Trapped inside my body
prisoner of my mind
tired of relying on healing
on someone else's time
Truth is I can't breathe without love
So I will hold my breath
and the next time someone looks for me
I'll just play dead
but if they're wise they'll see me
see that light underneath my skin
they'll love themselves to my door
force me to let them in
I'll already be packed up
and prepared for whatever
when they decide to leave
we'll vacate this place together
thats why I never hang a picture
never set the time on my clocks
the arrival is all I want to remember
when time stops
I want out of this place
of pain, disappointment and hurt
I know my home is no longer here on this earth
Orphan to reality
foster child of its thoughts
doing never what I'm told
refusing to learn what I've been taught
I will keep to the course
Remain a spirit thats free
For I am, from the Great I am
& all I can be is me

It's quiet, it's dark,
there isn't even a bark,
In the black of night,
There are simply some fights.

The wind outside,
Would make all the young hide,
The warmth of the house,
Would move not even a mouse.

The sudden sound,
But nobody is around,
You begin to sink,
Scared to even blink.

It gets closer to you,
There's nothing you can do,
Your mind is alive,
You're numb on the inside.

I wasn't born ready
for a faulty diagnosis
or bare shoulders.

My hand was born unsteady-
sweating like a prisoner tortured,
and always forgetting left from right.

Just like you
I was placed here.

You with a broken spine,
an affinity to wine
or a love lost too soon.

For me,
it was less.

A spine mended,
some superstition suspended,
but wires that have never connected.

I don't know
if we'll ever be ready.
But that won't ever stop me
from attempting to keep my hand steady.

You are a bird flying near.
A simple graze of my arm
a feather kept, a loss of fear.
And this is not temporary.

You are a parade.
Your trumpets, your drums
reinventing the copyrighted charade.
It's not a trick-it's rudimentary.

You are fresh squeezed lemonade.
When the sweat cannot be quelled,
you forge trees for shade.
But speaking of you is just supplementary.

You are the long drive back.
Every worm in the miles of dirt
can hear this counterattack-
especially those four days of January.

You are my trustworthy veins,
our frivolously necessary games,
and the smell of relentless rains.

These senses, put blunt yet gently,
manifest nothing less than your infinite trajectory.