Darling, I am just a painter.
What more could you want?
There's no more that I desire
Than to watch these colours rot.

I used to hate oranges
Because of the mess.

I hated sticky nectar left behind on my skin.
I hated that I would wipe the excess on the clothing I was in.

I hate the peeling, ripping the orange's shell away.
I think I don't have time for all this, nor the cleanup today.

When you accidentally puncture the fruit,
another distasteful thing.

Yet I sit here today, chewing it's pulp as I type.
Realizing oranges sustain, refusing to take their characteristics as a reason to gripe.
I surrender to the orange, and all its metaphors for life.

it doesn't seem that i can get high enough
                                                                          or low
to find a reason for b r e a k i n g this cycle
                                                        cycle          cycle
                                                                  cycle
of trying to become drinking buddies with my demons
or unconscious of the fact that i'm slowly letting my passions
                                               die.
i'm empty
on the ins
ide but at
least i loo
k ok.

I take a walk into the parkour graveyard,
looking for Polish dealers and cellphone halos.
I heard Thoth resides in sobriety,
but words fail me
whenever you are near.

I let my tongue run in endless stutters,
disguising 'I love you' as some off-hand request.
I could take you to dinner,
I could show you a longing
without the need for ***.

This late-night food has lost its flavour.
This ******* never picked up.
All that is left is to dial these numbers,
and wait by the window
for any car but yours.

Let's take a walk to the railway bridge.
We'll smoke a joint by the open forest.
You'll push your breath into mine,
make me high,
and forget why I ever
felt so low.

I rarely get on Facebook anymore. But when I do, I'll change my profile picture or banner-- maybe post a witty status update, maybe not witty, just something to let people know I'm alive.

It's like repositioning the arms on a stationary mannequin to depict a different scene. Except lately I just don't care anymore. It's just that-- a mannequin. An object, an image, a lifeless entity with which I used to feel real-- a dusty mirror.

I see that the line between the idea of a person and the reality is being blurred and crossing over into something all-together different. It's as if people are starting to wake up and realize the objectivity of their reality. But that brings into question the basis for which we define reality.

We have become a, “Look but don't touch” society in which we click a button to show our appreciation as opposed to genuinely reciprocating human emotion and energy. It is extremely isolating and dangerous.

Packed subways and sidewalks have fallen eerily silent with faces illuminated by their cellphones. Most everyone wants to be heard, appreciated and recognized and social media has provided an outlet for that.

But there comes a point at which your platform becomes your prison and your voice your warden-- and everything you say is modified to be pleasing to the ear and 'likeable'.

But I like dislikes. And if you're not ******* anyone off-- you're probably not doing anything important, and if you're not outraged you're not paying attention.