eloquently exercise my capacity for speech
shamelessly synchronize, my look, your look, at you, at me
blush to rise up from somewhere deep within
sight to see through the mirrors behind you're hidden
reflect a face, another face, just to hide your own
a sound, a sound you make, from deep inside your soul
it's music rising against a ragged breeze
a bluesy beauty - ragged sound - that brings me to my knees
your soul to mourn its lack of woe?
rejoice instead amidst royalty

from what i have tasted of desire
twas a divine insanity

the sky is torn across
thy voice is on the rolling air
tis moonlight, summer moonlight
who feels compassion for our inner fires.’
sung asleep with lullabies
groping, guessing, yet progressing
all the sweet pulsing aches

i remember the history well:  and enjoy fully the delights of love –
become so still you hear the blood flowing through your veins -
my wildest force, will you return?

you flicker, i cannot touch you
dont feel sorry for me
i will take the sun in my mouth

somehow, i can be okay with goodbye when,
with a sudden snap you removed these parasitic vines, from my spine
where they had grown, laced and intertwined into my nervous system
i was anxious, suffocated by anxiety until i came to the realization that i won't miss them
they were suffocating me and i thought i was fine, because they never came close to my throat
but, nobody has to wrap their cold hands around your trachea to make you choke
all it takes is a little pressure on a part of your soul that's already constricted,
all it takes is some back and forth and promises to make you, unmake you, make you addicted
its as simple as being chained by somebody's expectations for you to change
one more person making the same promises to stick around and then not staying
one more person saying that you're perfect the way you are when you meet them
but being shocked, appalled, disgusted when you slide back the paper thin walls
you put between yourself and the rest of humanity so that you can function
you do it with all those moments you subtly assure them that your brokkeness is fiction
and the second they notice theyre right back up and running
perpetuating the cycle of your need for invisibility,
maintaining the lifestyle of perfecting your camouflage
I know someone who hid in her closet when she was just a child
to hide the scars that the next door neighbor had bored into her psyche
from her mother an everyone else - to perpetuate their happiness at the cost of herself
I understand what it's like to have a savior complex, and be full of guilt
I understand what it's like to think you have to save everyone you love from your reflection
I understand the ache in your chest that comes from running too far, too fast, in all directions
just so you don't have to take the one path you think you can't handle
I understand what it's like to not be able.

ANd if we are nothing now,
then we must have never been anything at all.
But if we are something, we are something,
no matter the cost, or the fall.

i could write in my own blood
and you wouldn't see the hurt in my words
I still cannot believe that i can tame my tongue.
But i turn it from a dagger, and hide the dagger in the churned earth
among the spring seeds,
maybe when the flowers bloom,
they will bare a sharper sort of beauty.
Maybe when the pain returns pain
maybe then it will rain, and in the rain
I will see past  lies that looked so like truths
and they will be more plain
Perhaps naked petals will unfurl,
and wildflowers will change their minds to be replanted
Memories of that sincere girl will sprout,
and i will be refilled with trust to uproot my doubt,
Perchance i will trace the stems up to the flowers
and pick each golden oval, off of its shadowed bower
hidden there among the aged leaves and cowering
under the trustworthy arms of an ancient oak tree
look deep and remember that it has a place etched deep in my craggy heart
but that place is empty and not the same, as was the carving,
from the start

I have happened upon the most interesting of thoughts. If one's goal is to find truth - and truth, innately to be found, necessitates knowing - and this is extended outwards unto everything in life - eventually, truth, and it's knowing, must bridge the gap of death. Dying is just another form of finding truth. Why should i fear it's sting?

The peaceful passing of my soul in silence is what this moment appears to be.Beneath my skin unravels a tale much the opposite.
There the silence is perforated by the echo of my hopelessness.
I am confronted by the possibility that I am losing it.
Not my sanity (though perhaps that is a subject for a different passage).That I am losing my talent.That I am losing my muse.
That the habit upon which i construct nearly my entire identity now threatens evanescence. And here I am, only halfway convinced that these keystrokes are self refuting.They are not devoid of talent. But they do not come in the same feverish manner.
They do not come in unbridled passion
They are beforehand constructed.
They are not solid images or stories, but some vague outlines of more vague impressions.
They are not paintings of the broad colorful strokes of emotions
They feel almost - not quite- cold.
And they feel calculated.
Perhaps i have been guilty of overanalyzation
It is likely.
But also, I am keenly aware that my creation is much more an act of choice these days.
It is much more an act of choice than spontaneity.
I am not taken with the wind, or the trees.
My soul does not overflow, it simply bubbles uneventfully.
I find that when i look for inspiration, it is not there.
I find that I can write about everything equally and subjectively.
I have beliefs, I have passions, yes,but somehow they do not control me.
And I am so used to being controlled.
I have before thought that there was freedom there, or more accuately, i have felt it.
And still that emotion underlies the thoughts that i now have.
It feels as if i am devoid of what i have before held deeply central to my talent as a poet.
But perhaps, this is simply a new era.
It has long been argued and discussed what sort of poetry has value, what sort of poetry is poetry - and i would posit that the answer is all of it.
There is value in the vivid pictures of emotions.
And there is value in the eloquent preservation of the facts of a situation.
Everything between on the vivid spectrum, may in some way be classified as poetry,
and is in some way inherently valuable.
I am not free.
But Neither am I bound.
This is why I am without direction.