell.
Like a snail.

Pathetic paper and pathetic words
A silent risk resists what thought affords
An empty paradox has now occurred
Ink cannot pierce thoughtlessness, broken swords

Salted ink refuses all my pleas
A brass finger emptied of its talent
Ideas once mine drift with fleeting breeze
A strong work ethic one must balance

A poet loses all integrity
The night conspires to steal his fleeting voice
Blank virtues stretch with utter elasticity
All troublesome, to not make the wrong choice

What becomes of a writer without word,
when all the lines of voice seem to blur?

I like breaking things
To serve as a distraction
I like breaking things
Because the past always stings

To serve as a distraction
A quiet fracture sings
I like breaking things
To serve as a distraction

You remind me of the way tea cools slowly.
A burning liquid surely degrading
to one lukewarm
that most scrunch up their nose in disgust when drinking.

But not me.
Even if I hated it
I'd drink every last drop,
my eyes creasing at the corner
as I down the tea in large gulps
just to see you satisfied enough
to put up with me.

You remind me of the way sun hits skin,
the warm palette of yellows
spreading across peachy skin,
creating a blend sweeter than honey.

I'll be that sun for you.
The one that casts an evening glow
onto your concentrating face
as you invest in your books.

I study your face so intensely
sometimes I wonder if you find me strange.
I wonder if you even care enough
or just use your artifice
to trick me into writing another stanza
on everything I love about you.

I once knew a man
pale as fair and slender

He wore a hat made out of his heart
and shoes made from his eyes

He never took them off
no

Every time our eyes met
you could see a faint pumping
of a euphorically beating hunk of flesh
strewn across his head
sewn together with every last dream and hope
he possessed

Does she like me back?
the headwear groaned and ached
with raw want

And the eyes
the eyes glued by his logic
scanning the area
sensitive
alert
What was he stepping into?
Was it safe?

I hope one day he takes them off

Because a hat serves as protection for the skull
but a heart beats to be protected
vulnerability its driving desire

And shoes guide us in the right direction
but our eyes
seem to only see the wrong things