It's a surprise
Or at least some dark form of it
when you find yourself distantly hoping
that the steaming water from a shower head
spraying the spirit of the sun and others alike
empathizes to such an extent with the flesh
that the heat radiating from the water,
liquid, evaporating freedom,
alights a fire of a more human disposition.
To burn to a counter-intuitive death
in a counter-intuitive world
filled with counter-intuitive people
while those who willfully express their care at the second of desperation
and not before
idle gleefully in ignorance.

Surprising.

Im too afraid we're substituting free love for free WiFi, changing lives by white cardboard shop signs in the green oaks window of a strip mall pile of bricks and *******.

I woke up at 8 am with a crick in my neck, but the world woke up frustrated with a wedge in its back. I'll fall asleep tonight to jon krakauer stories and they'll go unconsciously alive with severed names. It's like a scene from 1984 that got forced into a brave new world and made a ******* child with ***** blood, still just as red as the rest of us.

With dulled minds and calloused hands,
insomnia is inherent instead.

The lot's full but the cars are empty, and the white lines are blurred when it's raining drops of liquid distortion, perverted by man and no longer pure. Jesus' paper face is scotch taped to the glass pane of an apartment's sliding door; blocking a clear view of reality. But what is real and what is reality if we're all just defined by guesses? Just the rough estimates of what should be, or of what is by those who lived before us. And died before us.

Nothing ever lasts, but it's here and so are we.
And that's our stability.

In an afterthought,
it seems
that the prettiest words
now have such an empty meaning;
vacant as the eyes of those affected.
And in the post-humorous glow
of an understanding struck in fluorescent lighting,
you realize
ugliness
might transcend
the flame.
Maybe we should respect
the ugliness
as much as the emptiness,
but maybe the thought
is too far gone
already.

I wish I didn’t require a body. The thought of sleeping against the gravity has a beautiful grip on my mind that won’t seem to shake. I hope for a bit more mortality. I hope for eternity.

I am nothing,
And that's okay.

How strange it is to think,
when the air you breathe
finds its way into my lungs
and when the deep cries of the world
are suddenly shallow, and light
as an offset breath of earthen ties
keeps me alive,
crisp wind,
with an infinite past
and biting emotion
looks on to it's own melody
wrapped in skin and bones
and swaying with the trees.
Some ask for honesty,
and only gain grief
but truth sits idly in the hands of reminiscence
and I've seen the way it treats history.
Relentless, unforgiving, but regard to control
comes swiftly with a skipped thought.
Conscious breathing.
Collected thinking.
Calm existence,
unbound sympathy.
And with a piece of life to transcend stress and pain,
in an unending spiral through every body
I hope to give you a sense of eternity.
Happy birthday.