I want it to be so that
I am a dark mass of life
A dark, cataclysmic shroud of flesh
A size bigger than the problems I harbor; but not as big as my regrets.

Oh yes, to be a spiral of catastrophe, absorbing all that is in my path.
swallowing them,
engulfing them
quickly,
but,
quietly,
spitting them out anew,
And whole again.

I sought to be the storm before the calm,
the pouring rain after the thunderclap of liquid-silver-lightning.
To be a wave of confidence and setting myself atop the horizon of other people’s views.

To gradually become a giant,
to be a whirlwind of
...nothing.  

Meanwhile here, I am a cloud;
A cloud of doubtfulness,
Perspiring at the mere second
A weak faulty existence
I am the aftermath
The reconciliation
The ending of what was thought to be the beginning
A mere cloud,
amongst other things

I want it to be so that I float,
otherwise, I am drowning
My humidified scrawny legs are sweeping steel floors,
littered with reflections of redrafted selves.
Reflections that mirror the broken shards of one's psyche
expected to form a whole mirror.
I put my ten toes to the cold steel surface,
while dragging my past selves as we crawl
to where the Dim light is.

yet I do not cast any shadows.

I want it to be so that
I am the lord of the flies, to decompose in a cleanroom.
To assert my existence within these four walls, with my breathe alone shaking the inner workings of my rib cage.
I want to hear the echo of my heartbeat in the throats of others.
To engrave my face into the delicate insides of their skulls, indefinitely.
To be memorable— no,
To be remembered.
Because even then,
Even with the strength of ten worlds
Even with the confidence of an idle king,
Even with the assertion of the Ten Commandments.
I am merely but a figment of my own innovation.

Walking in the city seems to only expose lively souls,
where Dim city lights accentuate dull features,  
but even then—
Even with the Dim and powerful street lamps of the night cowering before my shadow,
It only seems to cast a dark reflection,
Articulated appearances and dialogues vibrate through the reflections cast by those Dim lamps,

And it was in that moment, I was acquainted with,
Someone I have not remembered
but someone I have chosen to forget

cupid’s arrow aimed at my frontal—
cortex,

cupid’s arrow aimed for my brain, not my—
chest,

i did not see it coming (too fast for the eye can see)
trembling— with cupid’s bow in my hands:

"Am I the really real me?"

feeling my cerebral fluids leaking—
i’m seeking—
the truth,

"But what is the cost?"

your life you will lose.

the petals of a wilted flower, carry with it the spores of many lives.
found in-between the cracks of concrete and steel,
the boundless love of a wilted flower carries within its womb;
the hope for a new life.

with every kind flower, a tear falls
and with every tear, the excuses start to grow weaker.
the butterflies cluster around the oozing miasma of a broken but kind flower.

but even through the concrete,
a flower learns to rage,  
to expand,
like a silent rebellion beneath the rough and against all odds.

surely, it will bloom.

again, you will bloom.