how strange, that all of these voids and lights and dust in my chest, will never be more than lights and voids and dust to you.

there is no gaping abyss or infection in the word, only the sound of my voice modulated by the shape of my mouth.

there is no lingering burst of emotion through my chest and into my being, only odd confessions that spill from my lips that sound like weight and a heavy pain.

there is no scattering of remnants of what used to remain, no rush of desperation to cling to shards of glass, only strange noises that depict an understanding you’ll never know.

how strange, that everything that makes up my being, every gaping wound and glowing scar, will never be more than words i find that you can’t quite discern.

i want to have light in my eyes again,
but all of the stars are in space.
i want them shine like tears never falling,
but instead there’s just numb in its place.

i want to hold music and light in my hands,
but all of the stars are in space.
i’ll gather the leaves and pretend they won’t leave,
when winter comes baring her face.

i want to have dreams and have hope, for once,
but all of the stars are in space.
the light i desire, too far to inspire,
so i’ll keep my head down in this race.

weary are the rested,
with the promise of content.
and weary are the heavy,
with time not fully spent.

there must be flies in the hills,
in the grass and ponds and streams.
nocturnal nostalgia numbs nonsense,
but nonsense returns in my dreams.

weary are the rested,
their sould not fully healed.
and weary are the heavy,
they need to dream revealed.

the flies in the hills are gone now.
the silence, it screams in my skull.
nonsense creeps in through the window.
nocturnal nostalgia numbed null.

if i was a stream with bubbles for skin,
i’d flow over mud and the pebbles within.
i’d breathe with tadpoles in my lungs,
and hush them calm till summer comes.

i’d babble and sing with a voice like the rain.
i’d rise and i’d fall, but i’d never complain.
i’d drop with a crash and a splash and a plop,
then gently meander till everything stops.

and when the rains come, i’ll overflow.
and all the birds and fish will know
that i am a stream
that ever flows.

if i was a boulder with moss for hair,
i'd find a stream and settle there.
watching bugs and fish go by,
i think i'd like this rocky life.

the sun will brush my hair just right,
and birds will rest their wings from flight.
and underneath my stony feet,
rabbits will burrow, and love, and sleep.

and when a hawk shades ground below,
the mice will scurry and hide and know
that i am a boulder
with moss that grows.

breathe.
breathe.
breathe.

breathe.

breathe.

breathe.
breathe.

breathe.
underneath the flesh you’ll find
the writhing mass of blood that’s mine.
it leaps and twirls like graceful dancers,

it scrapes my bones and leaves unanswered.

breathe.

breathe.
breathe.

breathe.
what’s the point of taking breaths
when im dizzy and coiled and trapped on my bed?

my chest rabbits up
and it rabbits back down.
i’m breathing, or trying, but i still end up drowned.

breathe.
breathe.

breathe.

breathe.

i’m losing
perception of every direction.
infested, infected with fear and depression.

breathe.

breathe.

breathe.
breathe.


breathe.

this is the mood for a poem, i think:
skin crusts in corners whenever i blink.
i was feeling quite down just a moment before,
but now i’m a shell, like i was times before.

it’s short-lived, i hope, as i write the next line,
hoping this wont be like previous times

this is the mood for a poem, i say,
as my dreams and my hopes and my thoughts drift away.
i wonder if they know that i’d like them to stay.

read something, watch something, write something, stop.
the words start to slow, then the moment is gone.
stories and poems alike, gather dust.
and the gears that turn thoughts, grind as they all turn to rust.

i blame it on the water that never comes out.
the kind that’s trapped behind eyes when you struggle to shout.

this is the mood for a poem, i write,
as the words stretch beyond what i thought was just mine.
write something. stop. no. it’s not done.
i set the pen down and i reach for a-