Your lips have been dethroned and disposed of properly.
In the filthy back bone of a jungle, they lie; never to rule again.
Medieval recycling is always honest, you know?
You know this.

Perhaps someone will write an Epic about it one day.
After ways are parted and enough people are broken; then unbroken.
Perhaps the life of fire starting isn't for me anymore.
Perhaps I've been burning for too long now.
You really never know with these things.
With these things you never really know.

A glow in the dark,
Spilling.
Organs with edges and cross traffic with the lights living assumed.
Happy pockets fill with stolen thunder.
Gunpoint robs the room eyeless,
And curves me to mercy.
Please, preserve that satchel of blood; so neon, so flaunted.
On the rocks.
Smooth.

We lock love up.
Cuff it to our unbreakable.
Because, you love, you go behind bars with an infinite amount of trials and life sentences.
The world blinks every time you show us your evidence.
So, you stay here because you broke the 'unbreakable.'
You join the arachnoids in filling the space between these bars with home.
You figure your **** out.

Wildly left out, thrashing ***** flavored love at hospital graffiti.
Now H-E-L-P drips from this safe place.
This place where love goes to leave, and never return to its trees.
The branches and I have no choice but to morning stretch towards the Earth.
That, or turn our daily conversations into slip-n-slides.

You write until you wake up on the paper.
Until every breath, a sentence, and every swallow, a piece of you.
Drool wrung tongues painting fluid ounce upon fluid ounce of poetic word.
You don't quit until you've taught all of your selves to do the writing for you.

The young gnaw at doughy mornings as a zombie of night; no longer.
Pulling the dusty blinds' cord that isn't a string to the moon today.
Come back.

Organic eyes blast open from a free fall that is(was) dream.
No fireworks get to happen, and the rusting coffee isn't quite morning brown.
Alarm clocks remain the loneliest chunks of Earth.

I was seven when my dad taught me how to tie my shoes.
I was twenty when I called to remind him I tied them for the day.
Go.

I'm wondering why they've never named the newest hurricane 'Nostalgia.'
I don't sleep well at night because that storm preheats my psyche crisp and repeatedly.
And i'm currently overcompensating.

And, I keep running and hiding from myself.
I tap a few of me on the shoulder then disappear; this is what magic looks like.
The rugrats of me scatter to globe corners I don't care to scan.
A daycare of the same fool.
I'll let the spiders and their webs move the me's closer to me.
That is my advantage; my fault.

My first-aid kit drys up in the sun, but everything important still works after I shake out all the love.
The words I need to release next can dance a seizure in your chest.
A prom of the heart.

It feels strange to whisper caving secrets across a desert.
Like how I fear that I'll run out of skin before patience.
How lots has been bleeding since we last spoke.
And how it feels better to rain over an aqua covered Monday, than to drown my lobes into infomercial.

Old love sticks to these nights like good habits turned villain.
New love outgrew her cape and sold it to some **** that went to her high school.
YOU DON'T PLAY WITH LAST YEARS TOYS ON THIS YEARS CHRISTMAS!

With my teeth, I would tear this stanza to a molecule just to know how much of a 'dog' I am.

Water is seldom here.
Throats peel back words on occasion but it's usually nothing too important.
It's something like a brief conversation between very shy mirages.
All is said though; and all is done.
And finally, we get to smash our palms together creating that beautiful sound to let them know that the pain can be over.
Curtains. (preferably blood red)

Lots of halves occur around me.
So, it's only fair to the night that I take only a half nights sleep.
I hope for whole nights; like any moon would.
But that comes and that goes.
The years haven't  offered full nights for cheap.
I  alley-way gamble my good dreams away.
Yet, I still give myself to the night freely, letting it swallow whole and digest of me what it can.
Trusting that, if I fall through the sheets and land under the bed, with the ghouls and goons; it won't be morning until things aren't so dark.

Its lost its spite.
Expired under my control.
I've saved this moment for too long.
Its bland now; gray with purpose.

We’re here again; an unfortunate collection of the past couple mornings.
The newest montage to carpe diem.
Our unbroken rhythms of montage blend danger with safe.
But we lack the caution for a montage of bacon and eggs.
This collage again; these unstrangered floral plates.
Doctor says one montage a day keeps the bad bad times away.
But he said that half-past yesterday.

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.

Amongst the dirt and browned over rainbows;
a flower grows.
As vibrant as any; manifestation through darkness.
Light through dark, dark through light.
The only way.

As I look down at my weathered hands, I warn them of the coming storm.
Yet another.

Only the echo of reruns exists,
along with the linger of a single tv dinner.
I wish the light would stick around but the past has no light.
And a bright FUTURE could be a faulty bulb.
Only the present carries light, even in the dark.
Even reruns know the show must go on.