The field is covered in bright green grass that He,
The baby dragon nibbles on.
I'm allergic to grass but I like watching him eat it.
know it fills him up.
The blades start rustling and we hear a train.
The sky gets bright forming a giant mushroom
I should hide in my brick shelter but he,
The baby dragon gets off on the danger of it all.
I am advised to just stand by.
Wait for the sky to clear
When the billow clouds pass
He'll be standing there.
Charred, Alive, Stumbling towards me.
I can catch him
Bandage his wings.

So I wait.
But while I'm blinded by these radiation fueled lights
I cry, and scream
Completely useless.
He flies off
waves of radiation singe past me.
Face Burning.
Skin Boiling.
I call "Dragon!"
"Baby Dragon!"
But he never answers.
Too busy getting lost in the wasteland.
Soaking in the radiation.
Loves the way it burns.
So I just sink
crawl towards what I think is his
Cold, mutated, dead body.
left behind by the whirring storm of the end.
And I rip it's wings off
Crying and screaming
Snot pouring down my face
Dust storm lashing cross my back
Red gashes against the
Glowing bright green sky
Loud muted sandy horror

Until It stops.
Goes quiet.
When I wake up.
The grass is gone.
He is standing there.
Baby dragon.
Not Scarred. Not Tired.
But stumbling forward into my arms.
His wings full of pride, glowing
Wrap around us and hug tight.
"I missed you." He says
"I love you". He says
I was the one charred, boiled.
But the baby dragon mends my blisters.
Rubs my head
whispers my name.
we count the seconds together.
Before the train noises start again.

My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves.

There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder:
Domestic, and Mountain.

My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses

My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in.

My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer.

My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick)

My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent.

Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly.

There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder.

Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around.

My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln.

One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee.

My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs

The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans.

My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue.

My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity.

My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged.

My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions

My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws.

According to Zeus
As long as you leave it's bones whole,
My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.

Tell me gently, beautiful Siren from the rocks
Whisper me memories
Who seeks my life end short
inform me bluntly, Beautiful siren from the sea
the soldiers marching to my gate.
Should I set the pitch to pour?

The demons march
I seek guidance in your song
Is there something I missed?
We’re sick
our morale is feeding the ant hills

Consult me Nicely, Beautiful siren from the rocks
tell me just how many friends,
I’ll lose to this war.

We found the sugar, found the wine.
lost the honey, lost time.
We’re out of rations,
low on passion.
men coddling tiny strands of hope.

Save me Now, beautiful Siren from the Grave.
My boats still floating
I could sail away.
back to my castle,
where my people lay.

I came here for vacation.
but I found your voice, decided to stay.

The people of my land pray,
that I go deaf and return to them.
but I decided to hear your voice
while my kingdom Rots and fades
While my people die and pray
I needed this getaway

my people, dying by my blade.
can’t stand them lookin’ up to me.
Their tears falling at my feet.
Them saying. “Please king, save me.”
praying “Don’t let them **** me.”
screaming. “They took my family!”
I wasn’t born to be a king.
I wasn’t born to be a king.
The siren sang her song to me.

There is a little boy kneeling in a chair playing with a toy tractor.
It keeps falling off the table
(Or he pushes it off)
Then he runs to pick it up and place it back on the table.
There is a diaper on the table.
(Which he also threw on the floor)
A baby has been placed at the table.
When asked the babys name, the little boy says:
"Robo Dog!"
I think that is an awesome name.
I wonder if when that baby grows up he will be emotionally unresponsive.
robotic
Charming player of a Dog
I won't follow these boys around their whole lives but assuming he is.
That little boy is a prophet.
So i'm watching the Prophet and Robo Dog
Throw things off the table and giggle.
Thinking about how simple
Pleasure can be for a child.
How intricate it can be for an adult.
When Prophet commands his Grammy to eat her bagel.
I cannot see them any more
They are sitting behind me in a booth
But I can only imagine she obliged
Or lifted to her mouth and pretended
I like to imagine this is Prophet and Robo Dogs first encounter with false truth.
But it looks like Prophet has a couple years of Holidays on Robo Dog
So that isn't quite true.

Of all the things you've looked at and said
"Wow, that's so beautiful."
How many are still there?
Ten?
Maybe just the ocean?

Picture a playground
Swing set jungle gym
Whatevers on a childrens playground
It's behind your house.
You go there twice a week

There's tutus and there's overalls
And there's little horses with springs on the bottom
That are slightly rusted
But they rock back and fourth and don't fall over anyway
Because they're so far
Dug down into that playground tar
It's just, permenant
It takes three men wearing orange vests to pull it out of the ground.
There are memories there.
Some of them are even caught on video
And you
You can't go there again

She finds the brightest star
Traces it's dotted lines
Grasping constellations yet to be
Longed after,
Naming them.

The Cigarette
Prayed too by the star captain,
Suave, compelling, proud.
Held close by the Escapist.
The comfort of the same circle of pain
with different faces,
friends wherever there's fire.

The Bottle
Held onto tightly when the chips are down
Rocking back and fourth, homeless
Good friend of the shopping cart
Of the Molotov cocktail burning bridges
Of the 2am revelry of loud sticky benches
Orange caution tape bump for consent

The Pacifier
A purse token for the forgotten children
Necklace neon green pink pigtails
The purest form of oral fixation.
Mother of the cigarette
Designed to cut words and part lips
Only comfort to give in return

Finding that balance between what feels good and what you need is harder than picking out an outfit in the morning.
Unless those outfits are all pretty slutty.
Then it's about the same,
the main difference being there's no real good solution.
Just a bad idea,
and a worse idea.
A low cut dress with no bra
Or a ruler width mini skirt over a thong.

I have always been a fan of extremes
so, I guess, between what I want
And what I need.

I'd wear the same outfit every day until it ripped,
got lost
or didn't fit me anymore.

And then I wouldn't wear anything.