We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

Let today teach me the things that yesterday did not.

It sounds ridiculous but only I feel productive when I'm doing nothing.
Sitting back, just relaxing.
Popping blue beans, burning bowls of green.
And just thinking.
Daydreaming about how things could have been.
How things could still be.
But how things will probably be.
Just close your eyes and let music be your guide.

Entire lives constructed and played out
in grand fashion. A world so detailed
I would rather get lost,
And never come back to this travesty of a society,
so raw and primal.
so human.
My world is so beautiful and yet so depressing
because it's what ours could be, but never will become.
Anything to distract me from this.
The 24 year old burnout grinding through school because there aren't many options left.
So where will I'll be in 5 years?
I wont.

The world of poetry is a vast canvas
Where we look for the right colors
To paint the vivid pictures every time
So many hues mix with our emotions
And the heart goes crazy in the wilderness
So much to paint, yet so little time
Like the wild breeze gathering inspiration
Not only from this celestial space, but beyond
With the hope that our words embrace all
Thus is birthed a poem and from the poet
The ink that once paints the picture
Remains etched on the heart and soul, forever

Emptiness Is

Palms covered in little crescents
Your fingernails digging in to distract you
From the fact that your ribs are a cage
Without a bird.

Because your mind is bigger than the milky way. As it stretches and bends between universes all i can think about is how your eyes burn holes into my absence. You sheets cannot even compare to how ***** your intentions are with each and every outstanding other walking the same plain as you. If as if your field branches while setting fire to innocent people with sins as cold as black. Yet at one point i thought i connected your stars. I thought the planets were completely aligned for only me. I thought all the galaxies just matched up perfectly together in such harmony that the gods would be jealous of it's perfection. But i quickly realized you my existence is nothing compared to this entire space