Now poetry flows like river bows,
and falls from my thoughts and
joints joined by dots like dominos,
From head to toe in the body of a maze,
These cravings keep me a slave to the page.
The million ways to say what I have to say,
but that minimum wage won’t ever pay my soul,
or pave my way to these big road goals.
With my foot on the pedal,
backside on the pedsatool,
Theres plenty of fuel for those fools,
they know me better than you.
The way I look.
The way that I moved.
Gliding inside the atmosphere,
in-between the atoms and patterns;
to clear the way into my hiding place.
The mask I’ve worn to hide my face.
The glue unstuck to keep in place,
my fears, desires and smiles so fake.

But words held me together like skeleton bones,
italics in prose to expose
those brittle tones when home alone.
To engage thoughts from dial tones,
to try to be at one,
with those we chose to grow amongst.
Engaged us together,
enraged in the way they chose to measure up.
It was never good enough from book to cover.

And they shunned us like the paragraphs
those paranoid artefacts that -
you;
were just too scared
to show to the world.

air

in the holes where your eyes are supposed to go,
I saw a friend, I saw you feed a soul.
No more.
Now, left in pockets of you,
those moments that I used to know;
echo, cold, a black hole echoes.
Backwards,
falling back to earth
where silence grows in the atmosphere until there’s nowhere left to go,
but home.
The patterns clear,
falling down.
and getting up,
to fall again
and shed a tear.
And we have grown.
Some say we are insane, the dark arts.
Where fear is the mind killer,
each breath is an overspill of death
and I have no time left for air.