“You are not an artist.
You are not an artist.”

        What photos must I shoot
        How many cigarettes must I smoke

It is scary, but - I want to embody the things which destroy minds

Summer vibes feel like radiation

Use this alcohol to eradicate
The proposition - that I will be ‘okay’

My phone is on airplane mode

My ambition is floating - as a feather might -
Down to the depths

I cannot finish my own sentences

Bury my expectation with my religion

        And it’s funny
        Because I have resolved my mind to avoid romantic
        confrontation
        But, alas - I do day-dream
        Of a girl’s face & hair - for it has appeared in my dreams four
        times
        And I awake to Deja-Vu as her face appears in conscious
        frames
So…

I can imagine & I can see, but - they have become one in the same
Could not fantasize asking
Your hand in mine

Oh how I wish to cry
To sob in any light so long as you are in sight
Someone to reassure me, that - yes
“There is an end to the night.”

But I cannot. I suppress it in drives. In music videos. In writing. In self-speaking when I have only me to keep company.

Kick me off the team.
I do not know what I need.
If I could lead, as I once did.

But I have left concern in the refrigerator
With empty bottles & cans
Maybe I will return tomorrow to salvage the cents of my malleable integrity  
Won’t you reliquinish me of it ?

For I have sipped the poison of honesty
Regretfully it tastes like honey
Lustful - Fleeting - Sugary - Intoxicating

There are conversations in which my mental frame leaves the
                               parameters of my body.

No longer can I fathom the concept of ‘being in love’
        I witness dates
        and
        feel as an apprentice of such a trade might
        an inadequacy to replicate the models of those before me

Gone are my indefinite moments of sanity
        Childhood is laced in linens of silk
        Soft-spoken words
        and
        Finely crafted spontaneity lacking responsibility

Ceaseless are the times in which I must conceal the thoughts I abhor
        Depravity seems to chain my soul
        which leads to
        a Resolution in pixelation
        due to
       a visual handicap which has left my eye blind to choosing right

My friends make me happy
        but as a glass transforms back-&-forth between half-empty &
        half-full
        one glance across our wooden dinner is all it takes
        for
My thoughts to liquidate into bars of gold
Telling myself I must exchange their conversation for my motivation
        heavy on the mind
        light keystrokes

Once i reawaken at 1 A.M. from my conscious-coma
i ask myself
What good is it?
        To be thoughtful
        Yet have no action
What good is it?
        To fantasize
        Yet refuse your own inclination for renovation
What good is it?
        To be dramatic
        Yet have no one at your performance

I do understand what it means to ‘be’

        Watching Tuesday suns burn in loops of ongoing weeks
                              -    lacking peaks    -
        As I continue to lay under clothes line
        Wrapped in a melody of melancholy

But I do not understand what it means to be ‘me’

        My mind feels as a lemon candy might,
        sour at first bite -
        hollow on the inside, then gone
        Without ever truly knowing what it tastes like.

A reflection - maybe that is what I see
A replication - maybe that is what I am trying to be

        and as I sit on this back-deck  
        my left foot dangles over the left railing

        and in this midnight the street-light beams with confidence
        and
        as my eyes adjust
        The shadow grows
        Mine or your’s? - I do not know.

A miniature volcano decays between my fingertips
A moment of false peace
    -    a vapor
        come & gone
        a memory shrouded in nicotine
        lying within a bottomless ashtray  
        This is the back-yard landscape    -