I've been buried in your clothes
Year by year as I watch you grow
The weight of this world doesn't apply
Only pants and shirts fill up my sky

When you leave your home, I'll be fine on my own
I will never try to find out where you go
And when you go away, underneath your clothes I'll remain
I just wish you had the time to play with me

I thought you needed me since we met
Your feet say otherwise with every step
The weight of this world doesn't apply
Your pants and shirts fill up my sky

Little by little my arms collapse
Just dust and echoes fill the gaps
The weight of this world doesn't apply
You buried me under your sky

Another one for the slaughter,
When every sight doesn't meet your eye,
You'll throw another one over,
So you don't swim with the coming tide.

Get your hands off, this is way out of order,
A spring without purpose is fall towards disorder.

So what's your cause in a war,
You stomp out your brothers you swear to be standing for,
To find your place in the stars,
Instead of a poster you keep folding over.
Activist, Anarchist, show me a sign,
Who's crossing the line,
Pinch hitting for every side,
Between a somber stampede and a streetlight regime,
Just who's power hungry.

It's all the same old condescension,
You lack the motives behind your smile,
We can't just keep the **** collection on a sidewalk for a rain check,
So drown in your own denial.

Sink or swim, what does the current circumstance call to you when sirens drown out everyone.

As cycles stay direction, you'll waste your clocks to ******* preach.

As cycles stay direction, you wasted clocks to preach,
Spare no integrity with veiled intentions,
Convulsing with delight in your own speech.
Fancied yourself a martyr,
And yet it's getting harder just to shoulder a cross,
Walk out onto the water,
To turn a prophet, there is always a cost.

Forever moving two steps forward,
Then always falling three steps back,
It's like an arms race against a world,
Perfectly cinched around my neck.

This is the back and forth with myself,
The tug of war I've waged so long,
And now the walls are growing closer,
Every exit I knew is gone.

With self destruction as a constant,
I've always found the time to ****,
Be it in health or motion sickness,
Whether sitting or standing still.

Is everybody looking my way,
Or do my twitching eyes deceive,
I'm paralyzed by your intentions,
Or what they all perceive of me.

So this is panic at its finest,
But I swear I'll be ok,
These hands were made to pick myself up,
Despite the pieces drifting away.

My conscious, my chemistry,
A single voice, just a drop in an endless stream,
My purpose, a heavy price to pay,
Worthless to the person I am today.

The sliver under my nail, the hole torn in my sail,
The inconceivable back up plan destined to fail.
The solitude of the sheets, the **** torn in my cheek,
With my words bleeding through, now biting down, so to speak.

And it's torture, fighting fiction with a thought.

And I was doing so well...

Deep in memory foam,
I could have sworn I felt you.

The index and the middle hiking up a shoulder,
Catching a view past brunette strings to window folders.
Golden slivers make a home where the thought used to count,
While the rain leaves the cranium reflecting in a drought.

A field of plastic rests where you used to be,
And I hug every single piece closer to me.
And if I hold each one of them long and tight,
It's like the skin never left that night.

I will hear your bones scratching for keys,
Carrying each ring over cigarette burnt seas.
You'll find me drowning and resurfacing from my dreams,
Shipwrecked on a raft made of polyurethane and memories.

Every white bump we used to count in any weather,
Now merely constellations we'll never shape together.
All the fictional backlash that echoed from the walls,
Bleeds out a fable and falls.

Returning with a bottle yet again,
And this is what you call confidence.
Disguising glass with see through hands,
But I still don't understand.

I'm a moth asking light hearted questions,
Answer me then-
What do you think of,
Love or the idea.

Gaze to the glass,
Descends an ashtray,
Just as it mutates,
A chirping of ice like families, nestled in the acrylic riverside.

Conquer the silhouette,
Formulaic and mundane,
From heir to a lung tight riot,
Dubs a throne of fibers and ash, a coagulated monarch.

In her pursuit,
To predestined heaven,
Connects an ashtray,
Weakens the soles of a nail, strikes the floor.

Strikes the floor.

Strikes the floor.

Strikes the floor.

Consequential cornea,
Staring at a canvas,
Violently resisting a cloud of salt water,
Selfishly succumb to the follicle strands,
They administer a quiet reprieve,
Two convoluted colonies of physical expressions,
Where one is ambivalent and the other unconvincing,
Into an ether of color and disorder, tortured on a skin tight easel,
He is trying so hard to paint a smile on that face,
But his brush is dry, his paint mixed together,
Attempt to break the silence,
To be met with a lethal interjection.

