blanketed in white
skin. that shadow
creeps me out of
my own. it's you
that burns through
gazes, not me. I
burn through pages,
in wrinkles written
with pen. loose grip
on water, I slip into
habits a little too big
for me and it's the same
as being held as a child.
when the distance grew
as I did, my underarms
began to ache, that familiar
fear of being picked up. taller still,
I am, standing in a pit that raises
to my knee caps.

I'm often caught trying
to keep my roots warm
while my face melts.

removing the "I" from the "Self"
is a concept that I, as myself, have difficulties understanding.
perhaps it's the culture that I live in but it seems inescapable
to use "I" as a helper for description.
To call yourself One seems no different to me than
to call yourself I.

Apart from the fact that to say, "One is hungry for flesh." There could be zombies through the miscommunication.
Rather than to say "I am hungry for flesh." You are a cannibal.


I and Ego
have roles each in their own,
but I do not believe it's egotistical to say I
when describing how you feel, no feeling lasts forever,
for feelings change just as the I changes.

To open your mind, ("your": anyone who believes that I and Ego are one)
to the idea that it's not how one describes themselves or their feelings
but perhaps how one acts off of those thoughts or feelings
and chooses to live their lives and how they treat those around them,
as well as themselves.

Ego, to me, is a behavior,
deeply rooted within your shadow,
which is cast by your soul.

Then again, such as people create their own religions,
I tend to create my own definitions for words that already have them.

I said hello like I thought you'd notice (you didn't)
and for once I didn't feel like repeating myself.
*******, you helped me notice all the things I hated,
all the things I loved.
Kept me wanting change.
Detoxification of thought,
purification of the soul.

You speak in sentences that are based on creative-product output,
it seems you don't care if you make sense or not, 'cause nothing in
this world is trying to fit to you.
So, why try and fit to it?
Or at least that's what I perceive you to think.
I guess we could think better of each other in a healing space
if we're all touching each other with good intentions.

Yet it seems these fingers that reach you can't heal in the way they intend,
'cause this nervousness is stemming from the inappropriate feelings that root themselves
from my core. **** love, **** this feeling.

I want a love that doesn't make me wrong in someone else's eyes,
much less my own.  **** this feeling.

*******, you are beautiful.
You are something else,
someone that would smile at the thought that
this is about you.
*******, I can't stop saying the same things.

Keep me close, I've crept out of my hole
and I can't stand it alone.
I haven't even touched my water colors.

Too afraid to poison you with the truth,
too afraid to taint what is beautiful.

**** this feeling.
I want to.
**** this feeling.

dish water rattling
i want to take my clothes off
my neck is slightly aching
and all thoughts of love come rushing
through my lungs and constrict the position
that I'm placed.
privileged kids with big egos, big brains
heads full of assumptions because of the clothes you wear
or the friends you've made.
and it just so happens that you're one of them,
the strategy to get out of their judgement's alignment
alludes you and you fall into patterns like clay bricks
stacked one on top of the other in a straight row with
no cement between and you're restlessly waiting for them
to tip over and make your escape.

friendship wasn't so much as a license to love
as it was to be stepped on back then.
when the realization occurred in that brain
you framed impatient, the agreement to share
thoughts expired and you gave in to the dreams
you fought to suppress.

I want to undress.

my love is shy but he's all mine
he gets distracted and forgets the time
but look at me,
my love is bold and I am lost to it
I stare at the clock so long
I might as well marry it
oh, **** me please, I just want to carry it
this heart of mine in my chest
no, **** it, I'll just bury it.

if I wrote the things I wanted to say in anger
then I could just crumple them, just like my bones
do when I've jumbled them, and I can't get a grip
with the tip of my lip on your lip,
or
maybe that's the only way I feel I can in some moments.

here I am, killing myself.
don't worry, I'm doing it slowly,
and only slightly on purpose.

keep telling me you're trying,
I don't want to hear you've given up.

My friends mean ***** business
when it comes down to the bottle.
I want to share what I've brought,
for I brought it to be given.
Yet it seems all these people rest uneasy,
and tonight I'll join them.

Corpse hands lost her sight
perhaps it' 'cause she lost her mind
in tryin' to find what's beneath the rhyme,
rather
than enjoying the movement language can take.
Speech
is technique of the tongue.

I've been spending time trying to see how far mine can take me
if it's enough to raise me and if it does, how long will it be until
it breaks me?

'Cause I can't seem to learn enough words,
and the ones I already know are too many.

Is there a structure to look up these feelings in a dictionary?

I find that not knowing how to say what I feel is lash back
side-effect of not being able to find the words to explain
anything that's going on, inside of me, outside of me,
much less what's inside of you
or perhaps what it is that I could do.

When it comes down to doing there's too much to do.
I find myself stuck with expectations and goals that I give myself
that I'll never live up to. Yet I keep surprising myself all just the same.

When it comes to the Self
there is no way to explain,
living, breathing, kissing,
stealing, loving, cheating,
you're going to transition,
so **** it.

Just be yourself, whoever that is,
and your friends will love you no matter what.
If they don't, then they're not your friends.

Keep your mind, heart, and soul open,
for this seemingly never-ending cycle is happening for all of us.

I found this poem doing algebra,
or sometime after the problems
that crept up on me
in word form
yearned to
join the page.

My face began to rot out the very words
I felt like saying but knew I shouldn't.
The pencil told me it was okay to make mistakes
and I think I went overboard, for the fear of drowning escaped me.
Every memory of the sinking ship I called home held promise.
Sweet salt singing
in and out of my mouth,
I told you I loved you.

bones bones bones
you're bathing in wood
and taste like molasses
thick in my throat
-a knot in the spine
that you tied because
you wanted to suspend yourself in my comfort.

I held you too close and came out with ****** ears.
aching for sound, and screaming
for any answer, some sweet melody that told me
yes
that told me
no.
let explanations take their time,
you deserve it.

desertion of desire
leave me to my streets,
where forgetfulness is salvation
and the path is better than the destination.
lean against me in the form of gravity,
your warmth is firing my senses.
I'm re-experiencing freedom for what feels like forever ago,
for what feels like never.

jelly bones cracked his wrist
and wouldn't go to school in the morning.
Kept his notes in the back of his jeans,
and when he bent over
he couldn't reach.

there was a song about those notes
and he sung even though he was out of key.
partly joking, or just a tease?
she keeps her distance,
explaing how water that feels like sunburns are the best part of her day.

Oh sweet miracle, I'm not gonna lie.
I can swim any day and
Now
I think it's time to fly.  

-Some people think structure is beauty, others find that chaos is beauty just the same. Perhaps each idea that pops into our heads wont be the one we hoped it would be, but then realized expectations leave you dry.
Being here in this moment, focused on the now, it's not as easy as it could be today, but I feel the times are quickly changing.

-On time:
                 it's just so easy to make false assumptions about this notion,
                 this measurement,
                 but perhaps that's all a part of this game we call life.
                                           Let's play a game to see who gets their name
                                                    on the fridge
                                                         and a pat on the back.
"My friends. We see things so differently and yet we seem them exactly the same."