Gnash and Gnaw
a story book
of semantically related tales.

Troublesome twosome
words that stitch
a crossword of misrepresentation.

Incredibly Inedible
plasterboards
of unrequited dining.

Grotesque - ******
inevitable
struggles of theocracy.

Grace and _
spared from false
synchronicity.

I would have really liked
just doing laundry and taxes with you.

We're near the avocados
and I can't help but tease you
"when are you going to make the avocado dish"
it's with a sly smile I ask this.

I can't resist,
seeing your little dance
your face scrunched
and you're flustered -
"we'll get them right now, so I can make it this time"

"No, no."
"We'll get them next time"
but really I don't like avocados
it's just part of the fun.

You drop some blueberries into the cart
"they're good for the heart".

I think what makes me the most sad is the world doesn't care how good of a person you are.

You can shake hands with all the people who are homeless named Mic, who fondly remember Mel Brooks movies, and you'll still find yourself left behind just like them.

Complimenting women's nails for their sense of style or telling the cashier at the dvd store that his up-sell is really good and it nearly got you with their sense of flow.

You never take their offer of coupons as what's the point on collecting relics of a time we've all already left.

Strong, sturdy, and silent is what the past is made out of, as there is nothing left to break the illusion of today.

Sturdy for no one has found a way to bring all their passion home.

Time can only stand still, and all we can do is move on.

A kindness forgotten: soft words and thoughtful intentions are what make me the most sad.

I'm a brick layer
by incarnation
by aspiration
by luminosity.

I find unfinished buildings-
toppled skyscrapers-
imaging their foundations
their structural intelligence.

With a brick here
and some love there;
once demolished
can be reassembled.

I'll reconstruct
your finest details,
the youthful aspirations
of an idyllic generation.

Too naïve to
understand that unforgiving
weather can happen
to even the kindest of buildings.

New Job.
New Drive.
New Interest.

It's all so new,
yet so-so familiar.

All there is, the heat -
encased in a fireplace
or a furnace.

Smoldering,
the ashes
never filter through
these windless lungs,
instead of oxygen
the flame kindles
on anxiety.

Life is going splendidly - no hiccups -
Breathing is easy
but all that rushes in
is the flagrant blossom
of ragged thoughts,
all the possibilities
for how helpless
the wind is
when it's always being
knocked out.

If I wrote my will
I'd leave everything I have
to a magpie,
they have a beautiful intelligence
something rarely seen
in any kind of species.

Of course this little bird
doesn't know
this old moss for much,
I am green,
clashing against
our wooden encagements.

A silent observer
to their fluttery exuberance
where it is impossible to tell
the crescendo of wind
from the absence
of feeling.

overwhelmed by longing
unable to fly
blurred beyond recognition
no longer watching

love you not
love me not
it is here
the will is written
please take it all.

Going in multiple directions
is touted to be better than one;
it's better to have two hands than one,
a double rainbow is twice the taste.

My two ways are
the hard way or no way;
I'm a car that will speed
down the highway going 100mph
to a destination I've never heard of
with a turnout sign that hasn't been made.

I'm a stalled out car on a hill.
I'm a little beater car that should have
been lifted for spare pieces years ago,
but instead of caring for my parts
I've made myself die on a mountain
made out of molehills.

I can drive myself hard in either direction
both of them end up with me digging dirt.
One I'll bury all of my ideals,
and the other I'll dig up all the reasons
I never should have been driving in the first place.

Am I a good person?

Underneath all these layers
(The layers of an onion)
[Like Shrek, full of layers]
-pretty sure the onion quote is dead-

I don't want you
to remove my layers
to find a person that
isn't the same on the outside.

Onions are perfect
because with each layer
they look exactly alike.

If you took me apart
we'd find the person
I think you want me to be.
(If you took me apart you'd be a murderer)
[Don't try to find out, organs don't talk.]
-The mess would be such a hassle-

I wish someone could tell me.
It's all in the way,
these layers
they're all that we have.

If I was honest,
which I will be.
(since no one I know will read this.)
[Isn't that too true for most of us.]
-I think it is-

I'm a glutton,
not of food or abuse;
it's for one more second
one more thought.

