put me to your lips
i'll take your stress away
light me up and
it hurts
it hurts
it hurts
but near your lips is my favourite place to be
and even after you're calm and im all burned up
i know it'll be fine
because you'll need me again in a couple hours
i don't mind being your cigarette break

My brain is a nuisance serpent, a Penelope polyp that recoils, recedes when it is most needed, hides behind itself, shoots into the cavities that have become cannabinoid landmines. I am not sure which parts are mine or whether there has been growth along with the debilitation, and would those ever balance as equalization? Can I discredit myself, credit myself—or I am I one big excuse? I excuse myself as I down one more glass, the neurons glaze, my myelins quieting the electricity; chemically, can I be held responsible for any change in chemistry? Can I qualify the distance between me and who I used to be?—and I’m tired of the Zen critics denying the difference; I try to focus presently, and, oh, I find myself in eternal flowered fields, transitory serenity—servant only to my misery; and so I beg to know: why can’t I stay there? They say we’re shared in suffering, but I’m not asking for consolation! I’m asking for hope—for possibility, that one day I—we—will be consciousness, and not some drifting broken barge atop her ever-swelling sea.

But how do I communicate
a word that lacks an English translation?
A feeling so essential to my well-being?
One that this
culture
denounces,
dejects,
despises
so easily,
Without changing what I look like in your eyes?
Hesitation of true affection

Amae, I want to share with you.
A home, not a house.
The mother's loving concern.
The safety of knowing that it is okay.
You'll be there and I
presume you will.
And this gives me shivers to imagine;
indulgence of security.

But that's codependent
Check the DSM-V.
I think the APA is wrong.
I challenge over 137,000 who seem to agree
that my need for people is
disorder,
disease,
debilitation.

Because I can see through a window in my heart,
that shows me a world coexisting;
once realized
we need each other
because we are human.
We want to live harmoniously, in unison.
I want to care of my fellow man.
I am celebrated for aspirations
of massaging the soul,
fixing the whole,
dedicated to them all.

Why is it so wrong that some days,
I'd like to be on that side of the spectrum?
Amae, Amae, *Amae

Your sleepy eyes and broken smile,
Little messages on my voicemail box.

Your smashed guitar and nights binge drinking,
Smelled your fragrance in my sheets.

Unrewarding look, burned your toast,
So apathetic, let's just go down the street.

You're admiring bagels and counting the flavors,
Ripped jeans and leather boots.

I'm glad I'm not dead yet,
Infinite playlist and a song called 'Robbers'.

You spilled your coffee and smiled,
Horrible delivery of kind words.

the things that come out of my mouth
the things that go through my head
and the things that come from the ink of this pen
may not always or perhaps ever be the same

I cry, I bleed
I sigh, I wheeze
I hope & plead,
"Lord **** me please."

You told sweet lies
You made your bed
In every thought
Within my head.

With every kiss and every hug,
My heart followed as you tugged.
You made me feel like no one else,
Yet now I am a ******* mess.

A soulless void
Is what you left.
And now love I avoid,
Until my death.

[r.r.r.w]