All work, no play and neon screens
menial tasks even coat my dreams.
Overboard in bored and a silent phone,
oh no, I think I’ve evolved to drone.

Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, a life of drought.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
For lady dollar; I can’t bear her,
as the riches are even rarer.

I’ve become a machine, to crush numbers
with no log off for needed slumbers.
Now my brain’s racing, a million miles per hour,
oh no, I think I’ve gained A.I’s power.

Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, now what life is about.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
No sudden movements; don’t want to scare her,
she’s updating with no carer.

Learning binary,
a breathing library,
processing slowly
but still a finery.

I forgot what my hands were for
they used to write all that I adore.
Now fingertips type, each key a shot,
oh no, I think I’ve grown into a robot.

Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, no one hears me shout.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
Pure absorption; a simple stare,
life’s equation could be fairer.

Learning binary,
a breathing library,
walking geometry
complete machinery.

Moment
If I think of the time
When  you accompanied me
From whatever to whenever
Then you have already passed
All is fleeting

The game stops being fun,
When you spend a night full-throttle,
And can't remember if your headache's,
from a needle or a bottle.
The game stops being cool,
When you throw up in your yard,
When you look inside your mirror,
And behind your eye's you're scarred.
The game stops being fine,
When you start to fear a hug,
Because you almost check their pockets,
For some money, for some drugs.
The game comes to an end,
When you realize what you are,
When you give in to your urges,
And you OD in your car.

Let go of ego.....
a simple apology,
powerful healer.

In your eyes there lives a solar system,
but lately my planets are nowhere to be found,
when rotation is closing, do you miss them?
Your eyes tell a million stories, but in space there is no sound.

In your palms I wish to trace your constellations,
I’m sure there’s a zodiac that connects you and I.
Your infinite galaxy can’t be compared to all other creations,
I just want to float aimlessly in your sky.

I’m running out of air,
and I don’t even care,
‘cause darling the universe is you.
My apologies if I stare,
but such a perfect sight is so rare,
oh darling my heart bursts, it’s true.

Stars line her soul,
and her light is brighter than the sun.
All my life I’ve been a black hole,
but finally destiny and gravity has won.

Her mind is the vast glowing Milky Way,
shining swirls of colour no mortal could ever wish to paint,
and it can pull you in, but you already want to stay,
and bathe in the shimmering hues, both bright and faint.

I’m running out of air,
and I don’t even care,
‘cause darling the universe is you.
Burning up as a solar flare,
your light’s ideal, there is no glare,
but darling I’m cursed as the colour blue.

Stars line her soul,
and her light is brighter than the sun.
Even a supernova has it’s own role,
the suction pulls me away but to you I’ll always run.

They say space is infinite and it’s distance knows no bars,
but I know it’s still intimate to stretch to you across the stars.
We can both still see the moon,
and can still feel the heat of the sun,
I know we’ll combine our two galaxies soon,
and make our planetary systems one.

I’m running out of air,
and I don’t even care,
‘cause darling the universe is you.
The shooting stars answered my prayer,
providing a bond and connection we share,
and I swear, if you burst I’ll use stitches and glue,
‘cause darling the universe is you.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't