I'll always steal
one more glance,
one more sip,
one more breath,
one more kiss
more.

If I hear a new song
it'll become my anthem,
the band will play
and play
and play
play.

I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
love.

Everything
will be everything
every,
eve.

You'll be late to work
your coffee will be cold
(or warm if it's iced).
[If it's tea, it'll be too strong]
-I don't know how tea works-

I can't steal
it wouldn't be right
so please.
please.
please.
don't.

You can't know me.
It's simply not possible.

You can know my name.
My desire.
Needs.
Even how I take coffee in the morning.
(I don't drink coffee.)

You could call me
your friend,
maybe best friend,
or even lover.
(I am, what you ask.)

I could become a beacon
of undeniable hope,
an admirable force
defying odds never even imagined.
(I have a flashlight somewhere.)

Sadly.
Distance.
Will keep it all away.



Do you drink coffee in the morning?

I thought about speaking to the reader.

To the person skimming titles
that might suit their current feelings.

Maybe it's heartbreak, which I say
maybe it's time for a heart - break.

If you ever said you didn't want to do something,
I want to be the person asking you WHY.

Why, do you not want to do it?
Why why why, what else do you have to do?

I don't mean to pressure you into a forced response.
I'm not an abusive parent or spouse, (where talking it out means, verbally beating you into submission).

I only ask why, because I want you to know.
That every action is a decision.
A choice made by you.

I made the choice to
share ****** poetry,
and you made the choice to read it.

If we're both willing
to spend our time
on things like these,
then maybe
we should change
what we choose to do.

Do what is right.
Be passionate,
don't let titles lead you,
and **** heartbreaks.

You can't do anything without the right thought.

Buddy, ole boy, or girl.

Doesn't that make too much sense,
you'll be unable to do a thing -
unless - unless you get hit by a train
a ******* void needs to land right inside of you.

A mystical being is coming for your mind,
and they are cracking skulls.
All in the prayer, that you'll figure out
that nothing from nothing is NOTHING.
Think something - think.

Beg, gravel, google
(The word is grovel, Google told me that.)

Drugs aren't words,
Netflix is inspiration,
Twitter can be a placebo,
and these can be your infinity.

Jokes pre 2000.
Memes post colonization.
Capture. Hold. Choke. Make a house pet.
Loved, but no companionship.
A corner, house plant, no sunshine necessary.

Agree with me.
or not,
I'd rather You struggle.

At least that way.
You'll fight to have your own thoughts.

We will always take for granted
the unreal people
that filter through our lives
each and every day,
where motion pictures
show us to never give up.

The irony is that it's not faux people
that lead us to believe in magic,
it was the real people behind the fake
that chose to keep the music flowing.

Who knows who they really are;
it doesn't matter when it's about
life or living for nothing.

If there's something to learn -
it's to learn to take chances.

Doing nothing is simple and tedious.
Opportunity is purpose and effortless.

Risk less, chance more.

Artistically,

being a child is something always
painted to be one of flesh wounds;
one bouncing between hyper activity,
and being bewildered by a snail
after the sprinklers have gone off in the morning.

Maybe the precious life
that fills their lungs -
refreshes a child's waking moments
is rewritten to be poetry; folks panhandling for distance memories always better than ones they hold today.

We find their outlandish thoughts
to be ones of tomfoolery.
Looking at children with eyes that do not see them as people.
Instead we milk our own absurdity for rewritten nostalgia.  

Please,

Stop. Remember. There is nothing to lose, which has not already been lost before.  If it can be gained once. So may it be done again.

Children are not children
because of age or inexperience
they are everything we aspire to be,
and that is to be free.

Open hands.
open eyes.
open ears.

Mindfulness, told me to care.
It didn't let me know how to deal -
how to deal when others don't.

Mother, Father, Brother, and Sister
everyone I've ever known,
how do you deal with the loss of feeling.

How does one cope without
an ear to the ground, an eye out for another,
and hands ready to pull people up out of their stupor.  

Yesterday, my cousin died.
I had no relationship with him
other than when people I know
talked about him going in out and jail.

