Maybe poetry blog is more than just words and poetry and crafts and feelings. Maybe poetry blog doesn't even ever exist in this world. I struggle to write without typos and they keep coming back, coming back, coming back even though I've erased them to correct them. Everyone knows I do it out of love, so tremendeous yet tender and warm. The only thing we should never mention to public is that actually love is a bit slimy and disgusting and sometimes it reeks of three months old ocean water kept in a pink vacuum seal container.
I think I haven't really talk so much to forget the purpose why we are here. Why I try so hard to write this **** and why you soften your own heart just so you can survive reading trash in the face of words, trampled ideas, smashed soul it is actually pearl necklace and the beads are scattered completely gone just two left but I shall use it for my eyeballs. Or do you want? I can give it to you for free if you want these two beads of pearl inside your eye. It's not gonna be painful but you'll just learn about how to see without looking. If you're not satisfied, I can open your third eye, but only if you have it that is.
Hey, aren't you forgetting the reason we are all here? I think most of us now have forgotten about pretty much everything else, so, let me guess what we're going to do after this. Maybe we can go to somewhere without electricity and light bunch of candles. Some of us can read the bible aloud, dramatic, however they want. Some of us can play rope or ******* or such thing. Some of us can just wake up the sleeping world. There should not be sleep today. Sleeping is irrelevant nowadays. It's banned from now on. It's ok if you've gulped your sleeping pills, because it's always either not enough or too much. Either way the result isn't actually sleep. Once again, sleeping is banned from now on. This is where you choose, earthling. The fate is yours and all yours.

The astral bowl was full of green smoke,
the tin roof, the fairy-light canopy;
two friends suffered in greed.
The backwater shed,
a monument of beer cans
blow listless on the lawn.

One says,
"I have not given up on my dreams
I have grown tired of sleeping through them."

The other, an insomniac, glistens:
"Merrily, Merrily, merrily, merrily..."

The television was on mute.
A flag assembles from the garments
retrieved at the end of the war.
A red-eyed stare
as they lament
the dried rivers in the carpet.

One says,
"There are eyes on me all the time
so I drink myself blind after work."

The other, a pessimist, decrees:
"you drink to steel yourself for the cliff-face-
no idea where you are going."

The sky was granite
as they ****** outside.
One turns to the other and says:
"I try to live an honest life
but it always feels like a lie."

The other, still *******, replies:
"we keep our secrets close to our person.
Now please - tuck yours back inside."

I have been the crying drunk in the hotel lobby,
The mosquito bite in the thin white sheets.
I have been the monsoon rain in the tropical heat;
I have been everything you said I could never be.

On the streets of dust I can eat my fill,
No more clouded eyes, no more ash-filled windowsill.
No more patient wait for my timely death,
No more passing glance; no more loneliness.

I will find my place with this foreign tongue,
On the precipice I write my immigrant song.
This culture shock makes me feel alive,
It kick-starts my heart; I finally turned the tide.

I finally made my peace in this call for arms,
In this incessant storm, I could feel the calm.
Could feel it loosen my bones,
That age-old ache, that I kissed on the mouth,
That I tried to replace

With every chemical within my reach,
With every pill or lie
That passed through my teeth.
I have been the crying drunk,
I have been the victim, too long.
I sit still and breathe.
I write my immigrant song.

Collected sea shells
from every shoreline she came to.
Held onto a collar
from every animal she had loved.
Shelved old receipts
from every memory she could cling to.
Drank to forget all
she could not hold in her hands.

Moths stir the windowsill
preparing for her next cigarette.
She had lost interest.
A long time ago.

Agentic gratification:
the sugar hit,
the line of sniff,
the awful ***,
the pin-drop peace,
the loneliness.

Collected tattoos
from every song that saved her.
Gathered dust, the silhouettes
from every trophy of conquest.
Hoarded suitcases
from every time she had ran away.
Stayed inside to forget
all that she could not see.

Moths stir the windowsill.
People are just noise in the streets.
She had lost interest.
A long time ago.

When does the best come out:
A scream? A shout?
When in judgement of our friends,
Animals and sibblings;
Or teachers and politicians,
Seldom in Amen.
So often in the end.
So now, before me,
Me, with your first steps,
The same who dressed you,
Then drove you when the sun rose,
'Til the lid closed,
On many we loved best.
We have years to go,
'Til what rest
Comes out,
After so much consternation.

my fingers are your eyelashes
they long to dance, yearn for the fall
you bat them, i follow
how attachment kills the most
insanitary are the fingernails i grow

ssshh
listen
there is something pouring
to the rhythm
what's that liquid doing between
mirage and insanity

Today I look at you
& I know it was real
You were there
Now here, unchanged

& my heart is relieved
That you wear the same name
I used to keep safe in my mouth
The same hands
You used to collect my strands of fallen hair

Still
I dare not to touch you
Even for just one more time

No
Not today

Today I look at you
With eyes as innocent
As a curious child
& hold myself back
Like a dog beaten a hundred times

& I remember
& I know it was real

that sweet husky voice of yours
while i come undone on the sheets
washing machine, detergent
i'm all gone