I am a natural being,
I have a heart, and a brain
I am full of essence and breath,
I have a mind that emits itself for others to inhale.

But why does my existence bother you?
Do I not fit into your assigned categories?
Do I not clear all the ticks in your brainless mental box?

I appear too fragmented for your approval,
A broken disc glowing in its spectrum,
But the more I glow,
The more I am alive.

So I'm not sorry if your fragile, small head aches when I'm near,
I suggest you ask why it's so delicate,
Before you blame your afflictions on me.

No, what is life without fear?

Yes, what is growth without seed?

You have been an impostor to yourself,

and the mirror is opaque.

Tremors loom faceless choirs,

bellowing runes of disjoint.

Subconsciousness cradles reality,

and awakens the false soul.

By the edge of the moors
Occupied by shadows cast
Its once closed doors
Unhinged by times pass

Centered in a golden arch
Above the mantle it spies
Generations of burning embers
And Masquerading lies

Benign to the naked eye
It's weft masks well
It's blood stained warp
Yet it holds dear
Within every woven thread
Lies the tapestry of fear

i see beauty in the terrible &
i see perfect harmony in ugliness
shock pain destruction ruin,
the truth: the above is more whole and juicy between the teeth
than years of singing sparrows

& i see the perverted beauty in damage
- wreckage & shrapnel -
broken cracked stained objects
have their own crooked appeal

i lust for bruises, broken hearts, broken bones, addicted tongues
for the red eyes born of insomnia, sorrow, substance abuse
i want the literal & metaphorical dirt under your fingernails  
there's a sick sweetness in awful secrets
but factory fresh is bland & tasteless

I woke up
thinking about that time
we stifled our movements
to keep from being heard
by your friend in the next room

The sun on your back,
I tried to wrap my fingers
around rays of light
and run them down your rib cage

Our lips hit like bolts of lightning
followed by thundering smiles
and streams of hot air

Your hands held me
as I wiped the hair
from your forehead
and laughed into your ear

As you try to peel your body
away from mine
I summon you back
with the taste of my tongue
until you have ingrained it
into your memory
and can remove yourself
without unanswered questions

There is something tragically intangible about space that makes it so beautiful,
infinite light years of nothing
out there to be explored.
it's terrifyingly real,
many have been there,
but I will never go.
Space is something of the subconscious,
you can only create and appreciate it's essence
in the prison of grey matter a top your head.

And though I've never been there I know
if I ever collided with a passing star,
I'd caress it's sides and combust into it's center.
melting,
blending,
becoming one.

how badly I want to sacrifice my soul into a black hole,
how sad it is that I'll never get the chance.

how incredibly similar space is to you
how beautifully intangible you are.

how badly I want to love you,
how sad it is I'll never get the chance.

Is this what it's like to be a poet?
To taste every goodbye, to feel every moment?
To feel every detail, to see every flaw?
To kiss every star as the night starts to fall
To fall in love with the way the sunsets
To dream of the birds from dusk to dawn

Is this what it's like to be a painter?
To find it captivating the way the earth moves
Mesmerized by your very own torment
Never caring if anyone else approves
Ingenious, stamped across your forehead

Is this what it's like to be an artist?
To find beauty in the pain that transcends
From the demonized garden growing within?
To find something alluring in the way
*People walk away

.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...