It comes like an electrical fire,
slow and creeping; slowly building up.

But it reigns down like memories of childhood,
and laughter underneath the sun.

Like the loudest chanting choir,
or a reasonable markup-
everything screams "would
you ever have fun"

I am a kite,
soaring through the sky,
no thunder, lightning, or obstacles in my path.
I am a staircase unwavering in an abandoned building.

Like the one's we used to climb.

But half is missing, corroded and fallen to
the basement, what a shame it would have been to
fall with it. For a while I'll be honest I thought I did. Like I
was a goner, alone and confused and scared. Like the world is.

But then something changed.

I realized the pieces of my staircase that have slipped,
wavered and crashed to the basement in plumes of dust
were necessary to be me. To be or not to be the person I want
to be. It's sort of convoluted I know. But it is true nonetheless.

So I am a laughing lynx,
sitting on my wavered
old fence, waiting and crying
for the sun to shine down
on whatever I will be.

Walking over the ash,
teetering the line between love and death.
There comes a crying from a stack,
hands and feet and heads staring up,
reflecting on the murky water.

Smoke is still spilling in the air, tumbling and
turning like a bride and groom dancing. But there
are no people here. You can see their eyes, without
the same refraction of light that made them human.
You can hear cries from the debris as your father leads you away.

Don't worry, he tells us all. It will be over soon.
The bombs will stop soon.
The sun will shine soon.
But soon was so far away; he had lied to his children.
Not in the way you would lie randomly though, pathologically.

He lied to them because he loved them. Because the bombs brought
back memories from his own childhood, where he already knew
from a young age they would never stop falling like glass shattered
from a bottle. Like the towels thrown over the bodies, flickering in the wind every which way.

Similar a Saturno, cuando se comió a sus hijos para no perder su palacio.

Hay una chica tan aterradora, hermosa y divertida que vive en mi mente.

Ella es suave como las flores, y áspera como un arbusto de espinas afiladas. Pero aún así, tan hermosa como una rosa.

Se llama Maga.

Y por alguna razón, ella todavía se ocupa de mi mierda.

You know how, in those old quiet movies
the hopeless romantic would die in the end.
Or those faces, like a walk in the park would one
day end as well.

You know how in those silent films, without the
lively piano you would watch a completely different movie.
Like the actors are puppets being controlled, and you
can see the oldness in their eyes through grainy film.

You know, there's a beauty in watching the degraded old movies in my attic, on that reel. You can feel the artist's burst of creativity.
Really see the practical effects, the struggles to capture the same
world we can capture so easily now.

It makes me feel like I'm worth it; like one day someone might come across my poems and feel what people now can't. Like maybe in the future someone might understand my own bursts of happiness, and sadness, and recognize my attempts at capturing my world.

It's Thursday, the 28th.
Time flies through the window
like the breeze, and I can't remember what day it is most days.

Who is the crazy mountain man?
He sits on his wooden stool,
smoking his withered pipe.
The air around them cool.
The air around them cool.

Next to him lies his son,
bitter and to confuse,
pretending to catch grasshoppers,
father never had much to lose.
Father never had much to lose.