If we believe in the three layers of existence—
Ascension in levels of Hell, Earth and Heaven—
Do you believe maybe it can mislead
And instead, there’s four, five, six, or even seven?
If we do all we’re told to fly into the clouds
Is there a way we could fall down their well?
Have you ever considered that this kind of existence
May be our Heaven’s version of Hell?
i yearn for a past I have learned far past
Of eyes not blank, of eyes not glassed
Of eyes so wide, of eyes so bright
Of eyes as wet as day is night
i miss my days I have kissed away
Of lips entangled, somewhat coquet
Of saliva mixing, reddening my kiss
Of creating new pleasures I soon will miss
i pray for nights I slept with night lights
Of bedtime stories filled with tales of kites
Of bravery in the smallest of feats
Of only stuffed animals laid on my sheets
i long for those years i slept without my fears
Of time feeling worthy and lacking my tears
Of playing some games, I sought and I hid
I wish I'd stopped living when I was no longer a kid
i know you're up to something, babe
just tell me the truth
i know you've got some other babe
who's been handling you
i'm not up to loving, babe
or giving up my youth
if you're hiding something, babe
someone who's been loving you
i know you're up to something, baby
when you give me that glance
why don't you try for some other baby
who you can put in that trance
i'm not up to loving, baby
if there even is a chance
that you're loving some other baby
and tainting our romance
the foreshadowing of this is scary
My spine spared a half inch
when I fell from where cars drive.
Yes, I'm still a living breather.
Yes, I'm one who does survive.
Maybe life won't be so lenient––
Won't let just anyone pass.
I can't create energy out of nothing.
I can't destroy my mass.
As long as clocks are ticking
and the pedestrians cross the street––
as long as we are living––
I will stay standing on my feet.
To climb up on edges
and sit there looking slumped...
I could feel, but couldn't think,
I did only after I jumped...
alternative title: don't go climbing on edges where you don't belong
It isn't a nice process
to tear the window screen,
to look back at my progress,
and to be a machine.
It's better than sharp, clear glass,
and it's better than death.
It's better than pointless mass––
to be without breath.
It's better to just matter
and to, but slowly, spoil.
It's better to, far, scatter
yourself in the brown soil.
It isn't a pleasant thing
to never ever be,
never be of a mom's string––
don't hear, touch, smell, or see.
But it's better than ending
or starting life at all
because life is mind-spending
and at both ends we crawl.
Baby, can you draw me
How you really saw me?
Rugged-looking, falling apart.
Baby, can you see me
At my highest degree?
Drug-ed looking, falling apart.
Honey, do you see the
hairs that leave just me?
That’s just me falling apart.
Honey, can you paint me
How it really pains me?
**** it; really call that your art.
something is letting me go
this something, it's letting me walk solo slow
something is letting me live
this luck, i feel i have nothing back to give
nothing will let me go
it's something but nothing i know
nothing will let me live
a life that has something back to give