the arpeggio of strings,
a distant voice sings,
for pleasantly contained spaces,
in far away places.
somewhere sweet
and safe, with
sorrows embraced,
far in the distance,
neath moonlit plains,
white stars,
wave crashing and
undeveloped terrain.
the cool cast of a fire-y past,
riper, wiser, and
unaffected by change.
looking black,
at looking back.

I can’t seem to get this thing started
But I know I can find my way home
I can take you to where the ice melts
We can follow it until it turns to foam

How long does it take to gain your confidence
I need the key but the puzzle is in your mind
All these complications for such simple things
Like your cheek rubbing your tears on mine

You're like a home without a door
Nobody knows where to begin
The curtains are shut
And the lights are dim

I know you’re still thinking about him
I would come calling but he got to you
He’s moved on but you can’t come clean
I don’t care about your past but you still do

The path is covered with red leaves
The way you were once loved has fallen
Stop looking at trees that will never live again

I think about the past but you’re not in it
Tomorrow is the only place I can find love
I can’t begin to build a bridge all in one day
But when you cross you’ll know what it’s made of

You're like a light without a switch
Nobody knows how to turn you on
The shadows live a long life now
And your smile runs away from dawn

I am bohemio.
Of shrubbery
ridden riversides,
walking above
the line that separates
each to their side.

I am intrigued
by stray dogs,
eye contact, smiles,
and tangled hair.

I am lost.
I am crazy,
especially in other's gazes.

But I think...
it's ok.

It's finally...
ok.

They say never stare directly into the sun;
It will burn your eyes and you'll go blind.
But sometimes when I stare into the sun,
it ***** the sickness out of my mind —
and I have been nauseous lately.

The worst part is that I don't know why.
It could be the food or drink,
or the lack of food or drink.
It's bad, but,
not enough to complain,
just lingering,
annoying,
though it makes my throat close up sometimes.

Maybe I'm allergic.

Regardless, that's not what I'm writing about.
I'm writing about the way the clouds hang in the sky at sunset.
How their underbellies darken and grow more dimensional as the sunshine dissipates.

As if everything has come into focus.

So effortless, yet so heavy,
like a woman's breast hung over an anxious mouth.
A vague feeling of before...trying to remember how and when,
but the feeling is not as colorful as when.

Something like how silent the city feels.
As if we're all alone looking at the sky.
It's quieter than 3am or any other hour.

It's calm.

Before  I was anxious,
but the anxiety has melted away.
This day relieved of atrocious puns^

To make room for poetry,
one hundred feet off the ground,
in pink light,
on two feet,
with chest open,
absorbing everything,
in spite of everything.

I turn back periodically to see how quickly
the blue and the purple and the lavender are becoming more vivid,
as the sun dips behind the valley and just glows there.

It's almost all gone.
Evaporating more quickly than spilled ink on paper.

I despair as a writer
when I think
that conversation,
the spark of humanity,
our golden embroidery
on life,

is unremarkable.

these days,
voices are
shallow melodies
with accents
on repeat:

I want you to listen
and believe,

but who really knows?

or is distinguishing
the repackaged
plagues of similar beliefs.
The differences
are basically the same
and it's time consuming
to critically think.

So exhausting

to feel
like I must hurry
to get a point across
before the nodding
glance to the black screen,

relieved of wondering:

Have you been listening
at ALL to my word
drawings and logic trees
derived from headlines,
videos, and abstract
malcontent?

I'm learning to be quiet,
or dramatic.

Nothing in between

but revising
a philosopher's tractatus:

Whereof one cannot speak,
One should remain silen..salient.