Blew me away pressed
My face to the wall
Shattered my lungs with a blow and
Danced on the street
Syrupy kisses
And black
Lunges

The equals had a name and they sang hallelujah
I'll be there

Hallelujah I'll be there.
.
..

Wrinkled bags and gelatinous
comfort

How was it then

How was it when gods sang to

swine?

I have realized that im a prose writer who just writes with

odd



spacing.

It's time to stop pretending,

Or just time to be courageous and write what im supposed to.

But i cant be here anymore.

2 thousand poems and i have said nothing

Like a rothko.

Blue over white

Black stretched over red and crimson
light
bleeding

The air is hot and heavy

The walls are quiet in the morning

The fragments of ash
spill into
the noon

The violins sound for the dove

The canvass stands stoic amongst glazed over eyes in the lobby

And in the dawn there is nothing left to mourn

The painting was finished

I could travel 100000 miles spanning all continents meeting countless people and encountering numerous obstacles and happenings but I'd ultimately still be stuck with myself.
Maybe that's why the wanderlust wore off.
You cant run from yourself, but merely distract yourself.
Sitting feels like dying but traveling feels like futility to reach a destination of which you never arrive.
But i keep searching nonetheless. Maybe the trick is killing yourself.
metaphorically of course. Complete detachment, dissolving into space like a
Low murmur

liquefied time and the absense of material location.

I'll still be there.

I'll still be here

It makes no sense but it felt good making it

I don't need 'meaning' to appreciate something
I can appreciate it just for being.
It says enough without
speaking

You can't live without purpose. You can only **** time

Dont mistake being alive for living

Junk
This may be junk

There are commas and there are questions

Like junk
In your
Cellar
And junk in your spoon

The creeping
Dread is like family

Bonded by blood and
embittered by
time