I am on a roll "today"
Nothing "good"
No, "bad"
wait, "something"
that's it, it "happens"
everyday until it "changes"
but that's not "fair"
things change "everyday"
even when days seem the "same"
that was just me playing with "words"
we've all thought "it"
haven't I said this "before"
Deja vu, inception within "poetry"
so this is "how"
I'll let you "finish"
the sentence that "is"
just one of "these"
nope, "those"
days I "guess"
figurines amidst the "speech"
Yes I'm(am) sure of what I'm "saying"
trust me I know my words "better"
that is, than to "you"
I've not beaten around the "bush"
I've "rolled"
and there it lays "ruined"
my path of "destruction"
over the innocent "plants"
life that only knew of "death"
the moment it "happened"
all i'm saying is "that"
I don't "believe"
Plants think they can't "die"
they "know"
like what we argue "about"
who exists, what "existed"
in the first "place"
there was "nothing"
then a thought about "something"
beautiful we've almost "repeated"
the "thought"
I knew I was on a roll "today"

There is this image stuck in my head,
a body laid bare,
slowly examining it's own features,
how the bones don't fit in the perfect 90 degrees,
though what a figment of self to call out how well,
                                                   I,
fit into the 'in between,'
I may,
                                                  no,
I am sure that the person to whom you are talking to is...

And that's just it,
like this **** mark on the page that I can't see, even though it's
                                                write
in front of me,
how well can we read when we are distracted by jumping images mixed in with soft spoken words,
and the promise that (we're)(you're) not insane.
(next page)
I should be noting that in this piece not everything will be written as it should be.
Nor will it be read with any prior knowledge.
Dag nabbit though a way some normal people say it
                                                    ****.
The point is I forgot what we were talking about.
there's that smell of ash and bone again,
smooth to the touch,
the way the pen can crawl and curl as well as the smoke does between our lens,
it is again my  perception that deceives.
Just a jot on the page.
just a note in the beat... simple and so sweet,
the fascination that there is someone,
                                                    yes
­lets make this personal,
there is someone that you want.
So beg and beg.
I mean there is this juncture where the harder and harder you think you will ever get to understanding this,
is to believe that there is a prism and within is how well things can or can't be distinguished.
I am finding it hard to feel comfortable this way,
as in I am sorry I made you feel that way,
                                              What!
        ­                                       Way!
that way yes it's all in our heads,
but that's okay yes yes in order to learn to breathe.
with me...
                  In...
                         Out...
                                   Breathe.
                                                  In...
­                                                         Out...
                                                          ­         1-2-3...
let's count on our hands,
fingers?
either way that's not what I was going to say,
and why wait?
what the hell are you doing?
are you trying to trick me?
Get me to believe that for on'y the count of one two three,
I mean 3 seconds,
I was not in me?

I keep hiding my words from the pages I write,
there is this fear of what goes on in my head may be interpreted differently than what it was never meant to be to begin with,
the anxiety builds upon itself,
manufacturing "could be's" and "what if's,"
when all I want to know is if someone is safe,
I regard myself to high standards but know that I can become a victim to my own open flaws,
like all open targets my heart sits open to public view which is alright to me,
I'd rather let the heart bleed than tend to the wounds others have made on it,
I am more than a collection of patches sewn on by lovers who thought my heart was saved,
I have a mind and body that holds scares and lacerations much harder to see,
for a longer explanation refer to my thoughts,
waiting to be written,
waiting to be found,
waiting to be understood,
on this ramble I'll simplify it by saying that you and I are so much alike,
and that is all,
our differences come from the experiences telling me how we are not like the other,
here I am still confused,
trying to understand why I am so different from those who I know,
why they don't express themselves the same as I,
it seems that answer is already known,
yet with this loose cannon brain taking shots at itself,
I forget easily,
that I am growing or fluctuating,
finding a balance that may appease the gods staring back at me,
there will be a day when all of our scattered thoughts combine,
I will finally be able to speak the words that you will understand.