I wish I was more permanent,
like a mountain range,
a fossil,
a beam of light.
I'd even settle for the permanence of the words that I say.
When your legacy is fleeting,
as mine is,
you strive for the strength to last,
to be permanent.

Reach into me, scour me for my soul, throw it up against the wall,
**** it.
Powerless, vulnerable, submissive is my soul.
Offering, willingly, hoping it may not hurt. Though it always hurts.
I know I will never escape.
Though achy and sad, I am free in the throes.
I let go of who I am and forget that it's me.
Letting go of myself and my life and my problems and my joy and my pain and my worries and my sorrows and my dreams and my fears and my feelings and my thoughts and my colors and myself and becoming nothing.
I love being nothing.
When I’m nothing I don’t have to be anything ever again.
Lonely nonexistence is my favorite pastime.

The pencils are loose,
they've been set free.
Oh, what a beautiful world it should be,
where the pencils are free,
we can write what we want.
But oh, how abused is this power we've got.

Bullied into a box,
await the pins and needles.
Crammed into asylums,
wait for promised pain.

Tomorrow never comes
when sunlight means salvation.
Yesterday is a myth
with memories of peace.

Impossible, invisible

                  but somehow still nearby.


A teapot in the orbit

                  of a planet
                                                                                                                                                faraway.


Omnipotent (supposedly),

                  but gallingly benign.

As silent as the sky at night

                  and nowhere to be seen.


A speck of dust is planet earth

                  caught in this beam of light

that shines despite the dark of space,
                                                                                                                              beckoning us home.

I'd like to think I'm worth a ****,
but then I recall that no one else is.
So I am probably not either.
That's Ok though,
because sometimes life isn't so much pain
as it is a dull and ****** ache.

Overtly,
the strays sit or stand alone.
Each in a corner,
on a different plane,
solitary and exempt.
Without a home
though a banner reads
"Your home away from home."
What a joke.