Little "us" beneath the stairs
Passing notes, the other knows not;
Our souls doubt, but our hearts bares
Secret, surreal urges we fought.
No one truly knows how hard we tried and try
Not to hurt the loved with us then.
We aren't  ourselves, addicts of of the high.
"This is too good to stop", our natural zen.
A connection of imperfect spirits; so full of "us"/dust
We forget the lives we have built
With them, the ones we truly trust.
"Us" is just a fainter breeze, yet exhiliarating.
We can't stop, even as reality is fading

Did he know, when it was too late?
Did he have the cliqued flashbacks
of his life behind his eyes, or
   Did he fly?

If he did, did he see God and all of His angels,
or did he meet Lucifer's delighted grimace?
Did he get a tiny glimpse of that ***** we like to call Fate, if there's such a thing?
Who ever gave him his spirit brutally took it away this day and left behind  Prometheus' signature.

What do we, mere mortals, do with these
  remnants?
They only serve to deny the rest of us the spirit that was born through blood, tears and pain,
   yet absent of trauma.

By June 6, he will be but a memory
  To all but a few.
Through self talks and guidance,
The rest of us revert back to our selves.
But for those few,
  nothing will ever be the same.

Can’t be right to hold me back to push me forward
Then or Now.
I was meant to find my own way,
But a perpetual show masked true intentions
I wonder who I could’ve been
If I had bothered to look through us;
I would have been a part of others.
This second feeling: I am petrified with my restlessness,
Which you had caused through fake laughs and white sugar grins
And sophisticated small talk and tags with triple dollar signs.
You seem to be always trying to prove yourself to the right ones.

And I thought I transcended with you.
But now I know and taste the herd’s beguiling call:
I can’t not pity you;
   You’re still stuck in that ****** existence: an old cypress in a world of Oak and Willow.

I also pity myself for my own party of pity.
It seems being on top breaks bonds ruthlessly.
Even now, I’ve forgotten who you really are
And how to love you.
I wonder if you know who you really are.

Fear turns into habit, and then turns into fear again.
He can't not love him, or anyone, he loves him, for they will talk and crucify him.
She won't stand up for the girl who is ridiculed every day.
They won't speak up, for fear of being treated the same way.
Those kids won't ever speak, because they are trying to survive,
  and it is all an endless cycle
Of fear, deceit, habit and regret.

What happened to the victims of survival?

The person he loved never forgave him, and went away to be happy,
  without him.
The girl was found under the local creek
  because it was too much,
simple.
And the mother ends up underground, buried alive.
  Her voice is gone and it never happened,
a memory.


What is survival when others, and yourself are gone forever?
We end up losing ourselves
  and what truly matter.
We end up alone.
Swimming in regret and pain, while others live.
We could have been happy.
Safer.

Fear is a constant friend for me in this old town,
It numbs, yet excites in the men's old tin drums.
Everything else runs away and hides in the imminent
  twilight.
It keeps us old folk happy, and us young folk safe, even if I'm
anesthetized in street dances.

The love of your life is in that next building, honey, looking over his footprints for the future.
  And if he's not it, live with it. Keep Him happy, so that you're safe.
  Never stop fearing...
Love was never in the cards for any of us;
why would it happen for me? I wasn't any more than us.
A distant longing quenches a soul with doubts for only so long though
...making the white hum and breed black.
  A lone sound amongst the silence with its soul thirsts for what has been hidden.
  There's no sign of true life without something more, bigger than you and us.
  How can there be, when true loss is unpredictable, our founders said.
  It has already been spoken in a prophecy...
    
   Perhaps, for me it is different, what then?
Do you pity me?
  them? I do.

But there's something wrong with the little party I didn't plan, yet didn't cancel.
There were people overseas, beside you and me that have died for what   I have been avoiding. Why?
    Perhaps my own parade needs a little rain,
    or a blazing hellfire to make way for the reality?
The transfiguration I've been dreaming for,
has watched me, and cried for me while I watched the town parade,
riding on my dad's shoulders.

But we have been anointed by the bravery and hope I've dreamed about when I saw us walk away.

We need to leave this ghost town,
where beasts of my blood  roam the streets. Where fear
overtook me and mated
with me in an incestuous ceremony.
  A true joining of true , lost ones
  Created in the beginning to love
  lost their way, found home
  with the one and only
Reason, not to fear....a goodbye.

all the flakes on a *** tattle years
of gas, oil, matches
flames that spread vitriol


they swell into tickles on thin ribs
where old skin will one day ripple like mayo
over water

only me, in midst of all the sea
below a midnight moon
to take on atrophy