I contacted all his brothers and sisters,
no one had spoken to him in years
and his overdose was met with a shrug.

He might have been the worst kind of person
and still here I am meeting his end
with confusion and unknowing
for why his life couldn't have been different.

Can you love me,
Can you love me -
as if I was an ocean breeze
crooning through your hair,
reminding you of simple love.

The kind of love you knew as a child,
the soft touch of your parent's hand on your head
as you fall asleep for an afternoon nap.

Can I be your love,
I want to be the gust of air
that soothes your heart,
and reminds you of what it really means to have crush.

The kind of crush,
that brings you well-back to middle school,
where chocolate and gummy candies
showed devotion, and everyone knew it was real.

I love you,
whomever you are -
I love you.

I'm so tired

It's obvious what I am tired of.
I'm tired of living the life I have,
but I can't stand the idea of making it worse.

Aren't we all afraid -
the grass might always be greener on the other side,
but it's always safer to stay on your own lawn
instead of tempting neighbours to
treat your trespassing kindly.

"It'll only be a second, I'm trying to get somewhere better."

"Kid, you better get back on your own side..."

"Please, I only need to find something to live for."

"This is the last time I'm going to warn you...kid"

There's a fire raging through your life
and the only solace you've been granted
is the one that leaves you dangling
with a perspective half-cocked
towards living and the other towards penance.

Suddenly you're awake*

It's the middle of the night
the Sun is on another continent.
You know this, because the first thing
you do every morning is check your phone,
pleading it's not too late
to sleep another fifteen minutes.

-it's not too late-

(with burning eyes you seethe at yourself
for forgetting to turn the brightness down...again).

-You are fully awake-

Here you are
having the energy you'd
die to have when lifting pallets at work,
or spending time with friends later that evening.

-Why am I so awake?-

-You begin to listen-

You don't hear any sounds that would have woken you up.

-You begin to check for sore spots-

The only spot that hurts is your elbow, but it always stings a little, ever since you tripped over your own shoe in the hallway, (which reminds you not to trip over it again, since it's never not in the hallway).

-You start thinking-

It couldn't have been Missy, because
you haven't been able to find your cat the last couple days.
Your roommate won't be back until tomorrow, since they're visiting their family all the way out in Wyoming.

-You turn on your side-

Staring at the wall, you notice that your eyes have almost finished adjusting to the dark.

Turning to your computer, you look for the ribbed moonlight that spills across the monitor every night, that helps ease you to sleep any restless moment.

Oddly, there isn't any moonlight.

There'll be a time
where we only speak on holidays.

Today, hearing about how you're doing
is like hearing birds chirping in the morning.
It's something that brings peace
to a world that is otherwise unpredictable.  

We take it for-granted our easy talks;
the randomness of thoughts, ideas, and play
that will wither with time.

Some people wish they could be a kid again,
and it's for the very reason of what we have right now -
a relationship that allows us to be who we are;
young adults not stuck being too serious.

You're so busy and I know I'll be busy one day too.
You'll meet more people, wonderful people.
I'll get a full-time job, with a regular sleep schedule.

Talks that used to be the most important
will settle to be thoughts of distant memories -
memories to be remembered on holidays.

There's a boy, or girl, or any living thing that you can relate to.

Maybe it's not even living
it's a stuff animal that you anthropomorphized
to become your best friend,
because everyday is spent glazing
the abstract of news articles.

What's special about a bestfriend
that doesn't rely on you for talking,
or even breathing.
You can actually be yourself,
instead of who they want you to be.

Man, if we were even more honest
I mean people...I mean subterraneans,
because let's be deep, only those
living underground, like me, are going to understand.

The ground is life
and I'm being buried beneath;
it's quite better than being on top.

I can't be anything;
relating to anyone isn't even worth reading
as the only language I've perfected
is the one communicated by my Rhino
and that's silence.

Some days, being me is a burden.
Not onto others, but onto myself.
Those around me do not respect me.
But when they seek memories of better times,
I will be the one they ask to speak.

Education was a tool intent on developing me,
instead it became the ropes that bind me to my family.
These ropes latch me to a home I have outgrown,
but no one allows me to leave.

