I wondered about wondering -

And then,

I wondered some more -

Is death, death -?

Or is death, birth -?

Do birds fly because they have wings -?

Or do birds fly because Jesus is beneath their wings, or both-?

Is tomorrow the first of never -?

Or is tomorrow the first of forever -?

Do words pierce skin as a keen sword -?

Or are words as mighty as the pen that brings them to life -?

Or the mind that never stops wondering about them -?

I wonder -

a tortured soul that
makes themself
a visionary through
a long,
boundless,
and
systematized disorganization
of
all the senses

Empty yellow legal lad lines
Computer screen blinking
Begging for a word
Better still a line
Your muse left town destination unknown
Yet the words flow like wine
Sometimes miserable
Other ones sublime
You hit delete
Play waste paper basketball
Then it falls into place
It’s grace
It moves the reader
Poet’s lament

C@rainbowchaser2019

My diary is in "crypted."
Every letter is a different sign.
I guess I don't want anyone to read my diary
I want to keep telling them I'm fine.

i thought i could let you go,
yet you pour out of me
each time i pick up this pen.
i guess i just wanted
to love you
a little
l o n g e r.

I can only write when my still
beating heart, dances across
the page leaving lines of love
in blood stains. When I am wrought
in two, curled, fetal, wrapped
in others clothes trying to remember
how it was they smelled after hot
sleepless nights. I can only lay
a verse after I have lost my last
chip, and gambled away the last
pieces of what little love i have left.
When I cause myself to cry,
chained by foolishness and insecurities.
I can only say the words when
the hourglass has no more sand,
and the buzzer echoes dimly,
the last seconds a distant time frame.
I wish my words fell like a concrete
avalanche to the floor, rumbling
and shaking the ground, like angry
Gods seething over unheeded warnings.
I wish the truth glowed neon, like the streets
of Sin City. Where you can't miss the signs
and you know, you're exactly where you're
supposed to be.

I was bleeding into a porcelain
cup watching each drip, drop and fall
rippling into the pool, drowing
my ex lovers in apathy. I could see
their faces in the tiny waves
as they washed and broke against its sides.

My knuckles cracked like nail polish,
skin chipping away and regenerating
like an over-juiced lemon.
Damp pulp and disfigured rind,
bitter and dried up
wrapped around the china.

I placed it to my lips staining them
like liquid roses in a glass,
mixed with mascara and salt water.  
Scorching my throat like breathing in
burnt paper and singed tobacco
as the steam rose up like
heat from the pavement in june.