No taller than a child,
And built like a scrap of cloth,
But stranger still,
Were her dead eyes and face.
It was like her soul had departed.

She shouldn’t have had such eyes.
She shouldn’t have lost what she had.
She shouldn’t, but I still asked,
Though I shouldn’t have.

“Do you want to die?”

A time passed.
I doubted she heard my words.
She shouldn’t have wanted to.
And she didn’t.
That’s good, I suppose…

The tiny rocks, the Army socks,
“****, it’s hot,” my shoelace knots,
My fiddling hands, the holes with sand,
My diet’s bland, and cause I can,
I speak a word, but that’s a sin.
I get called out; I just can’t win.
My friend, his card, I give it back,
Go back to fiddling, ”This **** is whack.”

I find more rocks, they’re in my socks.
“****, it’s still hot,” I tug my knots
With my free hand covered in sand.
My ****’s shut up, because I can’t.

You silence my thoughts
As trains reach their stations.
You hold my hand still,
Though I miss the relation
Of your presence that calms me,
To my head falling down
From its place in the clouds
When you are around.

So I’ll lie in this grass
With my eighteen trains running,
And you’ll occupy five,
The rest, practically nothing.
So I’ve picked up my pen
Due to three and four’s calling,
Then suddenly down,
My trains begin falling.

They stop one by one,
As I see you approaching.
I take off my beanie
In this moment, engrossing.
You lie down next to me
And you give me a “Hi."
As a smile plagues my face
And I give you a sigh.
“Howdy.”

Tonight, I dreamed of killing someone
While lying, awake, in my bed.
I grabbed at his neck,
And bruised up his flesh-
My hands shook, as I wanted him dead.

I tore at his eyes,
I called out his lies,
And now here I am breaking lead.

I bit at his wrists,
As his hands turned to fists
From the anger his body was fed.

Tonight, I dreamed of killing someone
Who failed his attempt at controlling me.
So I picked up this book,
And the red lights I took,
And stopped the shaking with poetry.

In the dark typhoon, swayed a dark dark house.
In the dark monsoon, flew the dark dark mouse.
Below dark dark clouds, people scream and shout,
And by the 12th hour, noon, is when the Sun comes out.

In the light, you see rubble, and the people all dead.
On a tree that had fallen, lies a small mouse head.
Through the wind left behind, you hear what the house said
As its boards were all torn from beneath its beds.

You hear the creaking and wailing of nails, screws, and springs
Which escape from their places, among other things.
They escape through the windows, and break their panes too,
And as the whistling fell silent,
All left now,
Is you.

It is human nature to worship.
They go to their games,
As some do their churches.
They scream, the cheer,
They weep in both joy
And disappointment.
Who is their god?

It is human nature to feel.
They react to others,
As some do none.
They sneer, the smile,
They pray for both the rise
And the downfall.
Are their minds closed?

It is human nature to decide.
They experience life,
As some do not.
They see, they hear,
They determine both good
And evil.
Do they think they have the right?

It is human nature to sloth.
They move mindlessly,
As some just sit.
They worship, they feel,
They decide.
They need problems to function
And revelations of solution
Drive them.

If it’s so easy for humans to give up,
Why is it that when the easiest option is death,
They refuse?
Why is it impossible for humans to die,
Even by their own hands,
Without a fight?
What makes the spirit of a human
Indomitable?

That’s easy, isn’t it?
It’s human nature.

Eyes full of stars,
But not the good kind.
These ones shine with scorching heat.
Eyes full of space,
But not the good kind.
These ones threaten vastness sweep.
I see the moon.
I see the Earth.
In these eyes I see the birth
Of every star,
On every plane,
And see that it is all the same.
Now I’m lost
Within those eyes,
And so I find
The end of time.
The lights, they hurt
I try to rest
And at the end of space infests-
Those eyes…
Mine…