time: ceaseless, rapid,
rippling, uncertain, kind.

it hoists me up, meeting
its mouth to my ear and speaks,
softly,
but does not elaborate.

it is a tidal fever, borne of crash
and rage.

a vagrant rush of purpose,
hope, and malcontent.

i listen intently
before it finally puts me down.

i am so deeply unsatisfied in my life
and too mired in my failings
to appreciate imagery and sound.
something reached deep in me,
scooped color from my innards,
and left me to rot.
living for spite is dreadfully boring.

hold my hand
so your thumb
can tap that beat
on my wrist
the one my heart
decided to keep

why artists wrestle with a million thoughts
that aren’t original,
that still still seem fresh,
when this life is universal.
when we aren’t honest with ourselves
and the introspection kills us more
and more each time.
some stupid innate desire to do
and be better,
hindered by the rest of who we are.
even this is a cheap imitation of others
who’ve felt the same.
and the anger and lack of clarity consumes me.
i was always taught to show, not tell,
but words elude me when emotions don’t.
i may be a bad writer, but never say
I’m not passionate.

corridor
metallic
humming
internal
buzzing
askew
ghosted
in return
metallic again
*****
pricked
prone
assailed
memory
conclusive
pennies
dist­ance
blood
change