I'll
Get
The Uber.

I
Bought
Netflix stock.

Press the tape
To record
The normalcy
Of

Our

Insanity.

Save the
Shapes, contours,
Sounds and sights
Of smells
To bring them there.

Remind them
Of what was
In man; what
Is in man; what will
Always be

In man.

There is no escaping us.

Not even in death

Can we not be.

It's true -
There is no rest
For the wicked

For the wicked
Have no need for
Feigning sympathy

A waste of precious time
A spoil of the hands of the clock
A tossed second
In a slew of disregarded minutes

There is no rest for the wicked
For they understand
Beseeched by the cold hand
Of their own mortality

There is no time.
There is no possession,
No foothold,
No sure fire -

No rest.

As the dust settles,
A new gale stirs.
We are addicted
To the perpetual motion

Of conflict.

We yearned to be tested,
Yet balk, debate, and resolve,
Like hamsters on a wheel,
If only to prove to ourselves

Of our progress.

Progress. Fortune. Advancement.

Tiers of disillusionment
Embedded with dissatisfaction
Complicit in a lovers
Lack of vocabulary
In regards

To their dissatisfaction.

Up and
Down

We go,

Like a balloon let go
From the indifferent hand
Of a child whose offered

An ice cream cone.

Why blame them?

Rubber has never been better

Than cream.

Write
I told myself

For I'm guilty and
I like the way it makes me feel
When I don't finish
When I do

Heavy -
With plenty to do

I like my incompleteness
For the way it hangs,
Like the ways
Walls are never high enough
Or borders are never strong enough
Or love
Is never
Ever

Enough.

Write,
I tell myself
I am myself
I am and always will be

For voices
However many they are

Are meant to not just be heard

But felt.

Empathy,
Is the key,
To all of this - us.

Look at music.

They try...

They just have terrible delegates

We are

Piano players

Of the word

Aren't we?

Cater to the last breath of me
I need it
I'm sorry

Take me for granted later
I swear Ill be here for that

When is it
Where are you
I need you to look at my wicked darkness

I ened you to see
What's underneath
This cloak of gold

I don't want to see myself anymore
I just want to twokroutside of mnyself
Isn't that the way it's supposed to be

Who says though
Who says that's the way
There is a through line of this madness
A passerby quality that
Allows me to connect

Me to you

And I want to

I want to see you on the passng pedestal
The rearing bus
The skyward glance in muscular tubes
In train yard degradation

In smiles through the drive through

I want to see you through all of you

I want to scream into the night
And be met with scream back

Your absent hours are beginning to
Take a toll on me
And they are beginning

To take a toll on you

I see it in your gait - sideways and forlorn

We cannot wait for love
For love
Does not wait for we

There is no beckoning for the ******
There is no call to the sea or land
There is just us, a waiting for direction
Lo'
Guidance has no spur
Save from within

I wear
Jackets inside,

The **** **** kind.

It's cold most nights
When I work.
Not so cold as

Chicago
xOr my **** grammar
But,

Cold enough to listen to myself
As I read myself over
Rain, snow, or shine to ensure

Wonder bliss
And the infamous twilight.

Is so grand or relatable, we
Can relate that

To God creating man.

When I get tired,
I don't go to sleep.
The body
Is a mind with restrictions
That need to be
Stripped of it.

Solitude. Socialism. AI.

What is our ideal state?
What is our point of progression?
Where is our evolution?

It's here
In these white spaces
Between black letters;

In sighs between laughs;

In afterthoughts
After

Thoughts;

In love before the making.