Push off of the cool cement.
Gravity eases his grip on me.
Suspended in air,
I swallow mouthfuls of the night sky.
With stars in my lungs,
I course their light through my veins.
Between me and the moon,
my small world is drenched
in a hushed, wavering silvery glow.
The still, black surface
breaks into a thousand glittering pieces.
I’m told those little diamonds make
the most melodic tinks and pings,
but I don’t ever hear them.
By then, I’m fathoms below—
where I’m enveloped in quietude,
where time is an extinct notion,
where even the heaviest heart
can beat
                    for whatever she chooses
without
burden.

In the clouds
They met as they did underground
Lonely and lost
Devoid of all thought
Nothing changed
Yet nothing was the same
They walked and slept
Forever
In their lonely eternity
Soulless creatures they lived
Soulless creatures they died
Everything they knew was a lie

I love listening to sad music.
Because it makes me feel sad.
And I suppose I'm crazy for liking that feeling.
But that feeling is so nice and refreshing.
To have my stomach churn, and my hands to get clammy.
Sad music speaks to my soul.
Because I am a sad person at heart.
It was my plan, and his intentions for me.
To be sad and depressed.
But who dare to say that's a bad thing.
It's only a perception that it is.
Maybe being sad is good.
Maybe being sad helps.
Maybe being sad is the best feeling you can feel.
The angst inside is splendid.
So I'll continue to listen to my sad songs.
And I'll continue to be sad.
But do not have pity for me.
I am happy with the way I am.

1329

Whether they have forgotten
Or are forgetting now
Or never remembered—
Safer not to know—

Miseries of conjecture
Are a softer woe
Than a Fact of Iron
Hardened with I know—

Brother,
It's severely strained me to not say sorry
every five seconds because
I cannot answer all of the questions
causing the fog within your skull.
I can't provide these answers
not because I don't want to
or don't know how
it is because I simply cannot.
I'm constantly held at gunpoint
by your elder teachers
who want to keep you polished
in the same state on a shelf
for them to watch.
They don't realize you're constantly
surrounded by kinks in their plan.
Your ears aren't in tune
to hear the evening news.
You haven't learned to digest reality.

You know,
I've always found it odd that
prostitutes practice their profession
in the same places
that kids play pick up sticks
near parents who promise themselves
to protect them
by dressing them up in ignorance.
By lying to their faces
and telling them about the stork
or Santa Claus.
To keep them "pure".
Preserve "innocence".
How does it help to raise your child like a bird.
Keeping them in a wire cage,
to sit on a wooden swing for hours
while they wait for daily meal
and swig of water.
They have wings for a reason.
Calling this "freedom" would be a disgrace.
Let your fowl fly free into the warmth of earth
and explore with guidance
to become new.

Artists do not buy canvases to keep them blank.
Galleries all over the world aren't filled untouched with sheets of white.
Artists buy canvases to create something beautiful.
Let your children become something beautiful.