Is horse blinders:
All I can look towards
Is the ****** race's
end.

I hope the significant being
growing inside me
can't sense how
insignificant its host is.

Feeling important--
That feeling you get when you
look at pictures of your not-husband
with his family who don't know
you exist.

Feeling inspired--
Watching videos of people doing things
I'll never have enough motivation
to achieve.

Feeling enlightened--
My cat is cuddling me the more I stay in bed
and don't do anything,
while everyone I know thinks
I'm a successful busy body.

Feeling empowered--
That feeling you get when you
can see the workplace political web weaving itself
into knots, only because people
don't give a **** enough to not tell you.

Feeling loved--
So many people are asking for my company
now, which makes it easier to give people
just enough time to have a taste,
but not quite enough time to
actually swallow me.

Feeling fulfilled--
That moment when you realize
nothing you do matters,
so why not get obliterated to
Justin Bieber?

In your slumber, I find you
wandering deciduous Dreamland forests
under a harvest moon

waiting for me to arrive.

Your chocolate eyes melt
when we embrace,
bubbling forth your soul--

molten lava,
cooling in briny blue oceans
to create new earth.

Upon it,
my green eyes lay lichen and
bury the seeds

we've fertilized,

so that they may
mature into sequoias
from our

Love,
forever present.


Oh, how they'll reminisce about
the worlds we've created.

When we get to play together,
we have ropes around our necks,

and as dogs those ropes are
tied to the poles;

however, we’ve placed those poles
and tied those ropes,

hoisting the noose around each other’s
necks.

How long are we to go on like this
before we run beyond our diameters

and end our lives
as we know them,

change the knot so that our play
won’t be lethal,

or slip off what bounds us
and run together free?

Bite into me
with those white,
vampiric teeth

Please--

convert me to
what you are,

so, together,
we can forget
the meaning of
time.

If we’re all actually
in the hands of a
Christian God—
His tight grip has melted me like
chocolate,
and I’ve slipped through
His mighty fingers—
a puddle of delicious
rejuvenation.
I spread everywhere,
molding to all of the
bumps and
cracks
in the floor.
Sweet, sweet freedom.
His son can never
mop me up
and remold me into
His image.