Silver skin and copper veins
Rusty joints and beta brains
No one thought, I.E. Me
Would get to FEEL differently
My mouth could say the functions
Every thing from meaning to time
To the way airplanes mimic birds
But never could it find those words
And yet with your presence
Your file hidden and bound
A corruption in my databanks
404 Not Found.
I can name you every color
In the spectrum of the light
I cannot seem to find a name
In the coloring of your eye
I cannot name your existence
It's far different than I
I am but a robot
And you are something I cannot describe
How can you compute
Even more than me
Yet still have the essence
To make you want to BE
What ARE you?
What have you done?
You've made me feel frightened
Of what I've become
I know I am not a robot
But that is how I think
So with this Will I have installed
What will become of Me?

As she walks down the road, she’s sees him. He is sitting on a park bench. The sun is beating down on his face he is an older man.  
She keeps walking by not realizing this man would someday have an important part in her life.
She keeps walking down the streets, she is going to school. She sees the people on the street but do they see her?
Did the older man see her? She sees him every day, wondering why he is there.

im used

**** it im used

here, world.
have these words.

it’s all for the better
i’m all for the worse

they're all bound
to come around
and rebound
some days from now
so what’s the worst?

don me a a player
of words
and an alphabet
about which
i could not care less
though in them is my worth
they’re the sole characters  
on which my transient existence depends…
how symbolic.

don't allow it
they’ll run out of artists and authors
when they realize they need to pay attention
to working on pay without paying on their end
so they pay homage and paint my pale face
and hang it up as they say grace and pass the pail, there's
a pencil in my left although i’m not right at times
hand it
although i've only used pen those times
grant it
to galleries long after i am gone
and my silent voice of self-defense that is read when i see red
is no more
and granted,
my flesh is dense, entrenched and soiled in worms and soil
and the sole consistency in my after and my life is my nonexistent soul

don’t let the gluttony go unnoticed.

for if there is a phenomena i despise more so
than broadway shows which broadly showcase
plain, feigned mythical “facts” amidst quotes
it’s the fact that
myth
has no purpose
but to extort
the 27 things i’ve ever known:
my mean letters and my enemy
long after i
am no more.

a talking bag of bones
a poets heart
and flesh that demands
death

People have butterflies  
In their stomach they say, 
When something tickles their heart away. 
They say something dances in there, 
That something gets them all red . 
That is how they know  
When something is good for their heart, 
The butterflies, I suppose is a sign of love 
-captured in their heart, 
Making their way around, 
The butterflies dances to someone else's songs 
And the world they live in  
Gets brighter. 
 
People say  
They have butterflies  
In their stomach, 
When someone tickles their heart 
But all I feel is a burn 
As if acid churns up my soul. 
It rises in my guts to my heart  
Perhaps to burn the love  
Or the fingers perhaps that tickles it, 
Perhaps because  
the butterflies in my stomach 
are dead! 
In others they remain dormant  
In mine they just died for living too long  
In hope but no fingers to carve their world. 
Maybe they died in their pupas 
Suffocated by all the strangling hands, 
Or maybe they flew away  
In search of someone in the past. 
But the acid I feel 
Is their ashes still ablaze, 
I guess that is what is most probable 
That they died long ago,
Been stuck there for too long 
Held hostage by my fear 
And burnt by the matches
People unknowingly rubbed along. 
And so every time something, 
Every time you tickle my heart, 
I guess it is good for it, 
Fire burns in my stomach, 
Rises up my guts  
And I run to throw up, 
To throw it all away. 
I don't think I am made to tickle. 
I have fire in my heart, 
It burns everything away  
And I have carcasses of wings to clean up!