This is the truth of suffering-     when something as a feather falls as fast as a lightning strike to the ground-     and you see the melancholic burns in the grass slither, slip into every weary heart.

This is the truth,
of the cause
of suffering, to watch the world die, the flowers grow to be eaten, stomped on, caressed or simply plucked and thrown away.

This is the truth of the end of suffering, and the path that leads towards it, with all its twists and turns.

All of it's a plague,
dripping from a dagger,
or a thief in the dead of night,
exalted in the moonlight.

Worn to the brim is the old necklace,
as it's red beads fall to the marble floor.
I find in a way they are feckless,
fickle as they crack and slide, what for?

Is this decay worth attaching meaning?
Will there possess another time,
another callous hand to break weaning,
broken red beads far further as they climb?

There is a voice in the distraught,
a screaming owl in the cacophony-
and as I have been regally taught,
it is inside the mind often he-

forgets what he was saying as he talks-
lost in the cold, uncharted world he walks.

I just want to lay down,
wash my skin away.

Their hoses, wet,
houses, painted,
lawns mowed.

I hate it.

I just want to exercise,
ride my bike, leave this plight.

I'll pedal fast, run hard, do so
many push ups my arms feel
like snapping.

Behind me though, I'm being watched.

Look around, you'll see nothing,
my head is a maze that creates apparitions.

Sometimes I can see them plain as day,
other days, some days, they fade away.
Those are the happiest-

when I am normal. When I can hold a conversation.

God! I can feel my whole world crumble.
I'll probably fall ill, sad, diseased.
I'll surely watch my body tumble,
from outer space, my mind appeased.

But my body! Oh my body still lies,
down in the mire; the sick land below.
And in time maybe I'll do my cries,
write the same lines in the snow.

I'll surely show them my screeching writ!
I'll end the facade somewhere.
Even just for a quiet spacing bit.
Distract myself, get myself out there.

lo, in the darkest stairways I will climb,
****, one day I'll make it rhyme.

he is lying on the grandest marble floor,
in between two pillars as he cries out.
Yet none hear him, the door is locked.
He looks for a way, he was told about
by his older brother years ago, do
you want to know how he found it at all?
He stood, his hands were stuck like glue.
He cried out, tried to show the world his call.
His voice like a used marker,
his nose could not smell, he couldn't taste.
His bright thoughts and mind sadly grew darker.
His bones growing weaker, a waste.
And not one reached down to pluck him
up, none extended their arm to him.

I am thinking. and there is a pain.
Like a large wooden door, metal hinges and all, sitting locked in front of me. But I can't open the thing. I pull and tug, and twist and try so hard. But I can't open the door. No I can't get in.

So I back up and trip over some barbed wire, out on the concrete courtyard. Large red and black flags swing all down the large hall, with buildings as it's walls. The sky today is so blue and sweet, but I can feel eyes search me for a reason to pull me, berate me, hurt me.

I need to look within myself  they say, and fix the demon
that has been released to devour the man living there. But I couldn't bear to **** the thing, it's eyes look just like mine!
And his hands are the same dry, cracked ones of mine.

Do you remember when you were young? It asks me.
Do you remember when you were young? It asks me.

I don't. I can't. I only see bits and pieces.
It's finished it's daily checkup, now it will eat some more.

Kohl ash sings in the wind, I can see fire.
It's all rising around, jubilantly consuming faces and buildings.
I run down the street, I push a man over, I hit a car door as I try to escape it, the rising smoke. But it covers me from head to toe.

I slowly walk in the ash, the darkness, feel grains of it
run down my throat and matte in my hair,
I want water. I want to take a shower.
But nothing is in sight, I'm gone.

I run now, but it is quiet and I know I've been caught.
I listen to the wind, I listen to my heart beating.
I Listen to the clock tick away, yet I can't find it.
I run towards a building's wall, for what seems like hours.

I am never getting out.

I sit down, open my mouth, and let the ash cover me.

Sometimes the wisest words will come from the pieces of you that can't speak. Like a knife with no blade; no means of expression.

Sometimes there is a happenstance, however.

Sometimes.