Writing whatever comes from the tip of the iceberg in my brain.
Sanity has banished me, willingly jumping down the drain.
You'd think that it'd cause strain,
I mean I do have to rearrange and explain myself more often than not.
I was gonna say something else, but I forgot, haha.
There's a lotta blahblah, but I shoot straight for imagination, fascinating conversations.
Thinks can get kinda crazy, with little to no persuasion.
Sometimes, I think I should proceed with more hesitation.
But instead I just project the thoughts for manifestation.
Gotta lotta love to give, and I'm happy to do it.
I can be your best friend, who'da knew it?
*Known, I know, exploding in my own zone with thoughts of fantasy.
Yet always happily tied down in this intricate sea of reality.
Don't forsake the give and take,
Embrace the love then reciprocate.
Life becomes all the more worthwhile when work turns into play.
I may end it here, so you, have a fantabulous rest of your day! :D

Just kidding, I want to keep going.
I want to explore more with my oars and keep rowing
Flowing into the unknown consciousness.
Emotions are based on perspectives, and let right now be BLISS

Love,
Ryno

“Yes, master.”
A shrill groan slithers
Across the gray stones
Of the tower, spiraling upward
Until it is trapped in loftier cobwebs.
“The lever is down, master,”
And the darkness is whipped by electricity.

I beat out these lines with a bare
Foot, tapping to every syllable,
As the madman donning
Green-tinted goggles and
A tumbleweed of hair curls
Closer and closer to the cluttered lab table.

“Need more light, master?
I’ll hold the lantern,”
And the light begins to praise his smooth hands,
Sloping precisely to pink fingernails
As the needle dips into his
Experiment like an eel
Flowing beneath the sea’s wake.

“Are you close, master?”
Illuminated are the gashes that mar
The ridges in my knuckles,
The calluses etched into my fingertips,
The wiry hairs that strangle
My throbbing, grey veins.
A life of delicate accomplishment,
Filled with a strictly inward turmoil;
It has never been mine to choose.

“It isn’t fair, master...”
And his lips purse in the effort
Of affording me a cursory glance.
“...That your genius go
So unrecognized,
Sir.”
Grunting satisfactorily,
He grins only toward his beloved creation
While I continue pondering
How a pencil might feel against
The paper if I knew how
To make the words.
“I want to write, master.”

“Poetry?” he mumbles to the scalpel,
and I nod my head vigorously as
His rumbling laughter becomes
Smoke that snakes leisurely toward
The skylight.

so maybe it’s the way she stares
and sighs that your eyes
are like galaxies

like you’re ******* poetry
like you deserve it
like you’ve reserved it
and have been waiting for so long.

for all this time,
i’ve been blind
saying i’m high
when really, i’m not even a little bit high

hey,
this is for your own good,
they say, i have delusions;
but trust me, if i could, i would.

i would, i would, i would.
if only i could scream,
then i’d show to me
that’s not what you really mean.

because what you really meant
wasn’t to rouse my pent-
up feelings that were suffocated away,
released in the fray
of the moment.

empty envy
is probably the most unproductive
feeling i could admit.
but as always
i take what i can get.

its a tuesday and you are waiting for me
standing at the central dressed all in grey
inoffensive, unassuming: avid
i can see the whites of your eyes
all the way from point zero down
so now your voice comes plain
through a sea of fog, and i know
we are coming up death row
red steel, old stone: is this how it goes?

i throw myself all around you
flesh onto flesh, man onto man
two guts into a gordian knot
a futile attempt at lessening
your incomprehensible hugeness
your bones, the empty room
i cannot see any walls to
you are: my har megiddo
my mount, under thunder

and the sun is brighter than white
if only i could see it, and the rain
is clearer even than air--if only
i could feel it! but now we are grey
among grey, concealing seas of pink
storms of milk; there is no sky
where we are bound
no opening, no end

you press your hand into mine
and you are warm like dirt, maybe
like you are barely born from the earth
only just learning the load of being addled
with such clumsy comfort, this rough touch
the worthlessness of words and the distance of skin
but we are stretching our necks to rise above it
do you like what you see, now?

so you bring me to your little home
and you feed me little pills, one by one
and we take to your little bed, spilling over
too much, not enough, back and forth
the same air again, the same words
no lines of demarcation left to bear
just your blood and mine and
one little winding red road
from here to (THE END.)

You tell me how you float in your dreams, falling asleep at the foot of other dreamers, and how you leave, tip-toed, back to your own world.  You tell me how your life isn’t real – how it can’t be – not yet. You’re twenty three years old, armed with a short haircut and a ukulele, plans of the west coast. You wonder when your life will begin. You tell me about the way you yearn. How you crave the real. Harsh wind against cheek, passion enveloping your nerves until you can feel your body explode with anticipation. You are moonstruck, dizzy with lust of reality, delirious with the call of dreams. Too impatient to wait, too forgetful to begin. But one day, you will wake up to the water poured over your head that clears your eyes. And you will take a step and the sun will be rising and you will realize that you are ready to sing again.

intoxicated,
in toxic, aided by the
complicated
mass of excitement,
stinging indignation,
a spark of skepticism,
a spider that crawls up your neck
whispers tiny white fibers in your veins,
spins a web inside your brain.
the ability to change has always been hard
nothing can stop the lightning from striking
the sky – a blue so
beautiful, even in the implications of how
i can’t comprehend the emotions that follow me,
crawling in the shadows
darting, sparking, when i look behind
it’s never something i can quite find
on my own, on my phone, checking, checking, checking
what time is it? what time is it?
when is it supposed to kick in?

Let me write you into a fantasy,
spin your fingertips through a maze,
weaving the freckles on your arms into
the things that you crave.
The frustration will shatter
like the plates you have always secretly wanted strewed
across the kitchen floor.
Glass dust rests
in the creases and,
though you warned me to wear shoes,
remain endlessly embedded in my heels.
I will lift up my legs and let you see,
to try to catch a glimpse of your own reflection,
the sparkle past your eyes that match the glint
of glass in my skin.
“See?” I would say,
arms tight around your chest, eyes
clenched shut buried
in the damp nape
of your neck.

Let me become your time vessel.
Rewind, two years,
you are still you and I am still me,
pressed up against the corner
of one of your kitchen counters.
Your ghost whisper lingers
in my ear,
“You’re giving me goose bumps.”
I will bring you through time,
jumping moment
to moment,
a rush of feeling settling in
the pit of your stomach.
You are blindsided,
tangled in the clutches of each second wasted
and ignited into gray ash.
When I am your time vessel, those seconds will be collected
and stored, so you can replay them over
and over and eventually
you will understand
the implications,
you will find the meaning,
you will learn to be happy again.

Let me count your bruises.
Red-faced and breathless,
you push the world away
only to fall back into the carpet again.
Each exhale jagged but controlled,
a bead of sweat forming like tears
against your wrinkled forehead.
An instant clouded by exertion, hearing nothing but
the sharp intake of breath.
I will lie next to you with my hair
above me, hands cupping ears.
And as you lift
your shoulders
off the ground, I will count for you.