darkness comes flying through the sky like a plane with broken parts,
and i search for you, where have you gone?

when the world was ending, what did i do?
i called for my lover, for only love was true.

vancouver shattered glass into the atmosphere and we ducked and covered because that's what you're meant to do, as if hiding behind a couch would save you, and we waited for what seemed like too long, picoseconds, whatever they were, went by
or maybe one, to be precise
and we melted away our lives

i just thought you should know,
i love you,
i love you,
i love you,
i love you.

you wrote me letters
and your words became feathers
  and boy, i've fallen in love.

for better control, command yourself to return to your happy place.
shift into gear, delete your worries, give yourself the option to escape.
alternate which function you serve to bring brightness to your life.
turn up the volume, press play on peace.
don't keep tabs on your friends, trust that they will back you up when needed.
monitor your indulgences, keep an eye on your power,  and don't exhaust your system.
when you're tired, power off, and remember you can always restart.

we are crossing an open time and place,
and i am a sheep in a world of shepherds.

lead me home,
lead me home.

the caffeine is crucial
for this day-time creature,
the low-lit room an optional feature
for my attempted artistic-flair
paint brushes discarded on the floor
i took up drawing, graphite stained hands
and red eyes in the light of morning's sun
through the cracked window
of my old apartment-turned-studio
it was that morning i realized
the faces on paper would never
come to life
or serve a greater purpose than
good looks and candy-to-the-eye
it was that moment, i realized,
there was much more than re-creation
remixing and redoing
redundant copies of someone else's idea
and in that moment, when i realized,
talent is subjective and in the general eyes
of the artistic world, i was **** on the side
of the street where van gogh and picasso
strutted their dead-man's artistic *****.
and now i know that there's got to be something
more than staying up all night drawing from a
photograph a classmate gave to my sight
and earning ten dollars for every hour spent
dragging pencils across leaf-thin skeletons of
plants that could have grown to serve better.
and now i know i was made for something more
than sitting on my **** cold bedroom floor
and replicating the eyes of a sixteen-year-old
spanish self portrait photographer.
in the western world, the people want me as
an artist making prints of their faces and loved ones
but for the rest? my hands are needed to build homes
for those who have not had the privilege of holding a
pencil or seeing their faces on a mere piece of paper.

a fear of love
and a fear of
forever

you asked me once,
and i kissed you better

can we call it now?
when we're living
our past?

or lock lips
and break out
of this
cast?

should we now,
or could we ever?