I can’t help but wonder if we have crossed paths
Over and over again, tangling each hello
Catching a hint of mischief when we first bumped into each other
And how easy it was for us to slip into
Conversations, plotting to take on the world
But first things first, we have to catch the moon
And hold the stars ransom in our back pockets
I swear we were pirates singing sea shanties
And conquering cities, but now we settle
For late night dance parties, and one shot, two shot, three
And sure, we are invincible, and I can’t help but wonder
If we have crossed paths over and over again
Our stories layering, life long friends
Or maybe arch nemeses, and each time
Tagging out a new adventure
Where we are chasing after each other
I swear we were renegades, young rebels
Questioning authority and pushing boundaries
Now, we collaborate artistically
Broadcasting in a world of social media, one shout, two shout, three
And sure, we are strong, and I can’t help but wonder
If we have crossed paths over and over again
Our history repeating, kindred spirits
Or maybe pieces of the same soul, and each time
We meet, we find a part of ourselves
We had forgotten

There is no shame, in moving back with your parents.

To them you still smell of diapers and the time you puked jelly beans all over the back of the car after you tilt-a-whirled your “I’m a big girl” attitude into giggles.

Around them you still clumsily tip over you own puberty when they ask you to clean your room.

You’re still in college. And that diploma on your wall is still less of an accomplishment, than when you suddenly discovered your thumbs.

So, how do you cope with the baby talk condescension scribbled over directions to empty a dishwasher properly?

1) Realize this is just temporary. You have till you’re at least 40 to fix this.

2) Clean your room of all the embarrassing childish evidence (i.e. N’Synch Posters, Pokemon Cards, Ect) . When CSI comes in they will just assume you were visiting.

3) Take long, long walks far, far away from your residence. Preferably the woods, so you may not run into any high school nemeses.

4) Pray you can get laid by someone, your age. Preferably someone you have not had any prepubescent encounters with already.

5) Eat all the free food you can.

With theses steps you can safely avoid pulling out your own fingernails with the self-loathing hiding under your bed.

Do not let it fill your Pog champion hands with delusions that you have failed to tie your own shoes, let alone pay your own taxes or get married.

Might as well give up those big girl pants and open lid cups and go back to Sesame Street and ******* in your own pants.

This…

Is only temporary.

You must say.

A temporary walk through the woods. Praying to lay down relax, and enjoy the air you are still eating.

This is only temporary.

Every passing minute,
Penetrates us with new implants,
Of dynamic stability,
Of anxious comfortability

Fixing until they're obsolete,
Machine flies in fleets,
Rust in our sterile neurons,
Symmetry causing deforms

An arcane glitch,
Until the illumination
Of our steel plated souls,
An untouchable virus,
Not alone but
Imaginary friends
Or personal nemeses,
Under the dust hides us

Fate lost its impact,
Before the very birth,
In self excusing motherboards

Entities of creation
Or accidental subelement relation,
Beings of chaos at unclarity,
No stalemate, always in action,
What's ever born of it,
Presumes towards destruction

Gloved hands flex in umbra of night
a cot rocks, glittering in the rays of moonlight
baby coos, shaking its rattle
the leathery hands stalk the craddle
finding their prey, the gloves seek the neck
like guillotine, they reap
... they reap

Every idea meets this end
Every dream of mine every prayer
In infancy they glow then glow no more
throttled by shame, they break
chastised by fear, they fade
I would rock them, nestled in coaxing arms, close to my heart
the clock chimes its hour with pride and finality
at midnight, the reaping begins
upon the witching hour, my dreams are snuffed
and nightmares usurp their place.

Is it torment to expect more of myself?
Content to write poetry and leave epic tales of heroes and nemeses to doom and dust?

How many old lovers have I professed my dreams to
how many friends have I bored with my tales
how many family members smiled as I asserted my storytelling chops
only so I could stop, even before the period could halt the last sentence of the novel, thwarting its purpose.

How many heroes clambered upon my doorstep
begging, pleading for me to pen their heroism
How many villains woke me up with their cackling
In the corner, sitting, their eyes glowing in the void of night,
smiling teeth too white
or too black
feathered hats bobbing as their malice peaks
when they hold snaking knives to my throat
and with morbid breath instruct,
"For the love of God..." they say,
"Paint me in a good light, but make my misdeeds known, **** you!"
And I would lay awake, dreaming of these worlds
until the clocks knell
knell
knell
knell
allowing the ebb of time
to wash away my desires, my talents
and the glistening, far-off worlds fade to nothing...

In the end, indeed,
even my mind fades
leaving nothing but a husk behind
and all who knew come to watch
hanging a tombstone upon my rigor mortis neck,
it reads the words,
"He tried, of course he tried
but the devil has his price,
and this poor soul couldn't make rent."

Fountains of shame summon your nemeses
We are all pregnant with our resistances
She speaks in rhythms deep
As poems emerge from her hips
She thinks about the river and it quivers
Underneath her skin
There are dolphins reaching for the sky
Flippers finding fingers to caress their alibis
We are all singers
Of a song that has no words
And painters of images that have never been seen
We are impregnated by our dreams
While single handed sailors row us all to safety
We are basically still ashamed
Of all this pretty ugly creativity

It is with curiosity
I find myself without a trance
Within in which to lose myself,
Give forth to flitting fancy.
Foe and friend might make amends
In such a stupor as that I lack,
But it is with a frightful force
I trudge the turgid track.

For even staunchest nemeses
Might find a counterpoint in depth;
A silent song is what I call
The anthem antiseptic.
Without a stone I can condone,
I fall to a resplendent stress:
I find myself increasingly
Descending into madness.

The miracle of life.

You’re more than the sum of your parts.
Your form, as it travels through the air, is poetry in motion,
a poem written in the wind,
invoking a wide range of emotions,
from getting your blood pumping,
to getting your heart bleeding;
from jumping for joy,
to jumping in fear.
But unlike others, your beauty carries something soulful:
a memory.

My blood isn’t boiling over the heat you radiate alone;
I associate it with facing my nemeses.
My heart isn’t soaring because of the wings you give me;
it soars because I remember the excitement of a victory.
My tears aren’t welling because of your rainclouds spilling;
the pools form over the fall of a friend.

Had it not been for these memories,
you would have been nary a whisper,
facing a boundless flood of noise,
but even as I’m drowning in its vastness,
you, I will forever proudly hoist.