I looked for you
Amongst the pale and grey
As I saw you fading away
Melting
Into the concrete
Falling to defeat

So I bent a knee
Inaudible prayers for you
Then unlaced my walking shoes
Time
I placed into your cup
Hoping it would be enough

No plan to stop the tears
Inelegant, no grace
Shirt wet where you buried your face
Grief
I lost you in your pale and grey
But I know I’ll find you again in a smile

We’ll speak and measure
Only the amount you need
Contemplating long walks and sore feet
Rising
Don your shoes, pick you up
As you did for me miles before

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

I remove my shoes beside my bed;
Morning comes,
I trip and fall
And bust my head.
What a terrible place for shoes!

Evening comes and I sit down in my room
After working like a ******* idiot slave.
I remove my shoes,
But I feel the pain...
So I throw my shoes across the room.
Morning comes again;
I make my way to the bathroom
And before I know anything
I'm on the ground.
What a terrible place for shoes!

The day drags on as
Headaches and embarrassment
Follow me around throughout my daily adventures.
They laugh at me and grind my cells
So I take a few vicodin.
The day comes to an end and
In my opiated stupor
I remove my shoes and
Leave them by my bedside
Once again.
Morning comes
And I'm on the ground
For the third time.

This is it.
I've had enough.
No more ******* shoes
In the house.
I train myself to leave
All shoes in the front hall.
This should do the trick.
I wake up the next morning
And all the shoes are gone!
Christ... I must have forgotten to
Lock the front door.
**** kids...

I walk somewhere like my feet are reaching a conclusion
But I meet the next line of my life with intrusion
Wish I could tell you there'll be a happy ending
The story is to be continued, the ending is pending unto
but right now I've got writers block, and I can't think of anyway
To turn the page without you
Just,
Paint your feet green, and I will paint mine blue
Everywhere we walk will be beautiful
and when my paint runs dry
Don't stop walking, don't cry
Just be happy we painted a picture together
and bring it everywhere with you

"flower cannonball" they called you, since your
stems wrapped itself tightly together like hands
intertwined or vines clinging onto a fence or even
my teacup mix's claws yanking onto my lace shirt.

they used the dumpster graveyard flowers to create
you. despite the vivid color scheme, the cannonballs
were nothing short of a beautiful disaster in my head.
let an apocalypse happen, i'm already rotting away
anyway from the mixture of screwdrivers and the
cannonball drinks. let me strain myself clear of hues
of blues and black you painted me with. let me sink
with these letters tucked underneath my ribcage as
my seatbelt for the death sentence. at first, i couldn't
understand why you were called a name like that.

now i am understanding love and loss's gravitational
pull and the release of that gravity. you were a beautiful
disaster, building castles on rubble and driving ferraris
on cracked streets filled in with tar. you were nothing
short of beautiful, nothing short of death being romantic,
and death is starting to look a lot like you now.

i don't even care if i die anymore.

- kra

As we lay here together,
There's an unwelcome knock at the door.
I know I shouldn't, but I let it in.
Immediately, regret and guilt fills my head,
For I know what is about to come,
And I have the power to do everything to stop it
But instead, I surrender.
Legs shaking and body numb,
The demons see it as an open invitation.
Now I lay here, writhing in mental turmoil,
The battle has begun.
I am anxious and embarrassed,
Knowing the most radiant and shining angel
Is close by, yet the hero and helpless are hopeless.
Confused, but without judgment,
He takes my hand, kisses it gently, and says
'My dear, you and eye both know
This moment in time is but one grain of sand
Look deep into your Self and take command.
This is your life, your heart,
All wrapped up in a tiny hourglass-
Deep breath in.. and slowly out,
This too, my love, will surely pass.'
She knew he was an angel,
For he said all this and more
Using no words-
Just soft kisses and a sweet embrace
With pure and good intentions.
But she heard him and he was right!
Slowly but surely the tension evaporated.
She wiped her teary eyes, apologized,
And proceeded to softly mention
Her gratitude~
For all he's ever done,
For all he'll ever do,
She touched his face and whispered
'Angel, i love you.'

Sometimes there is nothing to do, when all there is to do is wait.

Action would be overt
stepping on toes of brewing events.

When missed connections collide silently, the pieces fit somewhere else they'd rather be

Doing of nothing can seem daunting and wrong
like trying to open cans with toothpicks facing a starving crowd of 5 year olds

but when the recent turn of events has requested a movement
out of the fast lane,
to not comply would be foolish
something is germinating
hard work in the past is ruminating
and manifesting
a future.

The way we've shaped our habitat,
less than an instant seems too long.


It is a curious succession of feelings
when all there is to do is wait -

longing fades first,
to an epiphany of what is attachment
then,
the new years celebration of relinquishment
after,
a rising to the surface from the bottom of a body of water with eyes wide open
hands free of shopping bags or luggage
and a slightly confused sensation of nowhere

not longing
not not longing