Instead of vindication
I have found desperation.
Those who know me speak fondly
of my aspirations, but do not realize
that their praise weighs more than,
the stone god was unable to budge.

I lie to you -
true agony is not shelved upon by others,
it is the listless illusions I pander to myself.
The ambitiousness of decision making
and feeling that any course directed by my own hand
will end wastefully.

Merry Christmas Eve.
Merry Christmas Eve.

If I said holiday cheers one more time
it'd become redundant,
but to each of you
that chance upon this--
know that if I could
I would wish you a thousand splendid
Christmas Eves.

I would become the chain
children make in school
counting down the days till Christmas.

I'd become the warm smiles
with hands holding
even warmer coco
to keep you toasty; tis the season.

I'd bring fresh pine scent
and logs for the fire,
these will be here
to bring the aura of the holidays to your home.

I may not be a rich man,
more near to those you see
pitching for spare change;
this would never stop me
from finding you a gift to cherish.

I would give you all the time
you ever wanted and needed,
because I know that around the holidays
we all need a little bit more care.

Merry Christmas Eve.

If there was boat
with paddles
I would use them
to sail away from here.

There wouldn't even need
to be paddles.
I would use my hands
to gouge out the water
to create an open
wound between the two us.

I'd have something
to look at to know why
every time I'm near you
I can smell fresh blood in the air.

I'd find splinters in the wood
and push them into my chest,
because at least then.
I'd know why I'm suffering.  

I'd get an infection
and I'd finally be able to go see my doctor
for a diagnosis on what was ailing
our relationship.  

He wouldn't know,
but you'd be able to tell from his expression
that he wanted to lie to me--
to spill some philosophical rhetoric
into the sea around my boat,
so I might stop sinking.

She's been next door
since my birth
and you may wonder how that
is even possible
when I am four or five years older than her.

I met her at a time
in my life
where my world changed,
and in this change
I tried to live--
to live for anything.

In my futile attempts
to find purpose
to conquer the beasts
of mental illness,
she's been at my window
to see this eternal struggle of mine.

She's wonderful
completely and utterly--
of course this doesn't mean she's perfect
and even more of course she's far from it.

But maybe it's that imperfection
that has allowed
her and I
to have open windows,
open hearts,
and open conversations--
no matter the
Time zones, languages, or illnesses
we always come back
understanding each other
just a little bit more.

People on the internet
are like any others
and talking without reason
terrifies us.  

‘Everyone you meet
is the monster under the bed
the skeleton in your closet
the psyche of horror
haunts their dreams.’

Maybe
every fable
we’ve ever heard
is lingering behind
the veil we call
our lives.

Or maybe,
if we were
really honest
for one moment,
a single breath.

We’d all come to know
spooks and goblins
didn’t come from tales told–
it is our personal fears
hiding within the mind.

Our unwillingness to believe
that anyone could come to love us
and the doom that suffocates
is the feeling no one will ever know,
who we are.

If people ever caught sight
of our bones
sleeping underneath skin
they’d run
leaving us with scars
scratched so deeply
we’d never be able to recover.

A person can be depressed for an eternity
but they could be happy
for a split second
and that would be enough
to push them off the edge.

One Day
We'll never speak again
it's going to happen
boyfriends,
girlfriends,
husbands,
wives,
and death will not be the culprit.
It's going to be
just like the trees fighting
for sunlight in the forest,
we are both
going to suffocate
till one day
you or I
cannot live without breathing
and we'll fall away
rotten hollows--
once being the beauty
that made us even
thirst for sunlight.
We'll be unrecognizable
stumps not lovers
and watching the other tumble
will be like Fall coming early
because our leaves
will wilt to the wind.
The Sun will shine through though,
one day in the future
and on the horizon
we'll see each other
swaying in the wind
and we'll  be as perfect
as the day we first saw one another
that's when we'll realize
it was really us
that almost
killed each other.

