Dead thoughts feed this Lilly, ever drinking
As she picked them free to wear upon herself.

She smelt the aroma of a dead mans thoughts,
Intoxicating was death to her every self.

Gazing upon this jar of silent looks eyes forever
Closed, to open nevermore life is restrained.

This wasn't the only flower she was to grow,
All would have the scent of deathly thoughts.

Each will drink upon a suspended moment of
Muteness, only the flowers would speak with scent.

Come to this place of the silent reflection, entice
Oneself with the scent of a dead ones thoughts.

Another day goes by...

I look at my reflection
And I haven't grown,
The same eyes, wrought with boredom--
Makes me wonder what part of me was sold.

I hear the sound of blood flow
As my heart thrums in a simpering rhythm;
It gives me an assurance that I live,
But makes me question whether I'm truly alive?

I feel a slumber has taken hold,
It's got me where it hurts most;
I can't move away from the pain,
And that scares me!

A painful sleep, never waking, never dreaming,
Just suspended in simple stillness...
This dull affliction makes me wonder,
Will I ever remember what it's like to be awake?

There was a voice in my head,
Someone was screaming really loud;
I heard the voice from a distance,
I could barely make anything out.

I heard a voice at a distance,
The voice was mine, and it screamed;
I was screaming ****** ******,
I had murdered who I used to be...

I kicked an ant today.

It was coming right for my bare foot, so I kicked it. The thought of its tiny feet tickling my giant feet made me feel ill.

Generally insects don't bother me, but ants. Ants, with their underground tunnels and their abilities to carry a zillion times their body weight, with their appearance in my kitchen every spring from seemingly nowhere even though my kitchen is clean and inhospitable to them - I hate ants.

I was outside, the ant's domain, on my back patio enjoying the beautiful weather and the newness of spring. It wasn't fair of me to kick him like that in his own domain, and yet.

I wonder what I would do if I was kicked by a giant. I would probably die, land in a heap and break all my bones and die. That ant almost certainly didn't die, but I wonder if it hurt. Do ants have very many nerve endings? A question for the ages.

Before I kicked that ant, I was reading some old poetry and letting the sun warm me and the light breeze riffle through my hair, avoiding work and thinking about my life and the big question marks that punctuate my waking moments with their soft severity. ******* this brain and it's forever worrying.

The worrying is the problem. I should spend more time doing.

But I don't. Instead I write poems and kick ants and daydream about finding a home where I can begin my Real Life.

Because this isn't it, is it?
Is it?

Kicking things out of my way that make me uncomfortable? Finding the sunshine and basking like a lizard? Reading poetry?

Actually, I think I can live with that.
That, and fewer ants.

I sat alone and aloof
A Book in hand
And words in mind,
Leaving my reality behind.

He came from nowhere,
Nowhere that I could see
And asked about the words I read;
But for all his words, my words were dead.

We spoke for a while,
Hot coffee warming our hands;
Smiles on our faces and hope in heart
We both played well the stranger's part.

With the hands of time in motion,
We spoke out our souls
Of our lives and our faces,
And our words and their paces.

Of the hours that hurt
And the words that burnt;
The sweet balm of love and care
And how life could, maybe, be a little fair.

He asked, at last, if my words were taken,
And I thought back to the boy
With whom my words belonged--
*I've given up my words far too long...

Kiss the calamity on my lips
and leave your imprint of
atrophy like a stain on my skin.
What is really a love poem
but bits of broken words
you said in your sleep?

I hear music in the distance
that sounds like things I cannot
romanticize with justice. There's
deterioration in the melody, and
with every beat
your heart skips I get a closer look
at the fragments of you that fell apart.
Somethings are just too personal,
like what I daydream about 24/7, or
that fire dancing behind your closed lids
that warms your dreams when
another can't fuel them
physically.

The biggest thing about ourselves we
could hope to have is our
complex. And even that
is pretty small. The ground can't
handle the weight of our hearts
and we're just begging to slip
into the cracks of the
pavements to our proverbial
futures. You always did
connect more to torn and ripped
remains of poems
than fresh handwritten ones, with
evidence of my glistening
fingerprints
all over.

We don't die like stars, you say. We die
like heartache. Real, tangible,
and then just gone.

I am a pin cushion that with
Each head a droplet of blood
Sits, a movement of skin and
Flesh and a hundred heartbeats
Fall like rain drops to the floor.

I feel each one penetrating my
Being, a shower of my essence
And as one smudges the below,
Yet another hundred heartbeats
Once again fill preciously up.

My life ebbing slowly upon the
Unforgiving floor, I lose apart of
Myself with each breath, I would
Shed tears, but all that would fall
Would be my life blood.

I am a toy of the maker of elaborate
Death, I see others in there clear
Rooms each suffers a different fate,
If this wasn't Life I would think it
Hell, but I cough and Like  a fountain
Blood pools out.

Captured by gravity, so pretty as
They leave and descend to nothingness,
I am a pin cushion of life as it bleeds
From me weeping like regretful tears.
I am getting cold, screams have
Silenced motionless moments our now
mine to wordlessly endure.