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Lines on the road,
heart beating,
and you in the passenger seat
like we've been doing this forever.

Am I the rhythm
of broken lines on the road -
how it all feels ready for collapse?


Sometimes I forget I exist,
and I can't touch enough
to know this isn't true.


But you touch me
and I am part of this world -

I am the lines on the road,
I am the wheels turning.
 4d daycrow
Six
2021
 4d daycrow
Six
i've walked the same streets alone and cold since the beginning of january. i've walked them with my head low and my eyes on my boots and my hands pushed deep in the pockets of my jeans. always alone.

but now you come along and you take me to places i've never seen, tingeing the air with nostalgia as you flaunt your pink hair and bright smile and profanity as you yell at the gps and take me back to a place i've missed since i was nine years old.

you take me back home, and now i'm realizing that the thing i missed wasn't a tiny nowhere marijuana town but you, you and your cheerful despair. and i hate that the crumbling fireplace of my childhood belongs to someone else now, but maybe it's for the best. maybe you're what i really needed.
*******. i missed this.
 Apr 2 daycrow
Strying
A country road leads to a home.
Beyond rows of trees,
you find a place to hide,
and yet people always seem to be hiding in a place
where they can be found.
Where can one go to never be discovered?
One may wonder if such a place exists.
If it does, how does one get there?
Is death the only path, or can other ways be made.
Can a person scream and not be heard.

Years may pass, but the only constant
is the endless denial of the end.
There will always be nothing in the end.
Blank.
Then again,
a blank canvas is exactly what so many artists look for,
right?
What many broken people look for to make a new start?
A blank page is a new story waiting to be written,
a life waiting to be lived,
and a masterpiece waiting to be crafted.
Art is a whole other story,
for every stoke creates one piece of something
that has never been made before,
no matter how detailed one can replicate,
each is new,
as each person is a new.

These are all pretty random thoughts;
put together using words,
sentences, paragraphs,
whatever you want to call it.

In reality, everything we know is made by people.
This is because, even things made by God,
were polluted by people.
Who knows if God wanted the sky named “sky.”
In reality, nothing is reality,
it’s all a concept.
And not all of these ideas can be written.
Everything seems dumb down to what we,
who we consider the most advanced species,
can understand.
To me,
it seems many animals can get by with
just knowing that when it is dark they sleep,
and when it is light they get up.

Anyway,
my point is that if,
humans can turn beauty into false concepts,
people are too a false concept.
Who are humans;
some say we are ****-sapiens.
I say we are beings,
all trying to find a purpose in a broken society,
broken by us.

Why is that in an attempt to educate our young,
we stress them out past levels of asylums just a century ago.
I don’t see what the point of creating a world where people are unhappy is.
And then, they don't allow for an escape from it.
Their personal sad and insanity entertainment.
Our only escape is death,
and suicide is looked down upon.
What does society expect us to do?
Talk to other people,
the root cause of the world’s negatives.

When I say it would be easier to die, it’s the truth.
Death is the easy way out,
and yet why does it feel so hard?
I know it's long, I apologize.
You          I am
are a lot    much like 
like Hate     Love, I hate  
you love to   that you    
despise     do  
me
It takes two parts of a heart to be broken
(to be read in two parts)
 Apr 1 daycrow
Someguy
Soar
 Apr 1 daycrow
Someguy
I want to see you soar;

Hear your heart beating wing-strokes
Thrashing morning sky
In whirled ascent;

Glimpse the joy of outstretched wings
Catching rising winds
In weightless orbit;

Lose sight of you
In the light of the sun
And wonder

Whether you'll come back to me.

I want to see you free.
 Mar 31 daycrow
Six
the golden light that used to flow under my skin is slowly dripping out. it turns red when it hits the white tile floor, but all i see is the green of your eyes and the blonde of your hair and the gold that was too heavy for my veins. you are turning into a green-and-blue sculpture of glass and you are so cold in my hands.

i left you so the sun could warm your surfaces but now i see you melting into the floor, and i can't stay away any longer. my heart does not fit in your transparent hands, and yours is lying still in the puddle of red blood that i left behind. i am lifting you into the passenger seat, pushing the seat belt over your chest.

and the world is rushing by, but the glass of your left hand is reflecting the streetlights into my eyes and i can't find the brake. i don't think i want to. i don't think i'm even trying. i am turning to glass with you, and we are shattering against a brick wall.

we are sparkling in the moonlight, shards of us descending into fields of wilted roses and corpses and the scent of rotting apples. and now, alone with you, there is nothing that can save us. we were skin, we were glass, and now we are empty veins, small hearts.
we told you this was melodrama.
 Mar 25 daycrow
Six
i walk these streets crawling with old men and wandering hands and ******, holding black rage in my chest. i am flooding the rain-filled gutters and bringing my honey-scented sky to these city nights, letting cold air hold me hostage because i am the only person who dares to hope that one day i will see stars without also seeing assault.

there is a crumpled note in the corner of my bloodstained mirror that says god save the ******* prom queen because that is the only thing holding my chin up when i walk. that is the only thing letting me wear black boots and spikes and fake leather. that is the only thing holding my confidence far enough from my fear to let me walk like this.

i carry a pocket knife with me everywhere i go. when men follow me down these dark streets i let the blade dig into my palm, clutch it harder and harder until i find the light in my front yard. i do not avoid leaving that light because i am miserable, but because i am afraid. afraid that one day i won't make it to the light.
"The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their *** and ****** will foam up about their waists and all the ****** and politicians will look up and shout 'save us!'... and I'll look down and whisper 'no.' " -Watchmen
 Mar 23 daycrow
Emily
When eggshells become sand
and the tide just another reminder of the glass
being half empty, not full,
it is time to take a step back and reminisce on
the spring flowers blossoming from detritus.
 Mar 20 daycrow
heel
resting
 Mar 20 daycrow
heel
i caught a break
held it gently in my hands
and examined its surface

it seemed unripe for me—
craters dusty, i was the clumsy
giant fumbling it to the floor.
i caught a break, then let it scuttle off. villainy.
 Mar 18 daycrow
heel
avalanche
 Mar 18 daycrow
heel
.
                the avalanche came quickly,
white chuff thrashing
like the surf.

                       he was found with
snow in his mouth:
a death sentence, sadly

                               i wonder what it was like.
did he inhale, deeply,
his body screaming for air —

                       were there white fishes of light
swimming before his eyes, black
spots of seaweed kissing him bye?

                he was cold when they found him
it's only been twenty minutes
but i thought he looked asleep:

                       strapped to a board, being
tossed by the break: not snow
but salt in his mouth — from smiling

                                into the spray —

                        and they weren't crying, but
cheering him on as he crested
the white wave, figure cutting

                fine eights in the curl,
faster, faster away from the
shore, then, with a wave of the hand,

                       clearing the peak, disappearing,
                                   glittering on
                                            slicing neatly his piece of the light.
                                                          ­                                                    .
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