My heartbeat's gone all wrong
A stuttering flutter of rhythmic butter
Something this *****'s been slipping on
And what is the tempo marking, dear?
Quarter note equals freakin’ infinity
It's come to my attention, I fear
I never breathed a note this long

What does it mean to be
Emotionally unavailable?
My manic thoughts keep me starving for
An imagined happy

“Are you single?” They asked
Well, my heart is as open as an old wound
That reopens & bleeds & scars for
Vicarious validation
Yet closed in the sense that it shuts down
Every time it starts to feel something
Almost habitually,
As if in self defense
I guess you could say my heart was a
Twisted & distanced kind of available...

But no
I’m not available in my mind
Because it knows better than my
Feeling *****
The human container that’s headstrong
To it’s gullible nature
My thinking ***** knows that
Vicarious happy is not real happy
Which labels my forehead like a neon sign
Emotionally Unavailable

I crave a validation that looks like your love
But it won’t fix me
Or provide the happiness I
Desperately need for myself

Unsettled
Unsure
Underneath my composure
I cringe
I fold
I lose all sense of control

Time forces me past this dividend
But I still yearn between two ends

To find
To know
To somehow let it go
Or run
Or hide
Or burn it all inside

On the day that I lost my name
I took a nice long walk
To the edge of infinity,
Searching for it

You know, they say the earth is round
And as I leaned to peer over the side of it
There, lay a vast blanket of outer space
No continuous ground— like they said
No path to move on from
Dead-end roads  and deadened feet
Had led me to this edge, where
I cut myself on contemplative thorns

“At what point did he stop loving me?”
“My friends are gone”
“Rehab couldn’t fix me”
“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow”

No, the world isn’t round
My thoughts are round
And so are my vices
Always spinning and falling
Into a perpetual mental cycle

So when I looked beyond the cliffs of my flat Earth
Into the depths of nothingness
I pondered what it would feel like

To
      tippy
                 toe
                         my way over

                  To lose myself forever

If I never wake up tomorrow
Would they remember my name?

And they are attractive little bunches
Holding themselves together with lightshows and
Hanging over stucco ledges
Until they are replaced
In the dead of night with nobody but the janitor's
Wrinkled gaze
Pruning and yanking
their dry roots
To replace with something new.

The Fibbonacci stories spiral downstairs like infinity
And a reflecting pool looks like the domed firmament of some great sistine

I could see for a moment in my upturned gut
The draw towards infinity that lies at the end of that hollowed mosque
And which holds me firm in trust

There are no stairs, oddly enough
Only a polished high speed elevator
With fancy buttons that light up
And bring us down to ground
Floors that once were above

I stared at my face in between
The metal doors and wondered
When the time would come
For me to be something more

Art is opinion masquerading as truth.

When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.

Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,

and should not be the end of the penman.

When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth

It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;

whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall

Descriptive yet lies

Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ******* of thought, that leftover dream of God

That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.

every mistake i make
opens yet another canyon in the ground,
and just as i begin to hesitate,
you tighten your grip.

every mistake i make
ends up with you disappointed
and me with
double-sided thoughts so sharp
they could ****.

and yet every time
i come to the same concluding solution of-sorts-
does it hurt me more to stay
or hurt you more if i left?

I've thought often
about
    the eye of the
storm -

the thunderous
  consumption that cold does
to
   warm

The way that the
   dust has a
    longing to fly

when the touching
of temperature
orchestrates
the
sky

I've thought often
about
how two things
come together

be it people
  or colors,

    uncontrollable
weather

The way that what's
   different will
    find its extreme

Pinnacle moments
are the day thoughts
I dream.