Masterfully present in mind and spirit.
The days roll forward on a tactically drawn out chasm of
misguided thoughts, and uncharted feelings.

Misplaced emotions drive a long
continuous bludgeoning of my inner sanctioned light.
Its as if ones own being is held hostage by its clever attempt
to be whole again.

Too many edges to uncover,
a minefield of chopped sections of life,
waiting to be stepped upon; all driven towards one
harmonious ending, the need for love.
An outside influence to catch an unstoppable force
from self destruction.

I tread carefully, each step forward signaling
a bitter remediation of myself, crafted so that only
a significant soul can unearth that which one has
held blanketed for ages... eons.

Another wanderer is needed for the part with this man.
Walk wisely,
you may be his end.

We melt like aborted McDonald's ice,
on top of a blistering, gum-stamped lot,
under the sour heat of the Sun.

I'm boy wonder and you're, 'Boy, how is he alone?'

Olive-skinned cardigan, pearl pores.
Hair like ink and a jaw-line sharp enough to cut an umbilical cord.

Vintage Nikes come to a point,
the swoosh as red as the cherry at the end of your cigarette.

I watch you smoke and choke,
before calling phantoms over.
It begins like October:
The leaves fall, like your friends steps,
the bronze sweeps the air,
like the curls of their smiles,
the air is silent,
like your words as they condense and drop into the mouth of a tanned canyon.

What could they ever do to conquer you,
my dear, fantastic frenzy?

Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.

Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.

The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.

Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.

The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.

The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.

The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.

The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.

The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?

Was it me?'

The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.

The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.

The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.

They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.

Because that's what tortured people do.

❤~~~~❤
❝Love is always individual feeling

mutual affairs lead to relationships❞
❤~~~~❤

You are the reason I tried,
I finally found my voice,
You are the reason I write,
My words are no longer echoes
They are poems shouting love
And you are my poetry.

Poetry is not :
Just words that rhyme,
Words for attention
Or words of depression.

Poetry is not :
Only for the dark and deep hearted.
For ones with high vocabularies
Or talent and skill.

But rather for the unspoken.
Who are afraid to be judged
by words of the spoken.

Poetry :
Is a place where words are free

Scars show us where we have been, they do not dictate where we are going.