the electricity posts
in my veins are all broken
and there aren't enough
electrical engineers to revive them.
the atmosphere is getting colder
and the flowers in my tongue slowly whither.
i'm running out of words to use for a the color of your eyes
so im sorry if they turn out to be like anyone else's.
the absence of the tidal waves of poetic awakening
cripples my wrist and fingers until the only way
to get me to write is to bleed.
i want to feel alive
like im a cloud swimming through
the fantastic colors of the sky.
i miss the way ink drips from my fingertips
i want to feel home again.
home with words, with poetry.
laying down on a bed of proses while a piece
sings softly in the background.
that's my hyper-reality, a kind of fantasy
i can no longer find meaning in.

how kind is the planet
that it continues to
rotate around its orbit,
giving us both warm and cold
despite the bombs we explode
in its scalp?
how kind is the planet
that it continues to sprout
leaves and fruits
to fulfill our empty, needing stomachs
yet we cut of its green hair
and cover the brown & green with grey?
how kind is the planet
that it continues to force away
humongous space rocks from colliding with us
regardless of the hatred
that walks around it's crust?
one day the planet will get so tired
of pushing space rocks
like how tired we get from
pushing our own kind away
and one day, our memories
will turn to dust that will
float in the deep, unmeasurable universe.
but the ashes of earth
will find it's way back into our bones.

i was asking you before
to discontinue your supply of poetic awakening
the ink that you're always giving me
has expired and dried two years ago
and i can never write about now.

i can never write about "what ifs",
i can never poetically execute my dreams
because i am contaminated by
our "what could have beens."

babe, your expired ink tastes bitter & toxic
but i just cant seem to stop you.
i don't ever want to stop you
i dont want to step forward.

here i am again, haunted by your memories
leading me back to the past that i have learned to seek shelter in.

you were to glue that pieces my bones together
whenever these four walls are declaring that i'm falling apart.

you are an endless pool of ink
and an endless pad of paper,
you want me to continue writing
because you said my face was too pretty to explode.

how could i step away from that?
i wish that my muscles would be strong enough to lift me away from here.
i wish i could say that this isn't about you.

i am never gonna move on from you
because the day that i do,
the day i will stop being a poet.