Inward anger inhibits.
You keep pushing, knocking,
finally yielding determination to disinterest,
to frustration. Foreign concepts
like undeveloped film.
Until, barely latching onto the fabric,
you happen upon it
at some odd hour, the light
adjusts and your perception,
and you may grasp it,
knocking through rotten wood,
collapsing into understanding,
and free within hollow enlightenment
to finally progress.

To ponder your existence,
to over-think.
To experience emotions, growth, life, critically;
and find another word for everything.
A word that better describes how you feel, what you see, and what you think,
So that some validating other may understand.
So that you are not alone with your echoing thoughts,
with your conscious.

Even worse about being intangibly alive and being alone in living
is finding yourself
in the only place where no other may ever reach you.
An ever-changing place, ever chained to your state.
Uncontrolled and deep.
Unsafe and terrifying.
Somewhere you may reach and travel without even moving.
A place that knows you better than you know yourself.
When you're asleep you understand it all,
no further sorrowful questions.
It's all sensible and clear,
when it is all absurd.
In your subconscious, you may be lost but not curious,
because you know all the answers, you just forget them in the morning.
Part of being human
is longing the things we have lost.
There's little we want more than to remember what we forgot.

I'd like to write poetry that fills the empty people,
the unfeeling, their limbs numb,
their eyes unblinking from glaring into the dark visions of their glazed expressions.
I'd like to awaken them, so they may realize they are sick with sadness
that turns good things into unattainable dreams,
placing them on shelves higher then we may ever be,
because this thing drags us down,
and there's no bottom. We just continue to fall
until there is nothing left to grip, no hand outstretched, and nothing lucky
onto which we may cling
disrupting the rough walls of an endless pit. Sick.
And it's contagious, yes, it latches onto those you love and devours them before you -helpless.
I'd like to step on this leech that festers on life, and share a smile
with this race of unfulfilled, undecided, empty faces, lost,
wading in still water, patiently awaiting
life to begin or happiness to return.

I see myself headed to Nowhere, and fast.
I'll be ******* down South towards there real soon.
Forgetting all that I've known in the past,
to try something entirely new.
It's really very far from here, Nowhere,
near this high point where I've stood all my life.
Maybe I'll happen upon fortune and fame,
or spend the rest of my days in soul-stealing strife.
I don't know exactly the coordinates;
when I get there, I'll send you my address.
And I don't have a plan, a road, or a map,
but I feel in my heart exactly where it's at.
I know I'll find it, I'll send post cards along the way
as I wander hopefully towards
Nowhere in the US of A.

Sometimes I awaken at the edge of dawn
as the world is just turning
over in bed; so early that I forget the existence of people.
I forget their ways and patterns, as if I am not of them.
I forget what I might hear in place of the silence
and I follow no path
because they've all been erased by fresh snow over night,
still falling randomly from branches and other high places.
Directionless, I trod just within the gutter, through the puddles of
snow melting under the new warmth of morning.
I don't walk in the road
I don't want to forget completely,
but just for a little while, I walk alone
to see what it might be like to be the only one.

My love is asleep.
He says he does not dream,
but his supple lids tremble.
I study his face for expression.
Shifting, he grumbles and smiles,
his searching hands find me close,
pull me in, only then is he still.
I stroke his hair, kiss his shoulder,
tickled, he swipes at me.
I laugh. He is funny even at this distance.
Timeless at my side, he seems heavy.
I am a tiny planet, heavy too, and serious.
I love you in the language of the world:
silent gravity.