Human hubris
is believing that you're special
it's waking up in the morning
and thinking
'gee, I really do matter'
and we do this
in so many different ways.
Thinking
'I'm going to make the most out of my day'
'I look really good in this outfit, becky!'
'I wonder if they'll miss me when I'm gone'
Hubris.  
It's the human condition
where a hubris mind is a healthy mind
and the opposite is a depressed mind.
The human condition
is an egotistical one
so when we wonder
why does the world suffer so much
also remember
that we were conditioned
to believe we matter
when actually
it should have been
everything does.

You take pictures of books you'll never read
write words you'll never truly know
and speak ideas taken from people that did.

But it's so common
and you're not the only one doing it
it's a whole spectrum of people
creating nothing
but consuming everything.

They may be just words,
but those words belong to someone
and without the person
they act without purpose--
repeatable, but with no meaning.

So few take what they have
to mold reality into new creations
that eventually the consuming will be consumed.
Leaving only an echo of what used to be
the cacophony of life--
it will become a mass of sounds
unrecognizable to the words we used to know.

An undergraduate no more
I was once a student among many
and now I am a student amongst none.

Because there is an education bubble
and it exist at universities
where thought is something
to behold as it is so beautiful.

Instead of compassion
for the trivial pursuits of enlightenment--
there is cascades of sludge
and ooze of the repetitious awnings.
They line each other's minds
as they wander the parking lot of life.

Education becomes the Sun
and just like the Sun
when it becomes
so brilliantly bright one must look away,
because in contrast to the dimming bulbs bobbing around--
the radiance of knowledge
loses all it's light
when it's time
to join the 'real world'.

Years ago I wrote on
how I would always be there
for every birthday of every person
I have never had the chance to meet.

I faithfully stand
by my words
that each person's birthday
I wish to cherish your day
the life that you have.

It is only through compassion,
understanding, and appreciation
that we can all come to realize
how interconnected we truly are.

So today is my birthday
but today I give you my hopes
and these are not for myself
to have the best day today,
but for you my friend to have the best of yours.

I imagine a therapist office
as they are lavished in on tv shows
and they're not really like that;
instead of a cozy dimly lit office
it's a white wall maze.

As my doctors
are not private ones
and they surely disclose
all about me
to the insurance company.

I can't help, but twiddle my thumbs
and wonder about the
cries for help
that linger on these paisley painted
dry walls--
snickered with inpersonal
portraits of strangers;
that probably wish
they hung in one of those
elegant, brash, and luxurious offices on tv.

Or maybe instead
the paintings longingly wish
to be dead as well--
instead of being
in this subservient storehouse
that is standing in for an therapist office.

Getting up from another stand-in
this rash beast of dull coloured dust;
calling it a chair would insinuate people
are supposed to sit there,
but I assume
it's true purpose is for the ill-ful
to find something uglier than life itself.  

Leaving through another betrayal
that existence couldn't be more lame
is a doorway with the most faux of all possible doors;
it's screaming "nobody ever cut down a tree to make this".

Slipping past another door (eye role)
I come to be in the same room,
but this space is two faultering steps to the left.  
And instead of dust everywhere
it's a mobbish moss melancholy
that distastefully lingers
in my personal office's air.

Do you know

How I know

That there is no God

...

Because I prayed

for him to **** me

and yet

I still

woke up today.

With time I grow--
growing similar to a tree
layer upon layer
my trunk
becomes ever sturdy.

Mental stamina
is the deepest of layers
that can outmatch
any muscle that I could have ever built.

Muscles dwindle within days,
but the fortitude to continue on
will never stifle or faulter;
nor will it ever  need a rest day.

So people
there are aesthetics of beauty
that the mind can accomplish;
some feats never dreamed
by even the most physically ept.

When you find time for the gym
remember that time was at a loss
from when you could
have learned something new
anywhere else.

I love my illness
and I am pretty sure
that it loves me too.

No I am certain
that beyond any doubt
my sickness is the only
true love that I have.

But I do worry and doubt
that it may be the only
love I ever find.

I love it because
maybe it will lead
to another life where
others will love me too.

I'll be able to thank
my one friend for making
all of this possible
for letting me find
others that will
like me for me.

Even if others
never know
that it was really my friend bulimia
that let me
finally be loved by them.

