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Stu Mar 13
Mirroring how the sun falls on cold days,
I can only ever manage faint farewells.
Hands folded across their laps,
and every window left open to hear the rain,
I stumble back to my own safe haven,
But leave scars upon every prophecy they speak.
The truth is I never listened to the wind much.
I never heard the strings ascend,
I never felt the ground move beneath my feet.
I never understood the sweet collections of words
Whispered from a corner of an unknown bedroom
Into the flooded pit stops of my attention span.
I cannot continue to build my own imagery,
Forcing the wallowing, passionless connection
To take ahold my of affection.
Assembling a mixture of memories which
Aren't even my own, haven't happened,
And will never occur.
These heinous acts will allow
Even the slightest amount of aspiration to
Unravel, leaving me with an excuse to deny,
Yet again, All of the bursting white light.
Former lives will pass across the ceiling,
While each new moon phase reveals,
that I am not, and never will be, who I intended
As I grew from innocent, to in control.
The truth is, I am far from in control.
I never allowed myself to listen to the wind.
I have always wanted to hear the strings ascend,
I need to feel for the moving ground.
I must understand the sweet words that will carry me away,
The words that will make me feel whole and free.
Stu Feb 15
Who do you call when your brain is on fire?
When sunshine strips
begin to fade from the bed sheets,
And you find, yet again,
That you've allowed a day's worth of stability
To deconstruct itself.
For a while, a silhouette you will remain,
Chasing the origin of light,
Only to fall into the one thing blocking it.

What happens when a brain is burnt out?
Drawing out breaths that latch to the cold air,
When you stand with weary muscles,
A title wrapped around your forehead,
And a frustration festering.
Holding close to the last remaining memories,
Of security, of solidarity, of purity.
Losing yourself to yourself,
Costs less and less each time.

When do you decide a brain needs fixing?
When the ride home is full of regret,
And your legs cannot stop shaking.
A miserable night will be swept under the rug,
So dogear the scripture you spoke belligerently,
And the world will suddenly seem small.
A breakdown happens when most needed.
A breakthrough happens when least expected.

How do you fix a brain?
Probably, the day without questioning it all,
Will be the day you figure the most out.
If we can get a mixed up mind to settle,
Then the first thing to learn would
Be the acknowledgment of a new, better life.
We will all survive our demanding brains,
if only someone will show us the way,
Will someone please show us the way,
Before another brain is ignited?
For an old friend.
Stu Jan 23
In translucent hands
he reads a scripture belonging only to him,
and from memory, he'll rebuild his own illumination.
I feel my bones growing! I feel the warm sun! I am finally satisfied with my own reflection!
Stu Dec 2018
For the truth, I've cut my ties with the collective

I find no relevance in this world

I am a mere onlooker, a silent seeker

Conforming myself to the likes of an outcast

Without any regret, however, I find support in my mind,

In a clairvoyant entity I have only surmised,

And a place I can only envision; the one in the sky

My soul belongs to something greater, but elsewhere

I intend to find my purpose, for the truth is all I need

However, as triumphant as an ultimate answer may be,

The world during the course of a search for meaning,

Is chilled and repetitive, constantly threatening sanity.
I have so much to be grateful for,
So many people I love and who (hopefully) love me,
But in all of the sunshine surrounding me,
I have never felt so alone in my entire life thus far.
Stu Nov 2018
Someday soon,
under a new sun,
We will sing a bird's song of white and gold hues.
Of beaming light.
Of warmth encompassing all that we love.
And it will be magnificent.
  Nov 2018 Stu
Sophia
As we sit down to our dinners,
as we open our romance books,
people die.

We sip our water;
their guts spill open.
We study our notes;
their planes crash.

We live;
they die.
We breathe;
they suffocate.

We are testaments to chance,
to luck, to possibility.

We are not products of God.

We are blind goats trotting on our path
before we perish, suddenly,
and vanish into death.
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