Close your eyes. Darkness. Good
Look into the darkness, look into the deep.
Peel back the layers, coast onward, don't sleep
Faster. Faster.
Feel the days go past -- the minutes, the seconds.
Feel the bliss of the dark rushing past
Slowing. Slowing.
Listen to the nothing, so loud and profound
Listen to the heart, where all is found
Slower. Slower.
In the pitch blackness, your quest grows longer
And as you look around in nothingness
You watch as the darkness fades to white.
Slower. Slower.
Over.

Curiosity grows.

The darkness protects you and the light blinds
From seeing nothing in the dark
To seeing nothing in the light
Blind is blind in the paradox of life

Frantically blink. Just look around.
Take in the view and make a quiet sound
You hear a small gasp, but don't see the culprit
While you are a victim, inexplicably confused
-- wonderfully amazed.
You see a new world, new colors and shapes
Vibrant and new, the world seems a fake

Look at the day, what do you see?
What world exists within your mind?
Describe to me this simple experience
Describe to me just what you see

Beyond your eyes,
Within your mind,
What do you see?

Imagine.

How to prepare a broken heart:

For this recipe you will need to acquire,
one human heart, and pound it out flat,
blood, eight pints to ten, and boil over fire,
four months of tears should provide for the salt,
add the better part of a soul, a few good intentions,
and pinch of "it's all your fault"

now add your hopes, and add your dreams,
ground up a little warmth and some smiles,
and sprinkle it all with a dash of defeat.
disrespect, shake and repeat.

mangle, beat, and crush with your feet.
tear open your chest,
**** it all inside, right under your breast.
heat at "Hell" for as long as it takes.
baste with fear and loneliness for the time that it bakes.

you won't know when its done; it doesn't come with a timer.
Just be patient; let the torture unfold.
when all of your faith in the world has receded,
and your bright eyes go dead and defeated,
when your childish view of the world grows old,
your dish will be ready - best if served cold.

The sun had hid behind the clouds that day.

All else was quiet.

I lay out spreading my fingers
along the wheat like grass that covered me entirely
as I stared up towards the twilight;
wishing that I had only to jump
so I could soar among those bright dots against the cover of the night.

If I closed my eyes
I could almost taste those bright metallic drops,
like warm milk spilling over the brim of the morning pal.

That fantasy I harbored
to lay on the cresent moon like a hammock against the night,
only to have it dip me into the slosh of the Milky Way.
That’s what I long for.

Anything but here.

All I ever wanted,
all my dreams
lay nestled between those stars,
and as the morning sun peeked out from over the horizon,
as the dew that covered my body
rolled down gently
to form tiny shimmering impressions against each blade of grass,

as the first bird began to sing its song
to welcome the heated smell of lilies
and the fading of Pluto before the dawn,

I felt as if I would cry.

I knew,
when that sun shone
in all its concentrated rage
that my life would go to hell again,
as it did every day of my life.

Daddy would wake up.

All would go to hell.

In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.

Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less  pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?

As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.