Your rage erodes
through your smiling teeth
and makes holes in
your throat,
spluttering
corrosive through your hearty laugh.
Your rage is like battery acid on your tongue
fueling your acerbic words.

My rage is rope making the ring in which
me, myself and I
battle it out in my head
cyclically.
My rage is a steely triad of me, myself and I
in my mind,
a metal mental instrumental
triangle tapping incessantly
ringing the ting ting ting of
soft subtle slurs.

Our rage is visceral.
Eternally internally infernal,
crackling embers dying within
leaving us shells of ourselves -
warm bodies with blackened ash souls
daring not to breathe should someone notice the smoke.

Quiet mind, immersed
in palest, warmest yellow.

Molecules within
find alignment
with infinity.

Silvery mercurial fluid
paints my bones
with gentle light.

You have come back.

Abundantly, warm salt
water envelopes me.

Even in this chair,
in this empty room.

On dry land.

as if the world could collapse with one disapproving
syllable spoken from your mouth,
as if the reason you hardly sleep at all is because the sun
and moon got in an argument over who gets to spend their hours with
you and decided to compromise,
as if the rain falls simply because you look so lovely with
an umbrella in your hands and I secretly forget mine
on purpose because I want to stand under yours with
you.

sometimes i begin to write
nothing in mind
i confuse myself
yet am shocked by what i produce

even the creator teaches himself in his own insights

interpret yourself openly, freely
be c o u r a g e o u s

We don't touch
For the risk of it being too much
We don't feel
For the risk of falling in love
We don't admit
For risk of looking stupid

We hold defense
Against all emotions
We guards our hearts
Against any devotion
We cover our tracks
Against our past notions

And yet despite all sense,
Us, shattered, and tattered
Worn away by the senseless wind and ceaseless rain
Unexplainably,
If only temporarily,
Fit.

To live and not to wander,
in travels and in mind,
must be the way to faulter
like no other kind.
To seek, create, to love, we do
wander on, as we must,
to never find what's true,
while our ashes turn to dust,
and sow what makes us blue.

Wander on,
do not stick to script.
And when life throws a rhyme,
and you're sure that it's time,
say no.

Flipped.

Wander on
the lines across
these
p
a
g
e
s.
Wander on,
until you reach the ages.

When you write with rhyme,
the poem will write itself.
Same with life,
and you'll find there's nothing
left.

What can you say that hasn't been
said?
Where can you go that hasn't been
led?

So say you break the mold,
break the rhythm, break the rhyme,
will you keep on going?
Will you find the time?

As the end comes nigh,
the finality closes in,
you begin to stray,
to see what may truly be
offered.
But if only you had the energy,
you know you couldn't wait.
To enjoy life's simple pleasures,
and now it's far too
late.