Rebirthed into cold waters,
with saint Sebastian's arrows falling on our foreheads,
leaving a penitent blood dripped on my lips. You kissed it off me like it was honey.
I wanna meet you again on a desolate hillside,
with a punctured bicycle
without a Salford lad narrative.

Splitting my lip,
on your ivory messages of total control
and I love it.


I want to ******* while you're wearing figure skates
until marble floors grind down to Henry Moores.
You are paradise, found.
Dante's balming embrace.
It was a bright and soothing daytime.
You were ticking the right boxes so often that pencil went through paper and stained my knee with graphite while I was left figuring out a composition,
of a portrait of the artist as a young fan of your beauty.  
as we fell lips-first and made head on collisions look like speedbumps.

We are blocks of marble,
Waiting patiently for the
Sculptor to arrive with the
Mallet and Chisel to create
Beautiful Sculptures that we
Have never seen before.

We are blank canvases,
Waiting patiently for the
Painter to arrive with the
Brushes and Paints and
Visions of masterpieces
Full of beautiful colors,
Shapes, and design that
The world has never seen.

We are molten glasses,
Waiting patiently for the
Glassblower to arrive and
Shape us into beautiful
Works of art that makes
The world go "ooh" and
"Aah" as everyone sees
Us shimmering in the sun.

We are beautiful threads,
Waiting patiently for the
Weaver to arrive and to sit
And turn us into beautiful
Tapestries that everyone
Wants to hang on their wall
And to pass down from
Generation to generations.

We are the blocks of marble,
We are the blank canvases,
We are the molten glasses,
We are the beautiful threads.

We wait patiently for the Artists
To Create us into works of art
The world has never seen before.
We wait for the Artists without
Realizing their true identities.
All we have to do is look in the
Mirror because we are the Artists.

We are who we are and we are
Unique. As we grow, we slowly
Create works of art that the world
Has never seen before. It's a long
And painful journey with up's and

Down's and speedbumps along
The road but we shape ourselves
Into the types of people we want
Ourselves to become and who we
Want the world to remember us as.

We are the Artists.
We are the works of art.
We will be unique and the
Everyone will be in awe at
Who we will become.

i do.
i miss you in the rain,
when it's cold and dreary.
i miss you in the holes
and speedbumps of depression
or bipolar--whatever they diagnosed me.
i miss you every day, and
i wish i could say
'i do.'

When we were kids,

I loved you so sweetly

I loved you like I loved the taste of strawberries on my tongue

When we were kids,

I loved you in innocence

Under the mindset that you fit comfortably next to me when I lined my life up

Putting all the people together until they stretched like a road in front of me

A path to my success.

My road has potholes aplenty now

From where people left

It has different pieces and bumps in the asphalt from where people came in

It has speedbumps behind me from where I had to slow down over a heartbreak

Oh, when we were kids, I loved you so sweetly.

I like you now. I like you.

See, my tire rims have been dented so easily by the potholes in my journey

And I don't have the money to replace them if you decide to pick up your piece of the concrete and leave.

Nah, the cold is fine for now.
Style-statements aside, knowing the contours
of one's own breath so intimately vows
to be an interesting approach.
The disgruntled bus plodded slowly,
hoping to fool the amber marker bulb
to posit a couple of rounds of sleep.
The counterdraft resembles the shape
of my face in collision; it wanted to tickle
the nose, to sabotage the box, but it failed.
I tried to backlog some wit instead,
but the atmosphere calls for itself
a ginger taste, and a slight tilt of the head.
Symbolic dither prays for us in unison.
It matches speed with the auto, whose
yellow (now glinting russet) shakes hands
with the green smell of wishfulness. Its
reluctant pauses (speedbumps?) does
make me think, of music being released,
friends under the spot, the runaway scents
that pay for every movement.