Its having air but not enough
Its writing a story without an end,
Its a present left unopened
Its a love kept to one's self
Its a hope unfulfilled
And a dream left to die

This world is celebrating a new found existence while I'm just calculating the distance of my head falling to the floor.
Its a new year, a new hope for the hopless
Theres a casual affair with the maiden next door
And when that doesnt work i know where the dope is.
Its Underneath the floorboards, next to my crushed heart and broken dreams,
Washed up fantasies and unstitched seams.
Because Ill be incapacitated this new year
Kept away from the pain and the fear
Of being sober enough to face my own reflection
Hidden from the complexion of my stone cold eyes, the consistent mellow stench that looms around my scars, and the blatant mistakes in the shadows.
The heart breaks and callous hands
That are both held together by shackles and brands.
I will not remember anything,
Plunging down into a new year.

Death stands at the edge of the valley of man and slowly claps his hands...
Clap...



Clap...



Clap...



"Nice try, my friends."

The real subjectivity of life is overwhelming;
Prospective consumes our frontal cortex
But there is no escape from this vacuum seal.
We see the faces of our own delight,
The know how of the here and now,
But we are too blind to look past our own perspectives.
Even when we fathom the hearts of others,
Our understandings are predisposed  to our own Identity.
Objectivity is a fleeting notion of reality, of truth
and its as though the ground we hold so dearly
Is constantly fleeing from our grasp.
Today we call this individualism,
a disconnect between one's self and society.
But I so selfishly and foolishly believe
that this chasm stems from being lied to so often.
Am I lying to myself or am I being lied to I do no know,
but it is important to understand that it does not matter
that nothing matters, because everything exists in my field of view.
The only question remains: am I correct
Or has the devil made me a fool?
But  this does not confirm nihilism
only hints at its initial potential.
Yet there are common truths that are irrefutable
no matter who you are, real or not:
The reality is the here and now,
No matter what ghosts or demons there may be.
They affect the consciousness constantly
indifferently to whether or not they are fraudulent or true.
And my experiences are true, the emotions are radical,
and even if everyone I know is a figment and interpretation,
they still hold a grasp onto my withering heart.

A girl sits beneath a willow tree
alone, pondering the branches,
embracing the cracks of the bark
while the scenery around her
flutters away in the bitter wind.
The secluded still point she had
built for her own protection
peaks at the last drop of breath
and roles off of her bottom lip,
but does not completely vanish.
Her thoughts of then and now
pile up onto an abundance of polluted
picture books, stacked beneath
the leaves of the tree. However,
they too flutter away with the wind,
lost in the sea of empty desires
and leave her to ponder the tree;
Only the old willow tree remains.
Her eyes trace the the divide
between the willow and the nothingness,
and she could feel the weight of nothing
pressing down on the branches.
The abundance of absence tugging
each limb closer and closer to her feet
and yet closer to the edge of nothingness.
The willow is now her pondering home,
the place where her free-most self
is trapped under the convexity
of her dearly beloved willow tree.
She sits and sits and wonders the beyond
of nothingness, but feels no inclination
to leave her familiarity, her home.
The bark forms her armor, the grain
becomes her fortress, and the trunk
is her best friend, whom keeps her warm.
She sits and sits, and will continue to sit,
forever more, forever less.

The Birds in the dark love to clap
they do not sing under the shadows,
but revel in their calamity
and clatter throughout the echoes

The Birds in the dark see all,
yet are blind to the sight,
but see everything they want
and stumble upon the branches

The Birds in the dark know best,
they understand the understanding
but search ever so superficially
and do not find the burrowed worm

The Birds in the dark never rest
they flutter 'till the world's end
but never discover land dry,
and remain in the haul of my arc.

The Birds in the dark will die.

Recharge then....rest....relax meditate dream about us under our Willow tree  cats dogs around    maybe a goat
A chicken the sun
Setting
So....
Look...on the horizon...right in between here  there  and yonder, on the last light of sun through the whispering willow branches dancing for us seems a path on the black night a light through the distance a view of us glancing at heaven together