The cosmos do not bend
to our might
the universe has a nature
of its very own;
control is a mirage that takes hold
we die when we die
but there will always be
an endless light
being fed to the living below

Where a mother just gave birth
in a dreary hospital room
filled with loved ones and flowers
next-door to a man who died
alone, in the peak of June
on that same day
with the same replenishing light
reflecting in what is a perfect sky:
meaning is an illusion
that we self-create

Why make sense of things
that are better left on the shelf?
Answers are bittersweet
figments of "truth"
akin to religion
and its unfruitful ruse
for it is no secret that language
plays a fickle tune,
each voice with its own sacrilege
to project as a catalyst
unknowingly for the downfall
where we all lose

To a bullish sense of self
deemed more important
as people shout and yell,
it's unbeknownst to them
that self-righteous anger
is also best left
on the shelf

She wakes up every morning
with a frown on her face
as he stumbles from his bed
and into a chair that
he will never get out of,
there is tension in the air
as she downs another
exclaiming, "bottoms up"
when it makes her glass world
shatter
at the rise of a cup

All he can do is watch the pieces
as they become pronounced
while the shift of retreating cats
induces a pitter-patter
and more pictures fade out;
the happy memories
now stained
from her cigarette smoke
to ensure they'll die together,
yet somehow alone

He is cursed with a disease
that has rendered him pitiful
but alcohol doesn't care,
she drinks another swig,
becoming more cyclical
and deems the mans hindrance
as sinful

Stuttering, he can't escape
a liquid she's drowned him with
by pouring it into her own veins-
maybe it's better this way,
to watch the walls as they cave in

What else can he do
as he slowly degrades
from Parkinson's?

Vices hold me in a grip
living is a ****** up game,
I mash buttons until I bend and flip
breakdown, take another hit:
I’ve relinquished my prime of life
wishing it was someone else’s fault
that I’m stranded on this island,
this is why I succumb to vices

It started as a wild ride
that turned into the spins
a religion of motion sickness,
wanting to stop but always caving in
it spirals through my mind
filling damage to the brim
emotions are meant to process here,
now they only dissipate in chagrin
as rueful ignorance catapults
this living hell to greater heights
without having to lift a finger:
my self-inflicted violence,
a byproduct of vices

Left with no rationale to care,
only a small bend in time where
my spindle of thoughts came undone;
it's here I revel in self-despair
as a loser who
always failed to listen,
a captain without a vision
ready to drown in cognitive dissonance
because it’s easier to believe a lie
than to accept how life is:
where are my vices?

The tightness in my chest
conveys that I need to disconnect
sit alone, on a remote landscape
hoping the sound of rustling leaves
will sync with these shakes
and ease my deathless torment

As some quiet finally sets in,
introspection begins to surface
and it gets me wondering if
these thoughts of mine
intertwine with the pain that I keep
to manifest a life of anger and delusion
draping me in shades of guilt,
forever climbing up this hill

Closing my eyes paved the way
for understanding unrivaled:
an ineffable cause
to sit with nothingness,
I spilled into a void and suddenly
stopped drowning in sadness,
finding humor in the unknown
when a feminine hand reached out
with love, telling me to let go
and she shared with me
everything I wanted to know;

“There is no path to save yourself,
only transcendence:
answers can be begged for
but until you let go of precedence
and learn to listen for each breath
the tightness will never settle
within your chest”

Tired of the itch,
tired of the chase
looking for what I don’t have
while the world goes down in flames
making excuses about how it’s ingrained
when all it really takes is discipline
mixed with a little bit of pace

Still, I hover in the wind,
let me float back through
the wild fields of dopamine
where we all still take refuge
inside of a haze, fearing truth,
destroying self-worth
to secure temporary comfort

My energy is frozen in time,
it siphons into everyone I touch
with each heavy hearted step,
forging the very culture I am certain
is the reason life is so hard
because I’ve seen the depths
of my own broken parts
and still hear a voice in the back
of my head ring out:

“If reality is set in stone by
how you perceive,
and if you see the endlessness of it all
then why do you set store by
any so-called beliefs?
Isn’t that just habit underneath?”

I envisioned her being erased
as I slipped under this frozen lake
that will wash away our brokenness
by turning my bones into icicles,
clarifying the sum
of how I became
shrouded in midnight blues
and the bluntness
shakes my last gulp loose
until the earth is still,
leaving me a cliché
as I glisten with the moon

My thoughts flicker into a dream
where we finally understood
without being mean,
where our love had no consequence
and we did things for each other
not only because we should
until a nightmare arises
of living torn apart
in realization that I
never appreciated her
when she was in my arms

Now I'm sorting through decay
into a dimension of
fading memory
and things speed up
as my mind begins to race,
but was it ever my mind to behold?
Are we just visions projected
through those that personify us?

The concept of missing another
has left, where is here?
Her face dissolves,
and my last thought conjured
is a question of why
there was no emphasis
on other people or resolve
before I got lost in self-destruction,
looking for the sound
of her laughter

And now what remains
is unending fear
as this aura travels elsewhere
and a body absently sinks
to the bottom of Moses Lake;
goodbye dear

You look like the kind of person
that I could share silence with
and I’ve been made a fool
from reveling in this idealized mess
ever since the day that we never met

Only saw a face,
as it shifted through shadows
at your kinetic pace,
masked in a smile from
this wistful summer glare,
and intricate details that
long to match your auburn hair

Neurons started firing,
daydreams cascade and blend,
my infatuation twists and bends
into a proclamation of art
that recycles upon waking up:
my continuation of getting lost
about whoever /
wherever you are