anonymous winds
bend tall Timothy grasses,
wake rabbits napping
in the brush

they ripple the surface
of the stock tanks, tickle the haunches
of the beasts who wade there
to slurp the tepid waters

they birth red dust devils
for my eyes to follow, as they scud
through mesquite, and hopscotch over canyons
older than time

one day, soon, they will blow
over a shallow earth bed; I will not hear
their sibilant song, but my sleep will be deep,
unperturbed by their mystic music

You're the sun.

So beautifully bright that I have to stare, even though it hurts horribly.

I live in Antarctica, where you only light up my world half of the time and then leave me to suffocate in darkness for months on end.



You're a deer.

Unaware of me observing your adroitness from the dark depths of this brazen bracken which conceals me.

If I make any sort of sudden movement, I know you will sprint away into the trees because you're so afraid of letting anyone get close to you.



You're a puppetmaster.

Pulling at my oh-so-vulnerable heartstrings in the most musical way while creating the most fantastic and addictive art.

Your fingers are magic to me, and their slightest movement can either plunge me into endless despair or **** me up to the most heavenly of all cloud nines.



You're a siren.

Drawing me in with your sweet song only to ultimately unravel me.

You taunt me with colorful hints of false hope, making me wonder if you're really that cruel, or if you're merely  unstable.



You're a child.

So oblivious to the obvious, yet incredibly innocent.

You brighten my day with your silly antics and sweet gestures alike, but you're too enthralled in your own little world to ever notice.



You're Doctor Jekyll.

Always changing your face from friendly to arrogant and asinine, then right back again.

Sometimes I wonder how I could love someone like Mister Hyde, until you turn into the nice guy again and remind me.



You're a weaver.

Excruciatingly twisting the threads of me into the fabric of my being, leaving little streaks of sorrow and joy.

You have shaped this tapestry in the most painful and beautiful way, and without your unknowing influence, it would surely be unrecognizable from its current battered, but unique, condition.





You're a thorny rose I keep trying to pick.



Sending me away ******, bleary-eyed, and smelling sweet.



I wish you could understand how much I need to carry you home.

carbon copy
******* kids
all square and full of holes
chasing
someone else's dreams
doing only as they're told

gaping wounds
conformity
it's useless to resist
grayscale thoughts
behind closed eyes
rainbows do not exist

follow the leader
play pretend
grown-up rules, abide
broken backs
and camel straws
there is no place to hide

technicolor
memories
it was just a game
forty years
of servitude
society's to blame

here and now
when youth is young
and colors bold and bright
uncharted paths
with neon skies
teach them hold true and tight

planets turn
and water flows
when dreams, have yet, to die
tomorrows
more than yesterdays
the young see bluer skies

I can feel you, restless, in my dreams, or mind, or heart.   tortured by thoughts of nothing in blackness in the noise of a crowded room.  There is no peace tonight, in my very being I feel it,  There are no meds to remove the screams, no drugs to escape the torture.  The numbness of self medication keeps your sanity hanging by the strongest of all threads.  Can't think too much, or ponder on what ifs.  But music looks beautiful dancing in the air, and time is a concept of man that serves no purpose other than to **** joy and draw boxes of conformity in thick black lines.

the color of sound
permeates cracks in the void
tolerable life

Existence without reason,  alone in an ever-present crowd, there are no rainbows in nighttime storms, I can feel your quick breaths as you are dragged into sleep unwillingly, though in desperate need. the trepidation runs deep, silenced by normality, fear of separation of mind tethered to others by soul alone.  Pretense in surface honesty, which is perceived as truth.  But the core of it, the fear of it, the whole of it cannot be hidden, for I feel you to the depths of who you are afraid to be.  There is no loss of sanity in being who you are,  Those colors sound beautiful as they dance in the smokey air, and the math is art incarnate, science is the symphony around which all things are born and oh the music.  Yes the music that dances through it all is the very air in all it's swirling hues of blissful perfection

two halves of self dance
tangos of darkness and light
beauty in all things

                    *in wait of nightmares
                    there need not be loneliness
                    joy in one who knows

the night seems not as dark
and the problems not as  insurmountable
and the flowers grow  more noticeably prettier
and the  moon I notice glows like never before
the day dawns with glory
and time ticks like my heart beats
every one for you

you cant help but read your own mind
- poetical narcissism

And so I fall again
Into the blackest cycles
The dark patterns
Of dreary steps
Running on auto
Not feeling like I ought to
Piloting the craft through
Though taking many hits to the hull

And perennial pardon ,
Sure as the sun will rise
With the impending dawn,
****** my plaintive passions
Sickening and splintering the dream
One from which I awake with a start
Bloodshot grogginess
My purest art