I can see the words you write
hop off the tip of your tounge in
tired melodies
springing from an empty boy
but god, does he fill the world
you fly between my temples and
tip toe down my spine
walking forever
you'll find,
won't take you anywhere but away
but maybe that's
just fine

There was a picture in my phone of me sleeping ,
i live alone

getting on a scale
used to be like payday
but if I did good,
the numbers went down.
If I did bad,
well thats another story
something is missing
and it's not my symptoms
a sense of satisfaction,
ripped from my hands
slipping through my fingers
like fine grain sand.
I no longer look to scales
or numbers when judging
my self-worth
but something is still missing
and i'm starting to notice myself asking
"where did you go"

You think that intelligence
is measured by words
by sentences
by essays
but no combination of letters you put together will be enough
to erase your ignorance.

i crave something different
this time around
i'm not searching for answers
or creating the questions
my shell has eroded
plain to see
leaving a pale-skinned lamb
to bake in the sun
whether its 8 in the morning
or a quarter to 2
the mornings are vacant
without you
while i might be hiding
my craving for touch
at least i'm not hiding
a closeted lust for everyone
who shows you fabricated trust