Withered friends blend
Starshines and midnight coke lines
For the morning we will part
And with spiky hearts we cry
For the day we met was
Hazy and lazy hands traced
Jet glazes across the sky
And we were two half moon eyes
That trembled to ask
What a broken rope could tie
So high in fact
That we spat gently on ants
Crawling thirsty on our scattered pants
And I rhymed to tickle you
But your mind was fickle
And the words splashed as low tides
Crashed down upon the glass
We smoked, too bitter laughs
In search of why our jokes
Seemed to strangle
Entangled lips that strive
To lock the silent hips
We rocked
And rolled as if only through spliffs
We could smile
And all the while the wind
Whispered somber notes
That choked us till
We broke our eyes
The flood of ****** needles
We raked through the hay
To find
Each other withering through time
And never bothered
To ask each other why

-Chaotic Melodic

I speak in faded blasts of wind
Too dull like screaming to the deaf
Where energy can speak for itself
But you can’t hear me
Even if you put your ears to the street
You can’t hear me
I’m trying to find somehow
What’s keeping me inside my hollowed trunk
The lightning struck it years ago
But I am still with patient silent wanderings
My mind can walk ten miles in a few hours
But my body is a frail forgotten piece of how you left it
Can you teach me how to step again?
I’m gray
Stuck within the space between the light melting into shadow
Where the sun skipped yesterday
When yesterday seems like twenty years
Or possibly a melodramatic spindle spinning
Drawing miles of yarn for me to trip on
Fall inside my mind again
That same spinning cycle
Stuck on a leash
Angry like a chained rabid mutt
And who dares to look a little closer
To see my microscopic love
It’s dancing in the wrinkles of my shirt
Every color longing to be spread across my face

The more my bedroom blinds bend back time
Until splashes of sun cut through my eyelids,
the more I try to snap the support beams
that hold the rigid dam in place.
I try to drink up words
that catch my tongue dancing
in the shower through the pinholes.
He can’t hide himself much longer
under the pile of the grass clippings.
Although he played with dead rats
by the train tracks as a boy,
he found no gold inside their bellies.
Their eyes were ink wells
Fresh for the picking

Is such a cliché line
Yet it rolls off the tongue
Like stamp on tattoos
Dragging your eyes
Like they are tethered
As blossoms
To the sun