I imagine a biological plant,
I reach for It but can't touch It beacuse It's only my imagination.

I picture the same plant and reach to grab it but this time It's in 2D.

Now I am holding the plant. I can see and feel It got many features trying to prove itself being realistic but
It got no smell, no dirt, no life. It's just a prop.

Unlike your plant..

I can feel the warmth, the edgy imperfections, the good intentions of your plant.
I can see the healthy strains, the perfect ratio, the water flowing through your plant.
I can smell the unique aroma, the soul essence, natures soil all over your plant.

So I inject my plant with drugs, steriods and testoserone to match yours.
Look at my plant now world!
- Its just GMO'd.
Trying to be real made my plant more fake than It ever was.

How am I supposed to spread my seeds when my plant is so dysfunctional?
It would only create more confused and broken plants and eventually the world would be destroyed.

"Evolution could only come after a revolution"
Is a quote stuck in my brain.
Should I let my plant rot for the better
or should I keep watering It hoping for the best?
I really dont know anymore.

I told you this was a stupid idea from the get-go.
You said: maybe baby.
So I decided to try.
I fell for you, you were mine and I never planned to let go.
But she didn't know "love" is not something you just say though.

I've been through this before so I should of known, I just never really believed I could lose her.
three shots to my heart now everyone heard the rumor, pathetic young man who's whole life been a blooper.
Doc said take these and you wont feel like a loser. Real love is when you can be happy for others while you're stuck in a corner.

Well Doc,
I can already see myself there with a dummy hat on my head,
frown on my face because I heard he abuse her.
Now all I think about is that my maneuvers was worse than the abuser.

Used or abused.. neither is cooler.


Funny how different our life is yet we share the same future.

Was the day I decided to join my brethrens.
Spent two weeks longer in my mothers purse before birth just to make sure I would find my way to heaven.
It's a long search but hard work teaches a lesson; It's all perception.

I'm cursed,
It hurts.
Take away my oxygen so I can stop breathing for a second.
I need to know if my affection is a deception.
Why do I have to live in suppression?
I don't always make the right decisions but I don't need your protection.
My 21 grams may not hold enough weight but at least It's not missing in action.

Slow down,
take it easy.
I don't really need to be in this position.
It's all in my mind but to me, these are real visions.

Don't take away my sight just make me feel different,
because I'm close to losing my life but I haven't sought forgiveness.

Lately life just seems.
Like a desperate plea.
For attention.
Daddy didn't love me.

Send likes.

It's more
than just a look
when my
eyes forget
how to blink

They agree with me
retroactively,
say they
were always
against the hate,

but I remember when
those women
and men
came rolling in
with their rage,

when they said
the immigrants
were to blame,
when the few
who stood against them
were defamed.

It has happened
again and again,
blacklists,
secret prisons,
social poisons,
marches,
white rage,
fascism.
The masses join in
while we keep struggling.

Then when
peace swings
back in,
when the pendulum
is less threatening
I hear them say
that they never behaved
that way. *******!

I’ll bet their grandchildren will proclaim
“I could never be led astray the same way.”
Then make the same about face.

if she was a yawn she'd be a Sunday morning, just been snoring (dream exploring) kind of yawning
eyes closing creeping smile stretched across six pillows
blinds opening, sleep exiled, rays etched on skin in Gogh yellows
on her arms

if she was the sky she'd be fiery
if she was a Guy she'd be Fieri
blazing sunsets on silly shirts
silly dances at concerts

If she was a word she'd be a cellar door
and if she was a movie she'd be stellar wars
a euphony a symphony
music and imagery

and if she was art she'd be a dancing Degas
with the tempest of Turner and the dynamism of Dali
art for everybody but special to me

"She was an
unusual dresser.
Every night,
she wore bruises
on her heart,
love on her lips,
pain in her eyes,
and ink on her fingers.
They called her poetry."