What are we now?
Every sentence is a forced commitment
and every word forgets its place.
Your breath is held above ground
and I gasp from underwater.
A stare, a sloppy whisper,
I am ****** from my mistakes.
"Strained" is too pretty of a word
to describe this.
I don't want to listen
to what you believe is right,
so I'm wrong and I'm
willing to live with this,
even if it means losing you
in my own self-discovery.

Oh poor nature’s lost my attention
the crickets bang against the wall
The weeds grow in through the pavement
and I don't care at all

Nothing seems to matter
I'll give the world my final leave
I got my bag thrown over my shoulder
and I brewed my cup of tea

Then I heard some bells a’jinglin’
and a voice not far behind
A clumsy street performer
that was everything else but mine

I see the rainbow in your glasses
and hear the whistle in your teeth
I feel the laughter from the window
through the shuffle of your feet
Oh, I know you darling
They don’t mean a thing to me
‘cause I see the rainbow in your glasses
and hear the whistle in your teeth

I know this is over-written,
a rerun of too many lines drawn
between yourself and what is
considered harsh reality.
Something is out to get you.
(how can you run from something that doesn't exist?)
Don't turn back, kid.
Can't you tell what is done?
It's tied between every set of eyes ,
but only becomes deadly when drawn from lips.
It resembles a softer mock
of tiny forget-me-knots,
but how long until they can catch fire?
It's different when tasted,  
like specks of ash upon rough tongues.
Hide the breath of the innocent
and pretend it never was.
*(you didn't hear this from me)

Remember to forget everything here.
Disregard these lines as something you've already been told before.
I don't expect this to make a difference, and it doesn't matter if it did.
You are not important.
It's not "one in a million".
You're officially "one of a million".
Does this bother you?
Every single thought you've ever had
has already been thought of before,
and every word has been previously spoken.
Of course there are the select few who choose to break away,
and very seldom do they make it.
Those who do end up making it are not special.
They're simply lucky.
Yes, this is pointless.
No, I'm not saying I'm any better than you.
In fact, most of the people who begin reading this
haven't even gotten to this very sentence.
Anyway, just remember this:
You are and I am.
(Who are you to say this makes sense?)
Now, you may forget.

It happened again.*
It reappeared, as if from nowhere.
There used to be a time that (in some strange way) I would shrug and it would fall off my shoulders. It will not go away and you're not here to take it.
You've had it all along, so why didn't you tell me?
I need a reason to walk away and never speak of this again.
Now I can't (won't) save you. You looked me in the eyes as I had my back turned on you.
It's not that impossible to understand once you know how sorry I was (I lied). I can't do this (and neither can you) but yet I can't stop, or bring myself to face this. I smelled it on your skin and just knew this would be the last time I would have a hold on myself (reality).
But.. still, *it happened again.

Cold and drifting,
nothingness and floating,
swimming through zero gravity,
the radio-active rays of the sun
glisten and brighten ocean-bound eyes.
A thought.
Small, but significant.
It emerges slowly,
drudging through the whale's mind.

"What is this..?"

The whale said, suddenly self-aware.

"I am of need.. I need something. What I'm suddenly
going to call my 'lungs' hurt.. What does it need?
I think I'll call it.. air?"

The whale becomes even more aware of its existence.

"I'm.. I..  ..."

The whale suffocates in deep space
and dies.

The End.

She is of mild beauty,
  nothing to look twice at.
*****
Her eyes reveal nothing to her inner being,
a soulless glaze of striking black.  
*****
Her smile is crooked and ugly,
teeth stained with ***** yellow.
*****
Her body resembles a rag-doll,
Thin, fragile, and completely used up.
*****
Her pale skin is sickening,
and her limbs are tiny awkward branches.
*****
Her life is meaningless.

Two lovers.
Distance.
Lost.
Found?
  Recovered.
A throb, a tick.
A beat, a prong.
Familiar *****.
Their hearts.
Longing and needing.
Simultaneously.
Realistic?
It can't be.
Forever?
It is.

Raindrops,
Striking tin roofs,
And breaking morning dreams,
The sound has hushed the entire town,
Silence.

Silver*
whispers sweet nothings.
Silver
sings on fading moons.
Silver
melts with metallic warmth.
Silver
lights an undiscovered cave.
Silver
rests on elegant fingers.
Silver
becomes the tap of rain on tin roofs.
Silver
is the color of the soul.

Anxious hands guide their little black puppets against the wall.
They dance, and the fingers finally ache.
They told the tale I've always known, unimportant and forgotten as the heavy sun rises.
The knuckes had burned long ago, but they whisper sweet nothings upon an innocent cheek.
The lonely shadows play songs I will never hear; I only wish my eyes would water.
I can't control the light, my dear, and I can't say I'm sorry for this.
A solid existence has been thrown through the blades of light cutting between your fingers,
and I couldn't of felt more alive.
The light dies and nothing else matters anymore.
In a distant reality, a moth appears, and the flutter of powdered wings in the darkened room
are undetected as it feeds on filthy clothes.
Your tattered sleeve has been tugged many times before, and I'm afraid it will rip if I let go.

I can't believe I'm allowed to be a person. It's almost as if I don't deserve  breaths of air or the attention I so desperately desire.. I want there to be beauty, and I want to notice it, and I want it to notice me. I can't explain every happening, I can only go through it and tell you how I felt at that exact moment. I want others to see as I do, and I want to see as others do. How can someone be alone living alongside billions of people? Because we're oblivious. And simply confused. I want to feel unique, and all others want the same. I want to be my own but still belong with them. I don't want to be like you, or even be close to being like you. It's a sense of avoiding prediction and becoming special.. Becoming something more than myself and accepting nothing less.

Shy splinters licked her spine;
an uneven backbone kiss.
Some tissue for the weeping marrow
rest beneath the aching discs.
I've captured loose aspirations
before they could fly away,
and released them into Neverland
where they forever play.
The blue circles hung over;
they cracked and lost their touch.
The green stares find reason to attack
and **** the ones they love.

A blinding light flashes in the distance. Several unrecognizable colors swirl into grey streaks before finally drifting away into what seems like nothingness. The boundaries of this world are completely undefined and the horizon melts into an unknown eternity. This is the beginning of life. The concept of time and space is left to be lost within an uncertain reality. A second series of lights stumble in drunken skips toward my direction.
It knows I’m aware of my own existence.
The lights dance randomly until they finally sink into one glimmering beam, splitting in half instantly as it somehow rushes toward me, slowly picking up a dangerous speed in the path of its awaiting target.
It found me.
Nothing but thin air and silence separates me from this. The silence becomes my only hope.
My body locks the moment I’m caught in the tight clench of fear, the light taunting and swerving along my skin, and with a light-headed confusion, I collapse and end up sprawled across an oddly warm floor.
What I think is several hours later, my consciousness returns. Objects melt into defined lines of familiarity, tints and hues blend to form definite colors, and the universe sways and sinks into place. I am brought back to the
world I have always known but will never understand.
I am nothing but a figment of my own reality.

The taste of copper and abandoned dreams..
The air is stale and dry in the room where
the lonely trumpet man plays.
A broken tune and a broken heart
wails through all hours of the night.
He suddenly stops.
His lips are drawn away from the instrument
and his fingers no longer dance.
A lingering silence seizes every
ounce of his life, depleting his soul.
The nameless, insignificant man collapses,
his faithful trumpet follows him to the floor.
With a struggled last breath, he passes on,
but his music is still ringing in my ears.