Walk in a circle to find yourself
pace to find the thoughts in your head
as long as you are moving
it's better than being dead

we play games with the word Death
and it loses its meaning
respawn
game over
try again?
soliders with out sacrifice
electric children
plugged into
imaginary building blocks
in unseen and unreal
worlds
a stranger imagined for them

write me if you would
and tell me if you could
you would write
your love in stars
and gardens
and write me that you've seen the future
and tell me that I was there among the wires
and screens
and that I was alive
even after they buried my friends in cement and asphalt
and tangled my voice in phone chargers
and security tape

the way an old woman cleans a grave
with respect
and silent love
with no expectation of love in return
but for the sake of memory
and for the sake of love itself
tinged with a bit of sadness

I read Poe while playing ELO
I'm different, I might grow
5'1 and 22
I don't know what I can do
Leave me here
And let me sigh
whisper love
and I might die
I've read books in less than a day
But what about I couldn't say
Some leave marks
Red and raw
while others fade into oblivion
without so much as a word on my lips
or a simple recollection

If you love the poets now
after they are dead
and put to sleep in their graves
wearing suits of soil
and gowns of earth
then why, pray tell
did they wear rags
and lie alone
with books in heads left unread
and ink stains on slender fingers

If you love the poets now
why do they fear living in an apartment
because someone might hear them screaming
or sobbing
it can be hard to tell
and harder still to save them
and ti is hardest of all to be screaming and have no one listen
or to call the cops on the one who is breaking nothing
but their own heart
and that ugly vase
that they never liked in the first place

If you love the poets now
why do so many reel back hurting
fearing wether or not they are deserving
of praise, or food, or sleep, or laugh lines
they are not sure they will ever get

If you love the poets now
why do they lie starving in foxholes they dug themselves
or in dead end jobs that **** them slowly
or ravaged by needles and color
in some endless hope that they might be heard
and understood
and that they might finally
see what they see with their eyes
and not just their hearts

Love them now
for they know they are dying
kiss their lips
for they know they can not speak the truth
Hold their hands
for their language is in their fingers
all that they do they do for you.

If you were to have been born in Yearn you would’ve been born hungry

Trash collects in crumbling corners
Sand will always blow
And all the books you’ll never read
contain things you’ll never know

The dead carry the buildings
the living carry the dead
and only one dead man carries himself
and the rest live in fear of him