How hungry you were
Sinking your hooks in deep,
cracking open my chest,
looking for more. But
I've felt this before.

How hungry you were, those
sharp fingers tearing at my skin
and leaving me sore,
Cracking ribs open like toothpicks
after a meal.

How hungry you were.
Craving my healthy heart and
blood. Lapping it all up
like some depraved thirsty dog.

How hungry you were
to satiate your pain,
to toss yours away
and replace it with mine.

Oh how hungry you were,
when you found me empty.

Every time I close my eyes
I see a face,
clear and perfect. Yet

ever changing
like a memory
fading and morphing.

I don't know this face,
who they are or
where they're from.

Why they're in my head.

And at night, those
images morph themselves into dreams,
and I see her again;

her lost blurry eyes
in search of something
they can't find.

And then,
in a brief moment of clarity
they meet mine

and I somehow feel
found again, like a piece
of my soul has been given back.

Every time I try my hardest to hold on,
desperate to stay there with her,
scared of waking up lost.

Sometimes I think
she's just another lost
lonely soul

in search of
an old friend
who she's known forever.

Sometimes I think
she's out there
wandering the world

and that maybe
with some patience and luck
I'll meet her one day.

She’s wearing it again.
Hiding behind its porcelain green glare like some
righteous shield.
He wants so desperately to just peel it off her face
that he cuts off his own.

He’d lie and smile.
Show off his new mask and
Crack a joke about the broken pencil, a
pointless **** poor flavor of humor
reminding them where they went wrong.

She wouldn’t notice anyway;
Too excessively engaged with the
idea of a lonely low-priced studio.

He knows this, and remains perched in silence
like a mute bird. Staring off into space
and recounting mistakes;
Feeling the colorless
truth bleed from the corners of grooved eyes
down to the edges of blue lips
that he so regrets unveiling.

Knock knock
Who’s there?
The boy lying
in ambush with a camera,
pining to dig up shiny smiles of the past.
How they laughed at such jokes.

Consciously unconscious.
Thinking about everything.
Thinking about nothing.

Black glass
Hugged by plastic.
A rigid, shiny stone,
Holy and smooth as silk.

It calls upon you.
Its dark face glowing with glee,
its still form
trembling in tantrum.

Eyes gawk eagerly while
dexterously trained fingers
Slide their grease-stained trail
across its blossoming surface,
trapped in vanity.
A technological marvel,
one might say,
it’s glistening roads worshipped and
Truly wondrous.

All the images: moving, smiling, addicting.
The knowledge of the universe, packed into
a tiny, plastic cocoon,
festering, growing, evolving,
eager to be eaten.

Endorsing gluttonous laze, and
Unmasking humanity’s
unseemly colors;
it lulls you in with its
digital spindle embrace, the
sharp strings of data
reaching in through the eyes and
touching the optic nerve.
Neurons swell in ecstasy, pupils dilate, the heart screams;
matter of the brain catches fire in
its electrical storm, and
cascades into chemical ******.

Satiating a toxic lust.
Brilliant glass
turns to black,
stuck to your hand like glue.

Within the dark capsule of closed eyes,
the soul seeps its way through,
and one becomes two.

A twisting, intangible face within organic casing,
detached and pulled from physical being,
falling upwards against streams of

watery blue and mossy green,
losing fingers and feet along the way,
failing to grasp at the invisible silvery cord
attached to its belly.

Plunging face first into a pool of cool gray,
Sound dulled by the wet hum of nothingness
flowing through starfilled ears.

Utterly embraced,
Transparent, transcended and weightless.
Floating calm amongst the outer waters of consciousness.
And for a moment, finding itself
free.

I’m watching the trees dance under
paling sky’s thick cerulean shadow,
wondering if they’re like me.

                 Wondering if the bioelectrical fibers
                 twisting through the trunk of my neck
                 are like the gusts of wind braiding their branches.

                             Wondering if it keeps them awake,
                             or if it lulls them into enduring slumber.


I’m losing hours behind my circuitous strides through
conscious coma,
pondering those incessant curiosities of
permanent sleep
that so often plague the restless furrows of my stormy mind.


She’s looking at me like
I’m broken again, following me
out the door and impulsively pining
for a fix she couldn’t understand.
For sanguine is the nature of this
four-legged creature so stubborn
and at my heels. Striving to help
as she so often does.

But I’m not broken. No.
I’m comfortably subdued by the soothing
song of sinuous water cascading through
calloused toes, and the weight of
the stained notebook resting on my lap,
whose pages cradle the words of
psychological shadow flowing through my
murky
     streams
              of
                 consciousness.

These are the words that release me.
That so seamlessly pair
the id with the ego and put me to
sleep atop dew-lit grass.
The words that purge me of insanity, and pave my path
to self-discovery.

She knows this too,
Her primordial mind somehow
knows it and yes,
Yes it fixes me.