The knot in my stomach
tightens, this awareness
will fade if I do not take
care of myself. I can't live
like this, mind seeks to cut
itself off from my body and

its emotion.
We are two; mind
and body, man and woman,
Darkness and light. I am one; a human
on her journey, trying hard to remember his old

life. Forgotten hopes of learning
meditation, yoga, and tantra
as a means to better my health.
What wishful dreaming, a notion
of adventure, looking back it seems
like momentary longing was satisfied
in its instance of being.
I remember

the existential amazement of a child
and the loss of that is haunting me.
I also remember a willingness to
play the villain and I wonder
whether a carefree attitude
is the thing I'm missing.

I think often about the
Inheritance Of Loss
and of innocence.

I thought I was ready
to find someone and relate
to them, that I was ready to rejoin

What things I've written
over the years, I wonder
what will they remember,
What image will be left for
those I leave behind? A few
weeks ago I had an intense
realisation. What would I do
if I were terminal?
I'm still wasting time trying to
come to terms with my question
and to find some strength from it.
I remembered to breathe today
(so often I forget). I had a couple tokes
and got a little ****** but I don't miss it
as much as I thought (though I miss the times
and the humility of tripping). I avoid work like
an expert, lapping up the sun while it shines and
buying synthesizers; I did just finish
8 months of therapy.

Another realisation, or rather
the application of knowledge
I already possessed, a cause is
merely something we construct.
Supposing how and deriving why
are a useful set of fictions to abide by
yet they cease to serve when I assume
it's my fault and I should be able to make
a change or difference.
I persecute and victimise, recuse myself from
my own life, wondering whatever could rescue
the person I was
as a child.

A long summer's dusk
yawned
as if this side of the earth
were tired
of day and wished to usher
in the quiet of night. I found
myself sitting on a stone bench
overlooking the river, cathedral
and town as magnanimous indigo
stretched so spritely to ripple across
the sky and corral the light so that the
stars could guide me home.
Something shone
so I asked, where have all my people gone?

I feel like a sheep in wolves' clothing.
Afraid, angry, hungry, but more than
anything
I am lonely.

Humans few and far between,
I love you with all my heart
but when the poet's over
turn out the lights; like
all the things I've felt
throughout my life,
"This feels right".
The good, the bad, and
the meaningless. The time
spent wasted, happy; what's
the point of trying to recapture
this? This was written just to say
Bye and Stuff, 'cause it's not for the

last time that I gotta lay down next to
a ****** Bed Track; and I wish that
***** could breathe for me

but I feel there's something for me now
so don't mourn for your boy Mydriasis.

He found a truth, now she's on the path
to find his peace. Call me Aletheia
because I want to be truthful.

I really haven't be reaching for it
of late; this illusion of independent
self-nature doesn't have much weight

until I try to figure what's eating
at me, what I haven't been able
to express as poetry. I keep
thinking to myself, keep
forgetting to get on
with it and tindr.

Cycling home earlier I had a thought:
She won't love me, she doesn't love herself.
Life's a cruel *****, and I am a heartless *******
in this absolute cunting-****-face of a wasted world.

Spent the first half of my twenties depressed, just
like the first half of my teens. What a waste of life,

Unable to find love, to feel. I reckon there's potential
yet, I'd summon the will, tap the reservoir, let being
flow from my repertoire. What spurred this poem?
Spent today studying from my desk
while the sun was shining

and out the window
I could see a few kids
fooling about in fine

weather, slacklining
and chatting and enjoying
themselves, making memories. Wished I was out there
with them. Then realised they're not much younger than
I, and I thought them kids. Yesterday I was cycling home
and for a moment I thought: Soon I'll be old. Sooner than
I'd have thought it would seem. I'm 23.
Time is a construct
and age, a mindset.

College is quiet now
as dusk comes to a close
and the artificial lighting
fires up to clothe campus in
that kenopsic glow, those silent
shadows yawn as the night dawns
and darkness falls but the light above
my desk is a lone beacon. "I'm still here"

writing a thousand letters and
wishing for a thousands rests.