She is a foreign delicacy,
delicious mind
I find
in lines of poetry.

A definite reality,
but I imagine she
scribbles out verses
veraciously,

places each of these
in this internet society,
exchanging altered perceptions
for artificial digital connections;

Full fruit flesh
rich with juicy wetness,
deep thoughts
of deliciousness
as I wonder
about the wonder
of such a creative being.

The plate is mine,
a porcelain palate
open to dine
on one delicate
verb at a time.

To dance and unwind
in the way the words
unroll themselves,
unthreaded yarn
ready to re-roll
and then unfold
once more.

I am a friendly
interloper
there
where
I go to explore
weird worlds
I have never seen before,

and this is
a rough draft
of gratitude
to that fact.

The sun brings
harsh rays
of today's
heated frustration,
hot footed
to the point
of burnt and flaking
skin,

dehydrated
to the point
of pale pallor,
a practically porcelain
face guarded by
the scratchy hay hat.

Dry desert madness
makes your mind
forget itself
as well as
all previous times.

No name,
no camel,
no water
only the illusion
of an oasis
waiting a thousand steps
outside of
each step
you take.

It shimmers
and fades,
moving in time
pressing itself
against the horizon
as you pursue
the fantasy
of what you would do
with all that water.

Drawn on
as the lie
overcomes your
hazy mind,

"Just one more step,

jes one more step,

jes one mer step,

jes one mer...."

till your body forgets
how to take
another step
and your falling,
sleeping as the wind sweeps
sheets of sand
above your body
where no will
ever find you.

As hard as it sounds
when I push down
on the purple flesh
that presses up
I cannot stop
from wincing
just a bit,
of pursing my lips
in pain.

Though I try
to resist
the urge
to push it
I keep playing
with the parts
that hurt the most.

Just like how
I used to
come running
to you
when you needed
a shoulder
to collapse on.

When the ones
you loved were gone,
I would skip
happily, along
just long enough
for you to move on
to the next abusive
**** who would
use ya.

You hurt me,
but I kept
coming back gratefully
ready to be wounded again
and again
in the zone of the friend
cause I must of enjoyed
the hurting.

I run here
when things are bad

Here I am

because You are sticking your fingers
down my throat and plucking out vertebrae
until I can't move
caught in your shadow
until I begin choking

and You hang off me like a wet shirt
two sizes too big and unfeeling
I try to throw You off
but You're clawing at my legs and
pulling me down to the dirt
from the soil that you crawled up from

With You
it's like the city took a breath and held it
and I'm holding mine too
because any sudden move
and I'm thrown to the ground
and my neck snapped back by my hair

You are the monster in my closet
the beast in the hollowed parts of my chest
the voice in my head that plants seeds of doubt
and I'm done with You

But You keep coming back

He is a stark
shadow stag
that stands
with a regal glare,
wearing red shades
of wet matted hair.

Heart broken
beating ventricle
bleeding
from the pleading eyes
that soften
from the loss of
blood.

Looking back
at the last path
this tall stag
left
finds impermanent
imprints
that led
the hunters
to him.

Like those tracks
the memory of the stag
is only passing,
like this poem
only lasting
for a flickering moment
in space and time.

I don't care
if I burn
my brain out.

Even if
the pain comes
blaring in,
I’ll just block it out again
with slick distractions,
with the sick actions
of stimulant satisfaction.

Till, the fog
comes rolling back in,
leaving me drowning
in the sea of feelings
that requires
something stronger
to light the fire
that turns
the memories it burns
into ashes.

What is truth to this
stranger?

Winded widow
who walks past
shaded windows
where loved one
play out the day
in a familial way
while his pain
pulls him
in
other directions
like some
medieval
torture.

Emotional upheaval
as he struggles to
remember and forget
in the same instance.

Sorrowful
remembrances
causes
slight pauses
in his breath
and occasional
stares where
there is nothing left.

A poorly painted
green brick building,
intrudes
with its rude
presence
in a place
where he fails
to stop reflecting
causing a close
personal inspection
with his whole face.

Light green flakes
scrape
his stubble covered skin
forcing him
to be present again
and the dull ache
from his mistake
is something
he appreciates
because
he isn't forced to
recall what he’s been through
when he is dealing
with his newly chipped tooth
and ****** busted nose.

I got this addiction,
to slight degrees
of self-improvement
fantasies.

I got a bad habit
of trying to be
the guy people think
is a super hero.

When others rabbit,
I take their pain
and grab it
till it scorches me
to prove something
is good about
my humanity.

Sometimes
I try to make
the people
who are full
of hate
and suffering
see the shimmering
beauty
of what
runs through us all
unevenly,
the artistry
of evolution
and poetry.

It pushes me
out from the corners
of complacency
were most would
rest easily.

But it also spoils me,
rotting my ability
to achieve
any normalcy.

So, I am
a human being
apart
from most other
**** sapiens
and while I am
trying to save them
I am also trying to
escape them.