Symmetrical duplication,
Sphere stained with plasma,
Planet stitched by scars.

Typical introduction,
Sport tossed down for clone,
World thrown curved to teach.

Negligent abandonment,
Phase grown out of claim,
Life passed short in bloom.

I miss the inventive, lost boy who used to live with all of his innocent, free friends playing in Neverland.

The Village was nearly swallowed by darkness,
Until I stumbled upon a fresh fluorescent light,
Emitting an eerie glow out of a subtle all-night diner.
Suddenly, eyeballs projected a noir-style movie.
This unique heaven lit a cemented pathway,
Which led toward nowhere but American desolation.
Exploration of blank stores was not an option;
A disconnected joint across the open street was obvious.
The cornered beacon called to me as if dreams lived,
Though the seamless wedge of glass deflected observation,
Onto the viewer I represented, isolated from the anonymous.
Lungs were not interested in Phillies, only graveyard shift.
The scene held four strangers shut in spacious congregation.
The figures filled in the white void with physical presence,
While each owl was remotely lost in their own thoughts.
Was it the tragedy that occurred at Pearl Harbor,
Possibly the hopelessness World War II offered?
Could it have been the disappearance of happy innocence in ’42?
Hopper alone can probably discover a whole to the loss of words.
Somehow the constructed simplicity was overwhelming:
When late night minds meet morosity yet still produces beauty.
Subjected into one, the loneliness of a large city can exist too.

Every day, except on the week’s tail,
We’d reunite afresh for the ninth time,
This period away from campus,
Behind this small, lonely brick house,
An outcast beside the field of active childhood,
Shielding ourselves within a concrete square
At the edge of the earth,
Where a new world always awaited
For its only population’s arrival
With a train still resting and rusting on old tracks.

I get caught in the moment of happiness.
Your back is up against the wall,
And I am your reflection.
My fingers are warm and moist
As your cold breath is beating on my neck.
“This is what love feels like,” you said surely,
With your cute high-pitched voice,
Adjusting your physique out of self-consciousness,
To attract my shy, indirect eyes for enhancement
When you were more than enough at that point in time.

Glistening sludgy flesh covered with soaked material
Clothed over your bewildered mind
As my heart tried pacing along with yours,
Aching to be one harmonization.
Your excitement was interrupted as you reached the ******,
Still craving for repeated relief and desired euphoria.
Cradling with naivety and no weight to carry,
It was easy to slowly sway like friendly fish at first,
Only a pile of shaky bones rocking back and forth in unison,
Just like the last dance you saved for me four years later.

Then two having the option:
To sit and recite sharp words and hide from selfish society, where promises would imminently be broken
Or lie and make blades dull and stare straight at the blue screen, where judgment would subsequently be found.
Those imaginative and nonfictional stories we told carelessly,
Seeking the sound of our comforting voices,
Just to create conversation and an entertaining impression,
Embodying our lives back into the kids we used to enjoy being.
After the parade, we knew we’d eventually sell out to a cliché.
Laughter would become closure after your departure with the bees,
And our sacred place would transform into any other ghetto by one of us.

At the end of the adventures of Lovita and Stopacho,
I couldn’t resist inhaling missed, edible hope,
As I perpetually did of poetic infatuation,
Near the spot which changed my life alone with you.
I must keep this setting alive for both adolescents,
So we’ll never die like your presence did,
Most importantly, because there was truth in all of that.
Maybe an alternate universe is reserved for us at the same disfigured location.
Those were the most delicious slush floats ever though.
Now they’ll never taste ideal again. Never again.

Is it too much to save a person
And continually be enough forever?

Irregular shapes and acute angles round out the world;
These forms of trash and literature are constantly changing.
An original birth of earth perseveres and colors over disaster.

Satisfaction is mythical,
But from an oyster emerges a pearl.

My existence hunches on the surge of homeostasis,
Peeking through botany and paralyzed life.
These skeletons are coated with flesh, fluid, and cells,
An integument the size of my being in spitting distance,
Admitting natural flaws with debeaked drains and
Demonstrating actual emotion with rearranging face.
Narrow wings without sails are flapping noodled,
Desperately escaping living reality into paradise
In the black eyes which can travel with no hesitation,
Development always unfulfilled at clipped appendages.
An ordinary watcher devours the ghost souls in limbo;

Gravity      allows a wallflower               to soar away                         through                                              diverse emptiness.

I stare into the mother’s eyes
From a never-ending distance.
A barrier breaks the tension
But doesn’t guarantee freedom.

Her environment is pretense:
Three deceiving walls, one exit,
A path to another painting
To live more than forced settling.

An exhibit to real monsters,
Where I, an individual, stand
Yet want to jump into landscapes
And end it, the trapped loneliness.

Time ceases; all animals fuse,
Adapting to fake habitat.
It’s not enough forming routine
Until you discover Love’s zone.

Creature comfort is supportive.
The joey looks like a Joey,
Given warmth in mammal blanket.
My label shall change to Joey.

Life’s surroundings are family.
Since true home is away from here,
That’s all that matters; we are one.
We’re the same. We are not alone.

A tree was planted.
Your heart was the seed.
It created the deepest roots
And sprouted the tallest of leaves.
For many generations,
Sap running through its spine,
Resembled The Giving Tree,
A tradition was left behind.
You’re being more forgotten
As descendants ascend from branches.
Memories still grow in the back of my mind
When a pebble is what a picture catches.

Without you, we wouldn’t be here reuniting,
Playing this game called Life.