What business does this posing Lotus have in staring at me?
The swirl of petals inflowing to a dark eye so Cyclops.
Lotus, you aren’t multitudes like me, but you mock the lie.
You’re the depths I want you to be; the erratic pet for my wall.
Leave me to my blossoming, Lotus The Mirror, and I’ll be your scramming house guest.
There isn’t a soul that had to learn how to love you; like there are for me.
Lotus, you are the multitudes of Why.
Let’s keep things that way.

Your sitting in the cabin of woods, far from old sighs and tribulations.
Like saliva, your current dame forms through a process of aural nothings on the couch most adjacent your heart.
The cabin is attempting its second suicide this month; burning itself from the inside, kitchened soul, out.
The dame says nothing but thats not what you need.
Your needs exceed the gritting anger of blue and orange flame.
You feel the delicate hairs of your foot dissolve from these blues and oranges; the horror of human carbonation is a 90 year rainbow.
The dame says nothing but thats not what you need.
You need the dame to cough up bricks and sea of vocabulary that bring you back to your nostalgic rave.
The mute dame is louder than the fire and this is your current muse.
Your most current scar tissue to be.
The fiery cabin will bend around you like bark, and this is what you need.
This is the blanket you've been waiting for.

Fridays eyes are peeled for bait.
Ready to chomp its magnificent jaw down onto the night, sinking its every wish into milky moon covered driveways.
Driveways covered in Hondas and future footsteps.

Friday wags its skirt up a little too high; reaching for Saturday.
12am; they dance a very large dance together.
They fill the future footsteps to a Honda song and wait to illuminate another dance; another week.

I'm doing this no justice.
Saving my tongue for dryer days, keeping the ones I actually love from losing their own pinkish tails in my waning nonsense.
Sane and civil... because I am my fathers shifting chameleon; his white blazer and my mothers blood orange; her Lorazepam.
My name alone is treaty.
One lonely gabble lodges itself inside of my esophagus.
Get lost founding father.
Burn harder rebellion.
I need me on my surface, not buried under the expected ammunition of ink.
End your sparkle, sparkler.
Here, your exploding gold only crushes the windpipe of flowers.

I have nightmares that stretch my fears towards our waking sun.
Yawning out the last sighs of moon.
Once again, I hesitate and stumble on tongue.
I've seen my words startle rust like the flat cat call 'boos’ of halloween towards November.
Since I've been buried, halloween hasn't missed a year.
And the gibberish of its mask will always sting as resonant.

I want what I haven't seen.
Only until my eyes have rested on such sights, as they do on the purpled veins in my eyelids every night;
my infatuation declines.
Its dependant on the rate of decline.
the rate of decline is the incline of my happiness.
What a ****** measurement.

You tease me with your angst of possible return.
Youre like a boat.
In the midst of the ocean you're within sight.
Afloat; many holes.
Yet....afloat.
Pushed closer to my shores.
The shores I call home.
Pushed closer to me, by a wave;
only to be pushed back by one in the same.
Whether it be a wave of hope, of love, of happiness;
A wave comes in half empty but full of despair, of hate, of sadness.
So I wait at this shore kicking sand, so alone.
Waiting to sail away, waiting for you to sail home.