I'm not exactly sure which is better: losing sleep over tiresome thoughts or sleeping your life away days at a time for the same reason. I believe deep down we all want good to win; we want to be better, to grow, to eat three times a day, and be light. But even deeper we find the want for not really knowing anything, only acting based off our emotions. We want to cave in, to be human and live in a mystery. Knowledge is power, but knowledge can hurt. I want the rose and its thorns, and i want its consequences. My mind moves faster than my heart could ever keep up with and I don't think I'll ever be able to settle in, sit still, and know and a c c e p t that this is my life. But until then those voices will keep running me ragged and all i can do is scream.

Our faces
in the dictionary
next to awkward,
me clutching a can
of some second-rate cider,
you looking round the room
for a certain someone? For someone.
I flitter over like a moth,
my eyes assaulted by every little thing,
the earrings lipstick
top skirt heels perfume,
a barrage of chemicals
that send my mind whirring
as if sloshed in a blender.
Conversation swarms with errors,
my syrupy words out of date months ago.
Then he comes with his stubble,
charming smile that appals,
and the silence flows in
like a toxic smog.

maybe the ground is tilting
i descend
earth dipped in blood
kid eating a candy apple
space all stretched
fuzzed out
light beams round tree limbs
hanging lanterns
i try to speak
density
a million billion stars crushed into a black-
you pick up the jacket and throw it
the cat says bow-wow
bow-wow
bow-
my head a ******* balloon
string tangled like negative space
the moon’s surface
i hate this world

Tell me there’s a purpose.
No.
A severed head.
The self in departure.
Crossing a river.
Light beams fall through.
There are four walls that make up the emptiness of this room.
throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing
Language writhes.
I fail to find the contours.
Sharp and brittle, like the hop hop sting of minute glass.
pitter patter
arms thrown
out out, out out, out out, out
The word is power, signifier of a real that folds into itself irrevocably, perpetually.
I construct that which I speak, divorcing the imaginary and symbolic with a plunging knife.
God is born in ****** revolt.
Entangled in the penumbra of becoming, I birth the stranger that is myself.
Who are you?
A static noise.
Father breathing snow onto the mountain.
Hair, grey matted, a coarse empty palm.
Tell me the tale of withering.
White abyss.
The bifurcation of light from darkness.
The power of speech split totality from the world.
Purged death in freezing time.
brittle bones
circulation
a shutting door
still air
winter passing
A cool current that stutters like the clap shut of death.
I run but go nowhere.
Child crying in the empty hallway.
I speak the word but no one is there to hear it.
I circulate like blood.
Face pressed to the floor.
I repeat.
The word is power.
Tears staining my cheeks.
I am nothing but a swell.
The empty drone of the earth.

This hand you cling so tight to
Why you think I'd ever fight you
Every leave you, ever go
Tell me why, I do not know

These eyes you love so dearly
Why you think they'd ever really
Look away, I am not sure
But there's no other him or her

It's only you,
It's only ever
This will always be forever
Here we are and here we'll be
While you are you and I am me

A friend once said she wished she could get as inspired as I do sometimes,
And I certainly hope she finds her inspiration,
But never in the way I have.
I've found my inspiration in the gutters of people souls, myself included,
In witnessing the lashes someone can put in someone's spirit with their whips of words,
I've been the sufferer and the abuser
I found it in the anguish I came from, from finding a dying parent
Finding a quiet friend in a casket
From the brinks I brought myself too
It's tragic, I could never wish this on her
I wish her to find her inspiration humming from the strings of her guitar
From biting sips of wine
From a man who hopefully sees her as she is
And hopefully never from the abyss from which I take my chances
She should get hers from fast nights and slow dances,
From laying low in high places,
I think of you often,
By her I've surely been forgotten,
I wish the best,
But one thing I know is I'll keep the rest

You lost yourself somewhere along the way, somewhere as dreamy as the sounds you speak in,
We all do at some point, it happens,
Some call it growing up, I call it lying down,
I tried looking for what you lost in the wreckage of this town,
in smoldering piles of rubble and ash,
but nothing was to be found,
at least nothing that would last,
And now I see my Femme Fatale,
Lost in a mixture of sheets and other's ballads,
Come back to yourself
Not for me

1101

Between the form of Life and Life
The difference is as big
As Liquor at the Lip between
And Liquor in the Jug
The latter—excellent to keep—
But for ecstatic need
The corkless is superior—
I know for I have tried