My biggest fear
Is that I'll wake up in 10 years
And still miss you

****** vain eye
like a crimson sunset sky
and I'm so ordinary
just like all of you
madmen and doctors
both put comfort
in that their pain is
unique
no one could understand
this stereotypical
cold cold winter
hypothermia raindrops
all is empty howling wind
only crestfallen souls
shells of bodies
roam

Life is a tumbling sea of nauseous waves right now
Waves fueled by dreams I can't even begin to decode
Unless you take into consideration my worst fears

Lips shut. Pin in.

Words trapped.
Metaphors drowned.

Body drenched in
unread letters.

Ink spilled all over the
room. Black stained
the white sheets and
curtains too.

Time stopped. Noises
went off.

The heart got mad. And
the soul went sad.

I was taught to never
speak my own thoughts
out loud.

I never was proud of
letting them lay both
hands on me.

I never was proud of
letting them silence
me starting from the
age of three.

Been quiet for a very
long time. Kept all my
words bottled up inside
that throat of mine.

Life wasn't easy or fine.

But the time has come
to set myself free.

To unlock the pin and
brush all the chaos off
my bruised purple
coloured skin* ~

•  Old dresser drawers reopened
• silly, simple T-shirts back in style
• confusion of how the last 5 years of fashion
• abandoned honesty and compassion, straightforward presentation

• he swims into the swatch
• it fits perfectly, but what to wear with it?
• total mystery; his sleek, **** jeans?
• his soft, comfortable shorts?

• maybe this would be easier if
• he owned less costumes
• silently noting that nudists
• likely feel quite comfortable in T-shirts

• shuddering @ the thought of such vulnerability
• he sorts through another stack
• faded reds dredging long drowned days
• eyes closed, sun bleeding crimson, thoughts lofty

• wondering what the sneakers he used to wear
• really said
• long sigh, less than hopeful
• but these things are cyclical, you know

• what goes, eventually comes
• old pictures always met with "what was I thinking"
• with fashion, you never can be sure, not even later
• besides, one day you'll just wear a suit, so be simple now

I find myself
here again, the place after
the ride, the drive, the walk, the run
I know this is the place
because I see a man, stopped in a car
he drives away when my gaze meets his
as men in cars should

So I fill the position he vacates
I stop my (bike)
and I am here
the (corner) of the (streets)
with the (sidewalk) and the (flowers)
and the unimportant coordinates
less important, even, than the (layers of stones)
fencing the (yard)

But I am here, I brought myself here
not to get away from anything, but wholly to get away

A place of many things
and a very changeable boy
and therefor, a great number of days

The navel gazer himself
liable to start each line with an "and"
is nothing its own?
each face like the last
each tree, holding hands underground
with all others he's encountered that day
each song, sung just for him
just for that moment

You are no culmination
no stress point, no break point
where do you find the ability
to perceive each stimulus as a reflective surface
the rain exists only to keep you in
and the sunshine, just to beckon you out
the wind to cool your brow
and the four walls just to keep you safe

The world wouldn't steal your bike in the rain
because it does not notice you
accept your place as a footnote
but don't accept that footnote's place
don't let others write your 15 minutes
not of fame, but existence

DON'T SPEND LIFE ON YOUR HEELS

the wind eventually made its way in to pick what it could from the bones of the not-yet-dead; soon they’d become one in the same and it doesn't matter a wink to the bystanders if you’re still alive.

We’re just a planet covered in scavengers waiting to lick your bones clean, to tear your vital organs to shreds and your flesh from your bones, to swoop down from the sky and steal your still-beating heart from your open chest, to take your valuables, your organs, your wallet.

Time is a carnivorous beast, an oily, black vulture picking brittle bones dry from inside a heart that’s lost its mind.

there is some kindness in the way
the earth is suspended on gravity's back.
how it
rotates on it's axis,
bound by the sacred trust
that space won't bottom out &
shake us all from the earth
like crumbs in the bed.

there is little kindness in the way
the earth is suspended
in war, in turmoil;
with handguns & machine guns
& bombs strapped to civilians-
tied to the greater majority
with the intentions of a few.

there is little kindness
in fighting fire with fire-
when our own backyards are burning
&
our neighbors are to blame.

there is little kindness in the fear
of what lies beneath a burka,
a niqab,
a turban-
a police uniform,
a trench coat
or a white robe
&
a
pointed
white
hood.

there is little kindness in the terror
that sleeps in the backs of our minds
and sets up shop in our beds
& lays low
while we condemn the third world,
the local news just confirms
and confirms
and confirms-
we were killing each other first.

there is little kindness in seeing humanity
as this side of the border
or that.
the world is more of a revolving door
that spins you dizzily
& spits you back out.

there is some kindness in the way
gravity still holds the earth
like some sick, sad science fair project;
like some ****** consolation prize.

humanity is
a bed of crumbs
clinging
thanklessly
to
sheets.