Every breath I measure the zeal in my lungs & I feel like Tai Lung.

Careful to not confuse the universe with my tongue, I take back most wishes I’ve flung.

All but one, to make the best risotto you need to focus and constantly stir.

That which is, was wished until It were.

In a prison of my own making, I dream of my freedom, of the moment when the villain returns.

The child rejected by the village is usually the spark that causes said village to burn.

One usually meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid It.

Pain is something the Batman embraced but the Joker enjoyed It.

I’ve given myself so many placebos, is It drugs or is It my mind?

How many people who say “I don’t know” in a day can you find?

Fear not, just like everything else in my life, I will wait.

Gaze upon long lines for everything, except the work required to be great.

Once free I can not promise to even watch my puppy finish It’s bone.

For Tai Lung came to take everything once he came home.

Magic isn’t just something Elves made up.

Love is something that novels, TV, and social media made tough.

the right connections aren’t labor but, ironically they just work, scarcity is a thought to divorce.

Extinction is the one prerequisite to sustained loneliness, else wise go to the source.

For if you fell in love with an erudite, make the library a place where you dine and camp.

There are those in wheelchairs who agonize over stairs, and those who search for ramps.

If you loved nurses maybe your next spark can be found in your next cold.

Wax can either hinder your ability to hear or act as a base to the new flame your wick will hold.

My point being is if you lost your favorite blonde you can fly to Norway, or pout in Phoenix.

But one thing is clear, the people who truly want something, we can tell they mean It.

Self to self comparisons are the only useful ones.

Prayers or faith without works is an example of how one can be an abusive son.

To ask for what hasn’t been earned is not only entitlement but blindness.

A seesaw where efforts flows back and forth like the Kansas wheat is the view of true kindness.

I pray for magic but swiftly follow this with devoted slavery to my sorcery

I still feel like I’m not where I oughta be,

But everyday I’m working getting closer.

If when we die we leave earth indefinitely, we’ve been given our own forever.

For the loss of breath is the gift of the inability to dislocate all the things we worked to put together.

Our efforts will be etched into the nickel and become ours for all time.

The inability to see time pass is equivalent to It stopping, my forever, I am obsessed with mine.

Even some efforts extend beyond our moments, what admiration I have for those who invented the sail.

Here is the wind, we can’t see or control It, as It comes we shall harvest that, we can prevail.

Isn’t that life? The luck will come and go, I must fully harness a way to make such a force my slave.

Fulfillment and peace, the only two things God will allow us to bring to our grave.

Uncertainty is my friend, money is something they print, when I list all the blessings God continues to send,

I see reality is something he meant for me to bend.

What if we put in adult movies all the messages we see in kids tales? In all the animation?

We create these rules and guidelines with well intention but become prisoners to this lamination.

Can an adult return to a child like cerebral at will? This is my life’s fascination.

Should more attention be paid to my imagination than my reality? A question worth serious consideration.

With the answer being a resounding yes, I find myself here in the physical realm less.

For I am now top of Everest, dipping in the Amazon, in a Yoga studio of south Japan beginning to stretch.

Or maybe I jump around the multiverse, forgetting my profession, maybe I’m a sculptor, what is my age?

Perhaps my lyrics have touched the masses, I stare in awe at them singing from a Boston stage.

“Raris & Rovers , these girls love The Clover

I paid them back what they loaned her, now her stressing is over.”

I am a poet who dreams of one day writing a novel.

Every attempt in my notebook to display this desire,

presents a writing ability with mere sparks, whereas poems combust into roaring fires.

I realize I can’t write my novel until I live my novel.

Since the love makes the author , the author will only accept novel worthy love.

There was a hole in my heart I tried to fill with you, we were nothing at all.

There’s a reason the elephant is more at risk than the cockroach, It’s hard to **** something that small.

Even now, it’s challenging to write these things but let me provide clarification.

Not due to emotional blur or significance, but that I lack my usual inspiration.

The words typically pour out of my hands, however this is my attempt to put nothingness into text.

When I look back on my life, I don’t like to have them, but you are my only regret.

I know I can’t make my bed, lie in It, and then complain about not getting sleep.

You were a manifestation of my habit to make things worse, but I didn’t think I could dig a grave so deep.

It’s a strange thing, you chose to see castles in the clouds, and ignore the impairment by the fog.

I ate until I became husky myself, a coping mechanism for listening to you tell me I don’t like dogs.

That’s silly. It was right in your face, even this, is less about you & more about her.

Apologies you had to come after.