I know this doesn't make sense,
It never does,
So I will put this into words you'll understand,
I am gone,
Out the window,
Free fall into concrete,
Gurney waiting calmly,
For a chord to pull,
A pillow over my face,
A needle shoved in my vein,
A lethal interjection,
A desperate panic attack,
I'm setting you free,
And you will be happy.

An ocean of leaves refuse to catch me as I drown,
Offering scratches from branches as I settle down,
And, of course, my final view would have a dark patch of clouds,
That don't even have the decency to shed a raindrop for me now.

The wind at my back passes so fast as if attempting to ignore me,
Not even a bird whistles a cheer as I plummet towards the street,
My shoes, my wallet and my keys abandon me and flee,
As if to make it easier for gravity to take me.

Optimistically, at least I won't hear any annoying sirens,
No people to act like I'll be ok, no false promises,
Just a bed of concrete for a body to lie and sleep,
And while the world turns away, at least the asphalt will hold me.

And I know I deserve this, this was destined, this was written,
From those final words left carelessly on a note in the kitchen.

Somewhere, someone subsides in a calm cartoon,
Sleeping soundly to the serene social tunes,
Sings several strange birds and a single soft beat,
Surviving summer heat and sipping something sweet.

She starts a staring contest with the silent silhouette,
Shouting "see you later son", as they're swallowed by the sunset,
So I stretch my arm to her shoulder, surveying the coming night sky,
Surrounded by a sea of shining stars, pulling my sweetheart to my side.

Some could say serendipity, sublime, a strange sort of substance,
Somehow, these silly descriptions don't do my song justice,
Somewhere, some snuggly lovers sleep, sing and survive,
So long as we're together, through the sunsets and the sunrise.

I feel my heart beating again, despite its composition,
It's just dirt and stone, my organs punctured and bleeding asphalt,
All of my guts spill and slosh out on the ground, sentient and clawing,
Molded into an avalanche of hands extending beneath your feet,
So that you may walk down this beautiful road I've created,
Made not from blood, sweat or tears, just stone, asphalt and rearranging,
Yet all I do is crumble by your gaze and quake from your beauty,
You've made this mountain move and you didn't even try,
And as you pass on by, I can't help but want to cry a diamond for you,
But instead, I just crack a smile.

This window is my calendar and every sunrise feels like a Monday,
Where every leaf dances to the wind, up and down, in a spiraling parade,
I've grown jealous of the coat on every squirrel and the feather of every bird,
Skittering and fluttering their designs, jumping and flying without any concern.

My one and only attire has a lot to be desired, by comparison to say the least,
And my arms and legs, as numb and limp as stone, just can't even compete,
Although I may be bald, the feeling of standing hair slithers through my skin,
And I can't help but shed tears of joy, despite all this envy I feel within.

I should be running more, over emerald fields of blades, tickling up a smile,
I want new clothes, tighter than mine, that hug like a mother to her child,
I need to get out of this room, far from all these imitation ice cream walls,
Where a sweet aroma actually lingers, like concessions at the mall.

I'm just so sick and tired of all these procedures in my life,
Unable to carve up courage, choosing a needle over a knife,
Never having the literal nerve to just get up and leave,
Drowning in a bed comprised of a salty, sweaty sea.

But Friday is near, nature is there and I am here, a daydreaming accident,
And soon I will be free from all my "brave" and "strong" commitments,
Friday is almost here and I've become so sick that I can barely breathe,
Just one more day of chemo and maybe, just maybe, I'll be free.

Cushioned in the cracks till the sliver meets eye,
I am a witness,
To the spider and the fly on the table,
Taking sip after sip of a heated debate over a purpose.

Eye twitching to the sides of the walls towards a painting,
Definition in the curves of the decay,
Still aesthetic from the lines to the dripping frame,
A figure crying with a smile at the dust and the webs,
Left by the painter.

We gander on at the ghosts of an empty room,
Before the creeks from the floor stopped existing,
Before the whites and the browns of the walls turned grey,
Where the fireplace whistles a fable,
Of a light it produced even brighter,
Than the beams cutting holes in the ceiling.

If not for the rain, I could've sworn I heard the songs of the tapping,
From the infants that stabbed at the windows,
Similar to the pitch of where the door used to be,
I used to scurry to the cleft of the kitchen,
To see the gods drink the sins of the passing week,
Where they would dance against the sides of the counter tops,
Before the moss conquered most of the tiles,
Before the corrosion ate away at the sink.

The rooms I used to venture to were worlds I thought never existed,
A land made of cotton and fabric,
Where the bodies would lie upon for hours,
Voices echoed from inside of a plastic box,
And showed a story of the lives within them,
I'd always watched till the frame within turned black,
I used to itch for the morrow and the after,
I used to crave for the revelation,

I still remember.