When do you make believe
To survive and
When
Do you see yourself

As you are?

The I guides the former
I
And yet it drives
Hope
To better the present
To become
The future.

An orange
Never hopes
To be
More ripe.

The fruit,
As with literary fiction
And the metaphors with which
We mediums continue
To obsess over to break
Yet another ceiling deemed as

Progression,

Advancement;

Oh' sweet realization.

Blank stones
Cast out
Sun stroked
Another day at the mall.

My old crush
Always
Knew how to reserve
What was working
For them in secrecy.

Then,
I remember a little breakfast
Where brushstrokes became
Preservations of my present self's
Musings; to live in the past
Is to live in love

As a court jester with

Oneself as King.

Memory,
Recollections,
Do-tells that make
And weigh
The present self

Yet imagine,
How much of a **** you'd be,

If you never held.

Imagine
Existing
In the
Unbeing at the cost of

Never seeing your

First best

Friend

Again.

I couldn't do it,

Dear Hayes.

Breakfast
Without socks
And you're
Late
For coffee again.

It's ok,
Just pour the cream.

As you dribbled
I nibbled

On the objective fact
That our love

Would never falter

Seeing we promised -
Quietly and in secret
As all long lovers
Are known to do -
To grow together as one
Rather than apart
As one.

A petal from a rose knows
It will one day
Fall from its mother stem.
We are but the petals,
And our lives are but the
Center so let us fall, when
We are both ready, as one.

In the meantime,

Let us enjoy the breeze,

The everlasting sun.

What a world
Is this
Haystack ransacked
By flames
Of misguided
Morality - you did it, not I.

It's true; you are true, that we
Know how fair
As well as
Tough the soil is
Hurdling underneath our feet.

I stopped seeing ghosts
When I realized
Their pain was endless and
Mine was finite; jealousy,
Once again,
Distancing me from the ones
I could have learned from most.

It felt good
To
Believe
In the majesty
Of the muse again.

All it took
Were some rules,

Tequila,

And

Ursula K. Le Guin,

It was nothing
before
It was something and
Then
You took it.

It
Being whatever and whoever
And whatever
You needed it to be.

It's April
And I'm smiling at a forgiven
Highway
Of nothing
Where
Noone's guys feel
Their own
Vibration and

**** poetry,

**** poetry,

For the lack of

That and I swore I

Signed up and

Subscribed

To nirvana's pleasure house in

Nightingale.

Could you imagine feeling young,

And

Feeling that way

Tommorow?

I hope

For nothing,

So I can be satisfied

With

Everything.

I read
Mrs. Oates tweet today
While at work
Delivering bread to people
I would never
Like
To meet.

It made me remember
Her Masterclass

(Very good) and
How she said,
Distraction was the destroyer of...then
I got a text and had to take it.

Anyways, her Tweet goaded
This thought:

What is art but a prism of pedantry in lockstep with God's cruelest gift of passion?

An ambulance screamed by
As I tried to park
With a white Mercedes Benz
Honking at me.

It was a Wednesday,
That day

In between

Yesterday, tomorrow,

And forever and ever,

With or without me.