I am back from my psychodelia adventure,
amongst the cosmos, with solar winds
which carry me upon constellations engrained with your art.
- Gas, light and nebulae explosions-
I have touched the cosmos of my own insanity,
      and lived through its silence.
Now I lay awake,
  clinging to drugs, hoping to love . . .
like the one who loves from afar. . .

When did I detach myself from the current of reality,
eternally fused to the nothingness that awaits us?
To become a slave of dreams and machinations.

When did I become another heartbeat,
longing for fantasies of love,
only to find the anguish that comes from human desire.
Knowing that we are powerless to our fascinations.

How many days go by, as we long to be remembered?
For art, for name, for doing, for living
only to reach the same end of obscurity.

They call me a deconstructionist, a detester of life.
But are we not worthlessly tied to this current of life?
We are born with no concepts, no meaning, an echo of what is to come.
& that same echo escapes us in the end.

D̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶c̶r̶y̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶b̶o̶y̶,
you are vain, blasphemous, ungrateful
         an arrogant and flawed poetic braggart.
you are an egomaniacal, cold, self centered fragile flower
          of your own self built malediction.
your heart black, wicked, evil, vengeful.

Don't cry little boy,
    just avoid the mirror,
       avoid the thousand cuts of self inflicted pain.
          as the man you grew into gazes back.

In the mirror I see,
An old vase, full of white chrysanthemums,
Under a sea of emotions,
I imagine the vase in vast hues of blue, red, purple, green.
It changes and morphs into my creation,
but the chrysanthemums persist,
for a vase is a vase, change is change,
but what is inside stays the s̶a̶m̶e̶.

I see you in the stars,
by the shadows of my back.
   reflections in your image, holding on to hope.
     I look at my pores, impregnated by tears of sorrow.
       Of an ancient tune, of nurtured love that has yet to bloom.
          For until we meet again, dust is what you are.
            My body is your coffin, an instrument for you heartbeat.

This pain I have carried.
   This pain I proclaim,
        This song I sing,
             This song of love,
                  I can not erase
                    when will
                       I finally
                           be
                             f̶r̶e̶e̶?̶

I have written thousands of poems,
30,000 thousand words and counting.

A quilt of memories both mine and yours,
   quatrains and couplets amongst swaying palm trees.


I wrote about anger, I wrote about hate,
   I wrote about death, I wrote about love,
       I wrote about lust, I wrote about you.

I drew maps in the stars,
   and my words became waves of emotion plunging
     me ever deeper into insanity.

But the words yet left unwritten,
    can not be created or describe,
       each day l̶i̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