It burns me up inside
How together you appear to be
I know my own temperament
It’s magmatic, though its not what you see

Like a scorpion, it stings me bitter
The poison spreads into my eyes, trachea
Like a starfish surviving on the shore,
I deny my slow death and call upon my inner mafia

I fight myself away from the border
Right by there, I see you cope
A concentration chamber, my mind has become
I burn like paper, letting my ashes elope

With the itsy bits of rubble remaining
Somehow I awaken, with a brush and pan
I kneel and scrape, dust and cleanse
To become a phoenix and rise from my death again.

I’m two parts a ****** up mess
And one part bitterness,
Shake me up and let me settle
In the pit of your empty stomach
(but i’ll probably make you ******* sick)

Dear my other half,
Are you doing fine?
I think about you
all the time
I wonder,
when will we meet?

Dear my other half,
What are you doing right now?
Reading a book? Listen to music?
Crying? Smiling?
Perhaps,
you're thinking about me too.

Dear my other half,
Where are you right now?
I'm really lonely,
every things keep getting darker
And I need you here,
with me.

Dear my other half,
Please, don't give up on us
Even though you're suffering
Or, in the bottom of your life
Live up, and keep reaching up to me
Because, I'm too, reaching up to you.

They say time is healing
But my clock is dry heaving
With each tick my pocketwatch is seizing
And I'm sitting here disbelieving
Can't you hear me
My hands stuck on ten and two
Unaware of what I'm supposed to do
The lack of passing seconds leaves me blue
I need to turn the wheel to turn a different hue
But this car i bought seems to be used
And the power steering seems to be bruised
I can't afford to lose
Another battle so its time to try something new

Slowly losing sanity
Black has become white
White has become black.

The days goes by
But I can't feel them anymore
I'm stuck in my own world
Hopelessness,
Lost.

The lights faded out
The darkness is taking over.

It's 7 a.m. and drizzling
The Willamette Valley's
late winter chill

I am not a runner.
but here I am, starting
the incline

2,064 feet up, up, up,

it's Sunday and
The butte is my church
Celebrating the running god

I am not a runner.
and
my shirt is soaked
with sweat
and I'm only a mile in and my
faith
is in question:
where my mind is reminding me that
maybe I can't do it
and I know that I have flaws

where instead of praying, I'm thinking
****, ****, ****, ****.... ****!

During the ascent to the
Running god,
I'm not a runner.

When I wonder if I'm devout enough
strong enough
dedicated enough and
good enough,
when I'm
constantly tempted
by the allure of the downhill,
the seductive persuasion of the
descent

I am not a runner
and the butte is my
Church.