Creatures called "sores" hover at lightning speed across the grey earth, hence, ere is the apocalypse's eve.
Just as it always is, and the future attains enlightened poisoning which eats slowly at its being and existence.

Feelings, misplaced
Confidence, misplaced
Balance, misplaced
Senses, scattered and blown by opaque wind into small tornadoes which settle and hide in the corners and crannies of my skull

The fascinate-opal is shining above the impossible-springs where blue vegetation is next to molten rainbow cascading through, over, under, and beside digital holograms of people.
Illusory picnic in the chapel-a hollowed sheet of milk

Can you see through my insane
I can't relax
And so I've chosen to be hyper
I can't be comfortable
So I burn comfort

The bellow is a random personal explanation of what I typically write.
Less than poetry, this might be more told than expressed with metaphor or symbolism.  My writing is in some ways an extension of myself, I would however love to believe that that's where any parallels could be drawn between my art and others because, at a level, I'm attempting to create something innovative yet ugly.  I should mention also, that often there is philosophical depth in many (and if not many than at least a few) of my pieces which if absent completely, is replaced with an abstract idea of beauty fighting with ugliness or ugliness fighting with beauty.

Must you be here in such an interesting illusion?
Why must you sit in such... vogue?
Here though, you exist in fashionable cyst.
Bygone futures of blighted sutures
Youngster-stale and eight-hundred pale
Destitute pasts of layer passes present
Horses gather at the gates of heaven
Spitting at me
And in this way, I've given myself nightmarish feelings.
Yellow blocks provides battery-colored translucence a doubt of mortals
Tungsten belated harmony

I've got a another sense
I've had it ever since
I broke my mind, hence
I AM GOD

It allows me
To see
What is actually free
IS NOTHING

Hab-i-tat
De-rail
Un-furl
And flail
In the harsh hot wind

Make the sun into a cone atop a spear
And send to the earth
Into my eyes
And to the back of my skull

Left deep within withering and writhing branches neath the Moon's bewildered feeling of all-around confusion lays a broken shell behind a distant monster who's forgotten, already, about it.

There, underneath the Moon's trying faux-sunlight, I was born.

I am everything that you fear.

I can still feel your warmth under my soul
Thank you
For your little bits
Of happiness

The jazzy overtone leaves me alone
In a beautiful world, away from
Difficult to breathe now
I drown in purple terrorism
Just to see if it's possible
Useless absence of past
Torn into pieces that're now pulled through deadly veil
Improper destitute-grey scenery
I am now
I am then
I am after
You can't send your materials into me
You must take them back
You are a monster of loose-luck frill
And then I nod beyond the sod
Of the
Other side
Of the
HILLS