It was wild
You know that type of wild
That doesn’t let anything tell its journey
It’s the stripes, the scars and freckles
Its all there
It was the type of wild of intimacy and the passion that rises in one’s eye
It was falling and never touching the ground
It was like pinching stars from the sky
It was touching the clouds with your soul
it was the wandering the stolen dance
And leaving your hands on the ground.
A wild that would never make you hard
It was so soft
But so freaking yellow
Burning burning burning
Oh man did I burn
As I sat near a pale, I  swore not to touch it
It was wild as wild could be
Open beautiful, emotion pouring rivers of gold
Long grass
A veal of freedom a loss of control.
It was wild
Raw
Endless
And we were lost in the adventure of the creeping green wilderness dancing through forests until our hearts had fall gently together.
scraping the mountains like eagles and diving like sea birds.
oh this life
Oh it was wild.


Heres to living as giants on Monday and ants on Sunday.

Our conversations are tepid.
Perfunctory, they run in circles,
hamsters on wheels, wasting time.
I don’t care how your day was.
Undress while we mention some
senseless detail about the weather,
buttons still done and silk pulled
over your head to save seconds,  
so we can lose them between us
and pretend it never happened in
the morning.

I only kiss you when I’m tired of being
alone.


**V. K.

I am but willing prey to the wiles of the full grown moon.
She guards the night sky...
While I patrol these grounds...
Grieving over the seconds that have gone too soon.

I am a vessel... all emptied and barren.
what once was full,
now echoes faint
the glories of yesteryears.
Afloat still, adrift upon the currents... aimless and sullen.

I am a ghost... haunting no one but my own.
Immortalised...
Anchored...
to a body of mist and haze...
Occupying this space where worthy wind had once blown...

I am a beggar offering nothing but my open palms.
Hope etched tight
into my knackered knuckles
and calloused digits.
Please... take them in yours...
soothe them...
grant me your touch, your coveted balm.

The sloppy rain slips and slides down the fogged-up windows,
and this lets me know that I am not as small as I think I am.
In a city of three million plus, I feel like the soul of a nation,
even though I'm just a twenty-one year-old piece of plastic, drinking a hipster beer.

The waitress has frizzy hair and oily skin.
She's holding in late-night infomercials and missed ballet recitals, behind her words.
She looks at my luggage and asks where I came from or where I'm going,
and I tell her that the fun thing is that I have no idea where I'm going --
and that I still haven't decided where I've came from.

This city allows new-found anonymity, and I want that to be my cause.
With each passing glance, I know they don't see me, and, to me, that's the slumber-kissed throat-slit I've always dreamt of...

...the streets play music that I only hear -- and I know that's not fair, but I don't care.

And the homeless represent the bowels of the city.
And the businessmen are the ghost-filled engine.
And the middle class is the defense-mechanism I always wanted for Christmas.
And I am the empty delusion, desperately seeking a new pollution.

Sorry everyone been dealing with health stuff last two days
and depression from words which is nonsense ******> but yes am back since got billion people writing me and will write (): thanks Brandon