I was too busy
taking everything seriously
that I forgot to the see the comedy.

To the unlikely Amtrak ride
the one with people
acting like cartoons.

With an announcer
over the intercom
smushing words together--
saying we'll arrive in Lodi
and then in blah blah location.

To the conductor
whom
speaks to us as children,
because to him
we look like long time
traveling companions.

He plays with our
destinations
and notices that we're going
to two different locations.

We've only known
each other existed from
the 30 minutes we rode
side by side on the bus before the train.  

No matter the time.
We've become limited-less
as it was too easy to speak
and impossible to stop.  

All the truths
we've shared will never be gone
the moment just as we felt in it
can never truly come to an end.
As long as the train keeps moving
our moment will forever trek on.

Even after I have left the ride
and you've finally fallen aleep
without my company to stir you awake.

It may never happen again
just like the dreams you're having
right this moment.
But least we came to speak
for the shortest
of train rides.

Don't
it's that simple.

Really, curiously, and honestly.  

You think that you want to do so.

Boy oh boy!
Girl oh girl!

You both assumed with
only a smile that they longed for more.

Their genuine smile
and hearty laugh
was more than a stranger would
ever offer to a nobody.

But to me
everyone is a somebody
cheesy as cheese fries
without the fries.

That's what make my day
meeting and greeting--
sadly I've assumed a false identity,
if only they would let it go.

And take the chance
to make an honest friend.

Finding true kindness
is the hidden temple
it's an undecipherable world within the words
of true believers;
the passionate philosophers
of an older age.

These philanthropic peoples
they had a sense of purity
that could reckon with the likes of god--
not an almighty being beyond our recognition
but those deities standing on all but mighty pedestals.

They were able to rampart the tides
of none the likes of celestial beings
instead they tore into the minds
of lesser possibilities
that were yet a greater conquest to take.

What I speak is they were trying to figure out
you and me you and I
the feats of our brains
and the limitations as such.

With this they probably found
the same thing out as I have with everyone I touch.
Girls and Boys hold egos
that kind words are more than enough.

Even my poems
do not speak eloquence
or a personal soliloquy--
my words lack the lush
and brazen must
that all else seem to speak.

To hold a pearl
is something to behold
a precious mistake
bore into beauty.

I speak muzzled
ideas that are simply
monologues; meant
to only hinge
ideas together.

They do not
let you understand me,
but give a soft or bleak
ensemble of demenor
of someone I've been trying to find.

Going to war
was a piece of cake
compared to coming back

In war I always knew
at least a few things
would always happen.

It became my home
because my family lived there
my comrades became
the stability to continuing on.

Each indifferent day
was a lasting piece of our humility to living
and our bond-ship to pride.  

I slept in trenches,
in the open air,
under the protection of some thin vail
that'd we all make it back together.

Here in the common wealth
I sleep in alleyways
and under bridges
with the aspirations
that someone will spare some change.

We're brothers
we met and bonded
in the holes dug
by our own shovels.

Creating parallel lines to our enemies
but as we sat across
two sides divided--
I could not help
but chuckle at the thought
of us being parallel.

Meaning we had
to have at least one thing in common;
explicit we  built tunnels
exactly the same way,

but inside
I knew these were people
heading in the same direction
that we were never able to meet.

they were no better than I
they are my true brothers
and having to ****
my brothers
was a tragedy.

I've learned
how to be a child of divorce

not through the quarrels
of mother and father
because mine still haunt each other.

But through my own
struggles of living
two separate lives.

One of a student
bound to study
being a socialite of aristocrats  
through my informality of university.

The other a family man
or a family boy
one that wants to soliloquy
and urge the importance
of unity with my brothers and sisters.

Spread between
two homes that don't quite
fill my needs or
meet my enthusiasms.

They are lost to me
equally lost to each other--
these two homes
used to be equal
but now they demand to be separate.

Something we should
all figure out
it's the concept and perplexion of
successfulness--

the conquest
for hopefulness
and fulfillment.

Ideally you'll be
a blazing rush of energy
that spontaneously
brings light into
the void-less world.

