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The heart of a healer
Holds many secrets
To care for another
through vulnerable moments
Through biggest regrets
Through tears and the pleading
To care for the others
Even when you're lonely and bleeding

When The Creator created
it was all by design
To help you help the others
through the same moments
That you were forced to leave behind

It was no mistake
The Creator did create
You to correct the balance of darkness
Because your heart among us
Is such a pure presence
The angels in heaven
Barely could open their eyes
The sun would blink at your sight
because all of your light
Is more blinding than a mirror, sunlit
Because you are here
We are all better for it
mismatched wood
tape on ceiling
sauces on table
genuine laughter
dessert board with pie
silverware noises
talk about oil
khaki pants
pouring drinks in the morning
appreciate your environment
to permeate
in the leaves of trees
we hibernate
like gold in
the hands of thieves
across seas
I know you'd be proud of me
set the scene
velvet ropes
for a quarter life dramaturgy
weeps as it sings
in your car
in the rain
everything's different
left exactly the same
purples and greens
in the rain
in your eyes
I miss holding your hand at night
loved you harder
than a bottlecap opens
sugar fizz boils over
come over

I watched your flame grow
Until I was in my room alone
Thinking about you
When you were in my living room
When you were dancing in my living room
You walked casually away
I was bursting into flames
Here come the headaches
The air smells like medicine
I found myself alone

nobody told you?
you can’t hide from this heat
our love was ******* gorgeous
and then you ****** us
coughing up dust
pulling the curtains closed

Too much wine
creeping on the edge of silver lining
because my pen is tired of writing
on my hands and knees
the countless ways you smile with your teeth

Do forget
The unpleasantness
Chemical taste upon the tongue
Exhaled through the lips

Softly whistle your siren song
this will be the last time
Because I’ve been fast approaching death
loose grip and thin skin
Chemical taste upon the tongue
Hold the exhale in
It’s been a whirlwind of days. I’m writing after being inspired again by a Gonzo documentary. This revolutionary style is the contribution of journalist within the story journalism. Which is magic. Sticky, delicious connectedness. Because to write a good story, you have to be an interesting writer. And an interesting writer must be an interesting person with interesting experiences and thoughts. Lame people write lame stories and great people write great stories. It’s just that if your lame you’ll like the lame story and think it’s great. No classifications are really necessary, you drooling evolutionary creature. As your spirit sings to the addition of added information to your consciousness. So, gonzo journalism- now you suddenly added a wildly interesting character to your story. Yourself. It’s a fool proof plan. Because each one of us know that we are the best. But how far would the individual go for their own story? It's an every day test. And yet, how authentic can you continue to be. Not to say that Hunter Thompson didn’t fabricate stories. But he matched a level of absurdity that by logic made the truth and fabrication indecipherable. A terrible, carnival maestro puppeteer planting questions in place for the reader to suddenly wonder about the writer, did that really happen? We could never be sure. Because even if the writer confirms in person of the account, we can still never be sure because we do not have the concrete ability to tell what that specific experience was. We cannot tell because in this world there are truths and lies and it doesn’t ******* matter any way because it’s all the same. It’s all a creation. It’s all one, whole thing chillin together in a small plot of city grass hidden by a paint peeling fence in a sunburst alley in some stinking city. While we separate our books into categories- what is real section, what is not real section, this section, that section, and other stuff. Mostly because we always want to know what we are in for. Because if we know what we are in for, then we get something. knowing. Like a lousy christmas gift. Which has no practical application. It’s an acorn swimming in a sea of acorns and walnuts and the squirrel god just likes eating nuts in general. He doesn’t give a ****. To be frank, he’d actually like if there was an even bigger variety of nuts.

In the process, should a writer ever really delete and edit what they say while they are writing? You said something and suddenly you don’t want to say it anymore- delete. A cohesive piece to your **** storm brain’s thought process, gone. Will the reader understand you less or more now? Does that really even matter. Does the reader matter? More than anything. The readers hold all of the knowledge. They seek out and absorb information from their personally groomed selections as predictable as a trophy wife in a tennis skirt. Words, like toothpaste oozing from a toothpaste tube, will not go back in. Unless you have the technology to put in back in, to prove a grueling point to a close friend that you have to win the argument over. This is the 21st century for crying out loud you ******* idiot. We can do whatever we want.

So this is all frank language. Because brilliant men, are mad. And brilliant women, are beautiful. And it comes off matter of fact when in another universe I am writing the antithesis to every word delivered to this page. Like my evil twin. The dark matter to my matter. While I’m the one on Earth writing the coupe de grais of bathroom poetry. Words- the trying, conniving, carefully plotted seeds of rash giving plants. Affecting everything they touch, spreading thought and emotion feverishly, plaguing us nationally, while they remain the same. Genderless lines, basic shapes, swirling into a vortex of time when you could not yet read but still saw words. We keep words around, always around, kept close within reach, always in eye sight. Just look around.
I don’t mind the smoke
Because I like to watch the smoke rise
Your dialated pupils
Shine more than any sunrise

Is this all just a dream
Where did it begin
I get it
I get it

Larger than a force of wind
Just let it begin
Just let in begin

Happy, shiny diamond rays
These are the best days
These are the best days
I get you
I get you
a surprisingly sing-songy, simple writing for the complexities that pursued within the heart of the universe.
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