It isn’t easy to walk, gravity weighs.
The biosuits lock the mind
in a narrow space.

An interpretive blow is crucial:
Does being on the other side of the mirror
truly want it, or only think it does?

A thumb drives into the right temple.
The heart pumps hectoliters of warm liquid.
Colours, sounds, tensions in the eternal swirl.

Delay in processing—eighty milliseconds
it isn’t a flaw.
It takes that long for all the cogs to turn.

Everything I do now is already in the past.
Decisions made long ago spit me out
into this reality with some name.

I am the last, but not least,
in the collective dream and blink of time.

Minds sway like golden grain, ready to be cut.
I can stand up or lie on the ground.

I walk—
toward the next stumble,
the next wound, and maybe healing.

Insights glow like yellow lanterns,
giving me some light.

No justification, no understanding.
My self-awareness is not a cozy couch.

One day,
I will stop existing, and I accept that.
I’m just afraid to leave those who still love me.

But I will still change the water
I do not care for flowers
I will rearrange them
Of course, I will - you gave them to me
I sit and paint them
And the day blissfully droops to eve
And I think: anger never betrayed me.

But all my criticisms and objections
Fall limp to an empty night
Please, speak.
Provoke me, oppose me. Interrupt even.
My principles hold no power
If they cannot fight you.

I love the simple silhouette
Of your pesky little spirit.
Please, speak.

They will not yearn as crude as I
I will tie you up
My grief, sweet *******, is you
My despair laughs at your victory
There is nothing to spare here
Go and gulp the dry world up
Go or do not
I will feast on nothing
               and I will rejoice

"Let everything happen to you
Beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final."
- Rainer Maria Rilke

Quiet fingertips press
I make no disturbance
As I move from foot to foot
Gentle. As if not to startle myself.
Dull-eyed
Drape. Rhythm leaves me.
All pattern, pose, skill.
I have lived - a day -
A night - perhaps.

(Nice Dream)
Radiohead croons like a cat
My headphones lie next to my head
But I hear everything
It is saturated now. I am made
Of music and white noise.
On the precipice of sleep,
I possess no arms, legs, past
Just a dull ache in my ear
Where the pillow has pressed
For far too long.
The Tuesday evening
Demands more of me
But I lie careless like a spoon
I let everything pass by
However... wherever
(Nice Dream)
For the first time in years,
I wish that I had not been.
Or had been a little less.

you say this that garbage
and I love it
those books sag, I forget and
their pages slip from my fingers
music becomes merely music
and I - I risk bravery
I dare weave you carefully
into my words - my skin - with
with an obvious softness, I
want to break you down
overturn, unwind you
I want - *******.

I've ran out of ideas,
my brain has froze,
and my hands cant flow.
This poem i cant finish,
I bit off more than i could chew.