Book Thief taught me why painting is better than burning (books.)
Hamlet gave me a glimpse of grief, cutting the heart of tragedy with his poisoned rapier, where beads of things red and desperately human trickle forth. He helped me realize my dream of being king- king of nutshells and withered violet petals. 

Tris reminds me of myself, and Gatsby, too. 

Keegan’s car and Browne’s poems awkwardly sit in the corner; I see them as I walk back and forth down the halls, too busy to pick them up. My mind palace is a hoarder’s nest.



They make me, I paint them over, thick and
bubbly with memories.
Layers upon
layers, now a
sculpture.
What’s me and what’s not?

Queen in yellow in her tower,
One of the Severed Seven, it haunts her
As she wanders her wretched black tower.

Puzzle pieces distract Ophelia,
From insomnia and greyer matters,
Itty bitty code, copper liquid spills.

Perpetual twilight, insoluble,
Scattering eons of stars like hot ash.
Life's cold, flowers grow in glory and man.

Queen in yellow in her tower,
One of Seven Severed Echoes, she loves,
She marks her heart in wretched black tower.

Puzzle pieces distract Ophelia,
Her god begs for a sacrifice, hungry,
She falls to the ground, copper liquid spills.

Perpetual twilight, insoluble,
Ophelia and Queen, dissolution,
Death increases vanity- man's glory.

The Queen without a face:

Standing between two warriors -two friends- built with star composites, asterisms.
She is crowned with Corona Borealis- glittering, sparkling. She smiles.
Hercules pats her on the back, playfully. The crown slips onto the Queen’s nose at an angle, her hair in a mess.
The three of them walk across the grassy horizon.

Acid bliss. Citrus circuits.

What?

Unclear writing, unclear thinking, thunking. Wait, who? Why now, tautology. Unclear, inconclusive.
The starry-eyed lover of everything? Or the overcast, dark spectacled preacher king? Graphite eyes, starry skies? Pies, kies, lies, what rhymes with eyes and skies and light-bending forces threatening to. Tear. Me. Apart.
Ghosts and gravity, black holes and dark thoughts, deceiving selves and lying heart. Tautology. Unclear. Inconclusive.

Forlorn is a pretty word.

God save me:

Save me. From myself. And.
For myself.

Imagine no apocalypse
What then?
You Vanish.
That’s it.
Fish will return
land will rise, fall
merlins will take sparrows on
the blackberries.

I try to convince myself that there’s no struggle;
That these are just war games. 

I wear long sleeves and the word
Fine
Like kevlar.
I search for second player, when,
Real
       ly, I need a commander.
I gather treasures, battle strategies in
Journals;
I tell myself that they're just easter eggs,
Useless
Use
      less.
I philosophize  
That reality is, really, a hollow
Hologram,
A video game, not real, not wrong, not
True, useless;
A projection,
Protection.
There's no war, no battle,
It's my d mons that speak dark things, when really, there's a
             a
             e
One  lett r difference.
I tell myself that the game's over, try
Again, try again.
Failure stabs, I say
That it was my own doing,
It's just war games.

I need to take a walk,
Run, run away
I tell myself,
It'll do me good.
I come back for another
Try, try again.
I was retreating, my armour could
Not protect me from the claws, the scratches from
Within.
It's nothing, I say,
It's all in your head;
It's all in my head.

I try to tell myself that there's no battle to be won, to  
Be a man.
Men don't play video games;
Men be me n.  
They defend, they protect,
They forgive.
But I don't feel forgiven,
I say I'm forgiven.

I'm fine, and
These are just war games.

Ocean wind pastel sky city swept away

Birds suspended floating puppets

Trees in twilight buildings

Dim lit busy urban jungle waters undulating

Waves wave when where whence I why

Eye see sea glimmering forevers

Drag on apartment glow worlds

Lofty hologram wish love here stay star

Beautiful things hollow center