The late January 2 p.m. sun is as follows:
    - omnipresent
    - ten thousand photon hands per body
    - shining through souls;
         >  flesh has no stopping force if completely unraveled and dissolved in the sweetness of spring;
             the promise.
         a spring something that wafts through the still fresh year air,
     the one that gets animals and humans alike frantic,
  pink in patches, rhythms beating,
resonance seeking of matter against matter,

Surface vertical,
         horizontal,
--Phasing--
& Finally
Upwards when we merge,
having found each other,
released in sync
into the sky;
Light
and heavy with the journey.

And then I kiss you again.

It's as though through letting ideas slip away into nothingness
I've died countless times:
unrealised, unfulfilled, unsatisfied.
Their last scream of agony devoid of substance,
reverberates through me,
Reminding me that
I've neglected to death that which could've filled me.

I sit alone quietly watching,

An ego of sand trickles down
each grain a like on a tweet, a seen video.
Aren't they really smart? The people who make these things?
Promised to make me golden,
And I am, indeed.
Just as cold and saleable as that.

NO no,

I keep trying to claw my way out.
It's taking too long, why isn't it working?
Hands getting weaker?
Nails dulling out?
Or maybe I've never had anything sharp on myself to begin with.

The worst is that I'm not alone in this
And most of you seem content.
Living being made to obey
With grains of dopamine being thrown around
as we dance to catch each in our mouths.
Not much different from these poor animals at the circus.

Let's cut this short.

Aim big and don't expect a praise or prize soon after you start.
People aren't brands and brands aren't people.
Let's learn to enjoy the ride more than the destination.
Good luck, I believe in me,
I believe in you.

So beautiful
White and Shimmery, They
flutter in meandering patterns
Mesmerize
Draw you towards
paper-white butterflies
all all all all around me they fly fly fly fly
A sea of white spots
IT'S HARD TO-

Tilt your head up
-BREATHE, breathe, Focus
Catch one
****** it by its wings
pluck them out
Crush its shaking body
Feel
as panicked convulsions turn into stillness

Paper-white butterflies
Don't let a single one slip by

May it be quiet
May there be no light,
For May is quite tired
Tonight Last night Next night

Sleep tight,
Shall not one bird shout
What with doubt or delight
Insomnia-blue sky sounds out

May May fess up, call-self-out?
May I, Shall I, Am I?
What only a cvnt could spout
Burnt bridges, Eye melting an eye

This milk's rotten, I won't cry
Peace is all I dream about.
The birds sing, another fight
Goodnight cry out Be alright

Capture consciousnesses,
implement into
an amalgamated
substrates' soup.
Dissolve dark
pigments, promote
all-consuming oxidation
to tear
through thoughts,
seal strands
with wishes
of overcoming
indulgences, individuality.

Beauty beyond
reason resonates
with withering
minds' molds.
Shape-shift self,
melt mercifully,
pretty please.

Evaporate every
free-spirited feeling,
despised dearly.
Free from
humble humanity,
an astonishing,
extravagant, empty,
splendid shell.

All my life I'd been starving.
This world offered me feasts after
Feasts but it seemed that even if
I swallowed the whole Earth
I'd still hunger.

One day a witch approached me
Promised me a magic sack,
That with the right nourishment,
Wouldn't ever empty
'Till I die.

All she asked for in return
Were descriptions of dishes.
Their taste, shape, smell, in detail.
For she can only eat
This way.

And so I complied with it, gratefully.
She casted charms, ordered me to eat:
"Just open your mouth, it's there."
Feeling groggy, I reached.
I felt it.

So marvellous, juicy, so fresh.
I praised that new found piece of flesh.
She smiled. "Dig deeper", she prompted.
So I'd broken my jaw,
Ecstatically.

Then licked the blood off my chin,
It was sweet and sour, just served.
How much further must I dig
For this feast's main course?

My beating
Heart.

A speckle of light in the dark
a thought, or is it a feeling?
I approach it cautiously,
protective gloves, sterilized tweezers, chemical test kits
Douse the specimen in iodine, apply indicators,
flatten, view under a microscope, put the images through filters,
Compare and contrast with previous samples.
I strain myself to determine its nature most accurately.

Is this feeling irrational?
Maybe justified, yet exaggerated?
Or real, true, pure...

I can't tell.
I bend, I break, I wring what's left of my mind dry
but these methods are proven insufficient.
no way to differentiate

I take off the gloves.
ELIMINATE
So there's nothing in the way
THEM
As I crush their wriggling bodies between my fingers.
ALL

All I do is turn life to dead silence

It's safe after all. unchanging, stable.

Pure black feels almost soft.

Nothing but void. Just this.

So simple.
Sane.







but next time, I'll try again,
there must be
A different way

It's feeding time.
Put your favorite food on the stove,
But don't you stand beside and stir while there's lots left to do:

Like drying your eyes with the light of meaningless information
Like running laps between choices to make, never quite reaching any
Like watching herds of dust cats growing in every corner
Like ignoring texts
Like drifting away
Like feeling dead
            or fearing you will be
            or wishing you were
Like covering your skin's imperfections with pure red
Like decorating walls with scratches for every time you've ever:
            inconvenienced someone slightly
            thought ill of anyone or anything
            made others worry
            failed to take care of yourself
            burned your food
Like...




Ding!
Now that you've taken your time with these routine steps, your meal should be ready.
You've done well. The charred bits serve as perfect fuel to the fire that consumes you.

The resulting smoke signals a message:
"You were right,
you truly are worthless.
Here's what's left,
only a few bites of what's unburnt.
You deserve nothing more"

I've stated it right away,
At the top of the page and my lungs,
a simple guideline:
"not about love"

Obviously,
that desperate rule got broken.
And so it seems only logical that
Once it became "about love",
all words left me
after such a blatant act of betrayal.

Can't blame them, I would've left myself if I could.

Sometimes it feels as if I have no skin on.

Every blow of unfavorable wind
like thousands of needles
driven deep into exposed flesh.
Crowds of relentless, sandpaper-cloaked figures
tear off muscle, fiber by fiber
as they pass scraping by.
Gazes turn sunbeams into chisels
that carve fourth degree burns
into the sorry mess of these insides-turned-outsides.

Maybe I truly have no skin on. Maybe that's why they point at me.
Always with such pity, amusement
And disgust.

I heard it.
A human voice.
Connection established, solitude broken.
The sound of a string snapping,
(....)
I hope I was mistaken.

Silence collapsing under its own weight.
Scattered quarks and anti-quarks  
shattering the perfect neutral harmony.
The remorseless swelling of matter.
Until no stillness, no Nothing remains.

It is strange to move unburdened.
Feet so light that
with each step they shoot high up to the sky,
Threatening to kick the teeth out,
or rip my thighs' tendons,
Restraint so foreign to them.

Quite curious my hands feel
released from the duty of holding me together.
Consumed by bittersweet emptiness
As they confusedly try to grasp
something, anything to hold onto or
at least the meaning of what "freedom" actually is.

So please be patient
as I stumble around in this awkward body.
You see, the me this free wasn't here for growing up
So I'm just beginning learning how to
align feeling with being
All Right

If that of me which were rubbed away
got retrieved,
then


(Of course, yes,
it can't become "Me" again.)


It could at least be made mine. Arranged anew
as

"An eraser's poem"

IF YOU THINK







DON'T