But truly
you'll be a blithering
formality of linguistics--

a fundamental
inconsequence
of ample indignity;
cemented  by
a platitude of
adulterated gusto.

Simple joys
fun ideas
imagination
are all you
ever really needed.
(to find success)

Humanistic traits
they are difficult things to find
even in humans.

I think I've been able
to find the sweet delights
of humanity
in the succulent fruits
that delight the dining room table.

They are ravenous
and quite fruitful with
the detailed insides of how
to live a meaningful
and quite delicious lifestyle.

Knowing when to drop problems
and ripen their own thoughts
they are prone to becoming rotten,
but when their time comes
they do not spoil the world around them
instead they spread the joy
of opportunity
to their children instead.

I've become a vegetable
not in the whoops that was an especially bad fall
down those apartment stairs
quasi paraplegic kind of sense--
I am spry and sprouting
blushing with energetic vibrance.

I am so fluorescent
that my own aptitude of radiation
could be consider toxic--
if you had to stand beside me
on an extended elevator ride
rising too high
above our natural destinations down low;
I'd be inclined to warn you
to lean a few more feet to the otherside.

It's that I am blessed with an enchanting
of endless blossoms of hopefulness
as the mills of life
work to grain down my wheatfulness.

Before my journey
I bloomed in the small countrysides of Central California
a place the Northern and Southern side don't even realize exist--
coming from simple towns with simple names
with a simple way of life.

How can a boy from Strawberry
step into the roots of a decaying tree of spruce
when the hearty oak woods of home
are calling his name.

There is beauty in tears--
trembling to the floor
they represent passion
the truest expression
of magnificence
the meaning of human
rest inside these feelings.

This is our fantasy
the wonderment:
of watching their pain,
bearing themselves,
and perching each step
nearer to the fifteen floor edge,
that extends itself to the bottomless
apartment complex.

The stangers are preying from below
just out of sight, but close enough
to hear an echo of cries
bouncing off the empty space between them.

This is some form of release
the 'rubbernecks' sing a song akin to Kumbaya,
but instead of seeking harmony
they are predators only desiring
of blood and flesh
to distill their minds
of indiscretions.

They are burdened
by their own unflinching enthusiasm
and ravenous emptiness.

Displacing myself from my perch
I feel an unpleasant revel growing through the crowd,
as I clear their 'emptiness'--
it is always an unpleasant sight
when seeing it all come to an end.

Somethings don't exist
and we all know
time is an illusion
but a necessary one;
to keep the people at ease.

To mend our minds into
a formulaic map
reading each other
all too easily--
indifferently.

Time does exist
but it only does
when you don't want it to.

Your first kiss
time didn't stop
as it's already over.

Your first love
they're already miles away
running in the other direction--
with another lover
wishing for the world to stand still
just for them.

The second
the world chose to ignore time
and let you ignore it as well,
was the moment you wanted it all
to come back for just a little more.

Sitting in a hospital bed
where doctors let you fringe
which hours are meant for visits
is when there is not enough time left.

When you are allowed to exist
outside of time
that's when you wish the illusion
would never fade away.

The final moments
last forever
as those moments
exist only in the continuum
of infinities.

Large and unburdened
these hands show my true weakness--
spread across silken sheets
and the gentle touch will feel
as if desert sands were
wedged between the threading--
those threads do not breath as easy
as these hands of mine do.

They look and feel
as privileged as my ghostly appearance
would lead the World to believe--
even watermelons harden in the sun,
but these hands of mine
are closer to being ballet dancers
except they've never
had to learn to dance.  

They've never had to be successful
and I've been led to believe
failure was optional--
that with each attempt the World
will give me a do-over.  

Sometimes or maybe always
people eventually run out
of opportunity,
and instead they are left
with

...better luck next time.

Today there is no work to be done.
There is only rest
and the simplicity allowed
as the spaceman sleeps.

He dreams not of galaxies,
but the land and ocean
as he catches bass
down by the bay.

His peers worry
about opportunities missed
amongst the stars
as their astronaut
is calling in sick today.

He opens his eyes
and mumbles
about the plentiful
amount of fish and waves
the men down by the dock
get to catch each day.