I'm so homesick
But I'm home...
I'm not living, not alive
Just waiting to petrify.
Solidify and one day melt
Into your arms again.

You are my home
And you are so far away.

I find that ribs aren't broken by force,
The snap comes from initial shock
Of razor sharp silence.
Churning and grinding usually occurs as time rotates past
Like the wheels of a car that you hope to god would hit you.
Eventually, you realise that your ribcage implodes due to heartache
And the hearts desire to destroy itself
Before he, or anyone else, can.
It's a funny game of Russian roulette you play with people.
That one bullet in the revolver...
That one glimpse of a "maybe";
Maybe, maybe this one will be the one to stay.
And as waves pound the shore for forgiveness
You torture yourself with the thought
Of finally letting go of solitude.
Not before the silences consume every brain pulse;
Harder to digest than constant rumbling of crowds.

These four walls don't recognise me anymore,
And lately I've been waking up cold.
Where the distance sways... I falter.
It's so dizzying keeping up
With a universe whose heart is beating
Too fast.
There are days where I forget
That the blood in my veins is mine.
Hallucinations of opaque canvases
Dappled with a hundred strokes of paint.
The blood in my veins isn't blood at all...
When did it all become pain...t.
I regularly dissect the chambers of my heart,
Mental images of ripping apart the last thing I stood for;
A solitary beat that was never meant to be heard.

Maybe I'm ready for the end of the world
Or maybe I'm just impatient.
Today was supposed to signify a magnitude of things;
Mostly our love.
But the suns dancing overshadows what should've been.
I'm waiting for it to be cold again
To once more reflect unshattering icicles
Replacing my heart.
I'm too tired and you're too far away.
This is a waiting game
And I am losing.

I'd describe it as turbulent beyond silence, an unedited, untouched sequence that spills like blood from the pen.
Unintentional wounds to minds as feelings are played with like Barbie dolls in a 5 year olds prime.
Unrelenting and unpredictive thoughts lash out viciously in sweet melodic pulses.
Da DUM   .   .   .   DA BURST
Who is really the first to drown?
The living or the sea?
Deeper down and disturbingly fluent; the wash of words become clearer, stuttering.
You forget what really needs to be learnt once you start learning.
So much becomes lost the moment you are influenced.
But who writes the rule books on which rhythms take control?
Easily said but not easily discussed.
Choked by a thousand thoughts a minute, we lose track.
Healthy are those un brainwashed and remaining at 68% anarchist, still refusing pollutants fed straight into our veins.
4 jabs a day is the recommended dosage.
Desensitisers, artificial frontal lobotomy replacements, constant comatose states; you breathe for yourself but who thinks for you?
Whose mind do you have?

"I hope you have a lovely new year and that you have many happy New Years to come. I also hope that your years are as good as mine were"

I'd like to be able to write again, but the universe is turning too slow in the wrong direction.
My heart drips instead of duh-dums
And my breath slips.

Rhyming sticks to the top of my mouth catching grains of rhythm as I regurgitate yesterday's thoughts.

I haven't been able to write lately, not because I am a bumbling busy body, but because time is frozen, I'm cemented and dissolving into the tasteless air.
Everything is too colourful lately, too... anything for me to understand.

Maybe I should start reading again, go back to painting stale blue skeleton hands with not enough paint.

Maybe that's my problem... There's not enough paint in my life.