a fatigue that fogs the mind,
shackles that shake the soul,
someone has smeared purple-light shadows
around your eyes,
and your teeth are a whitewashed wall
between you and the world.
your footsteps say "cold fingers,
late-night poet, not enough time."
not enough time to drive to the city,
not enough time to burn your house down,
to jump off a bridge and let the water
envelop you: a quiet, cold cocoon.
your breaths say "warm lips,
sunrise philosopher, too much time."
too much time to contemplate your worth,
too much time to count to a thousand,
to let dust settle on your skin and
seep into your blood; you are stagnant.
you let yourself wither away:
arrhythmic adolescence.
your jaundice clouds your judgment
as you watch the birds fly free.
you have a thirst,
a longing need
to rip the chains from your chest
to run until your feet pound
with the heartbeat of the earth,
until your eyes sting and water,
until your lungs burn
and your breath runs hot,
until you have the acrid iron taste
of blood on your tongue.
it's the necessity of intangible freedom.
you seek liberation and validation
and the two walk a pace ahead of you,
hand in hand.
monotony weighs you down.
it drags your feet deep into
the mire, the trap.
your half hellos are a plea for help,
behind those pretty eyes
lies a slowly smoldering panic.
you kiss change with all you've got,
press your mouth right against
what you seek
and what you fear.
change won't kiss back;
it never does.
the mutterings of your mind seem to say
"darling, you'll die this way."
what is there to do?
listen, artist.
hear the noise of the weather
and the sounds of the sea.
taste life.
let the flavor of being coat your tongue.
touch, and feel.
run your fingers through sea foam,
scald yourself on a match,
hold handfuls of earth,
sense life in everything; everything is alive.
your chains appear ironclad
and your prison walls cold,
but grasp tightly to sunshine,
fill your mouth with fresh rain.
you'll make it out okay,
out of your head.
you'll live love, dear.

my heart is paper
and I have no eraser
to rid it of your words
so there they'll stay, I suppose
they sound nice together
my heartbeat and your words

Storms.
I like storms.

Sometimes they start slow
with ominous, cadaverous clouds,
slowly rolling, tumultuous.
A few drops of rain,
frigid and fresh,
speaking in a pattering argot on my roof.
Calm, soft rain.
Rain that lulls me to sleep.

Sometimes they are fast and sweet.
An ephemeral rush of raindrops,
mellow cannonades of thunder,
trees still verdant,
green against gray.

Sometimes they are hot and volatile
with lightning so bright
it hurts my eyes,
thunder that roars
and permeates the quiet.
The wind screams,
rain batters my windows.

These are the nights I do not sleep.
I sit, thrilled,
listening to the primitive barrage,
the aphotic chaos,
remembering that this is how it feels
to be alive.