My mind wanders the cosmos and the heavens,
always thinking, what you'd think of the man I became?
   Should I come and meet you in the dark?
      Would we be bestfriends again?
          Is this E̶x̶a̶l̶t̶e̶d̶ thinking,
             or the madness of my own silence?

Like the trains,
  that always run late.
      I was late to love,
      I was late to happiness,
      But I was early to the desolate sea of loneliness that awaits us,
        as the train gets lost in the foggy gray hills of death,
             we all reach. . . you were early to that stop.
                   I am still late waiting for the station, for us to meet.

Inside my mundane complexion
constant tides and angry currents stir,
it bites and claws at my insides,
hoping, pleading, to form the words
for him to notice how much he means to me.
But another voice, internal screams out.
Even though ages have passed,
flesh has turned to dust,
my heart is yours,
my mind is yours,
my brain is yours,
my lust is his,
  but your voice,
         leaves me s̶p̶e̶e̶c̶h̶l̶e̶s̶s̶,
            as I know I am not the one.

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.