I know all of you,
probably just as much
as I know myself.

I see all of you,
just as much
as I see myself;

just as I cannot see myself.

I do not know if I can ever know anything.
I cannot look into any of your eyes.
I cannot look into my own.

I am only left to feel....

I do not know myself.         I do not know you.
I do not see myself.              I do not see you.

I am only left to feel....

& through feeling,
I know that I love myself.
...Through feeling,
I see myself.

I am only left to feel....

I am only left,
seeing & knowing you.

I am only left,
loving you --                  all of you.

I am only left...
to love.
I love all of you.

ALL of you, as well as you-all.

You people are amazing. Each and every one of you all. All of my friends, all of the other writers I have yet to meet, all of the ones I will not meet... all of the ones who do not write, all of the ones who share sharp & contrasting perspectives, all of the ones I hate, all of the ones I wish did not exist....

                                 All of you.
                                    I love each & every one of you

An ode to the one
who reduces negativity,
who spreads more & more
positivity.  We thank you good sir.
That is, many of us at HelloPoetry
thank a wonderful writer; his name
is Timothy.

They all hung upside-down,
-- in liquid form --
....as ink
within..
...a pen.

Morality under no god
almost seems more important
than morality under one or many.

Those eyes (hide,) whisper, & revea!: all.
Humble, yet seductive.
Green seas: Mysteries. Miss… tear-y ...tress.

F       s   s     e  l
a       e -   n     d
t       l
  h   m
        o

Where does the blue begin,
if the gre en(ds...) never…   …?

I learned a bit about myself, today:
I push myself too much.
I grind ...well.. into the night.

I never fear giving it my all.
I never fear trying too hard.
I never fear breaking a bone.
I never fear spilling my blood.
I always work my hardest.

For others: I sweat too much.

Today ..all this,
finally.. sunk in
about myself.
Today, I turned
around to see
the waste
I have created
for myself.

My relationship with the rain
...is a test.  When it is time for war
-- a storm, which was not avoided --
I do not seek shelter or sanctuary.

I dance.

There is a glen, a secret black hole said to be hidden within..
a dense, dark-green & purple patchwork-of-a-wood.

There is a time ..when the light breaks through the trees,
like a tidal wave, & tints everything, sewing the haunted forest
with tranquilizing thread.

...The Halcyon Hour.
During this hour: All wounds are licked.
The environment is made safe, as all within the grounds
falls snow~silent, bewitched.

During this hour, under this quilt of autumn'd roses glinting gold,
& only during this hour under this guard, shoulder to shoulder,
with her Stag Prince brother ...does the fabled Doe Queen come out
from their veiled hollow ..for oxygen,
to hunt, gather, stretch her legs, & roam.

A Villain Three Ways

Forever Fractured

Once the heart *splintered,
love was lost, forever; dark-
ness enveloped… all my light.

Blind Swine

Choosing fog. …Over
& over, as selfishness
is fed. Over &…

Fire

~^~^~^…With a disregard
to concepts of right & wrong^~^~^~
~^~^~^Wild, vile thing.

A Hero Three Ways

Raised By Chaos

Sculpted by hardship
Darkness reveals …my true light
Weight is my weapon.

Always Altruistic

Rising for duty;
Upholding obligations,
Over & over…

Fate

Gifted. “Champion,”
the masses roar. The winner,
holding quite the hand.

Give me neither a tomb,
to be placed in --
nor a grave,
to be buried in
or an urn to rest in.
I do not want (your) roses.

Give me a canvas to bleed upon,
like a Bosworth rose.
Give me a cliff to dive from;
give me a hollow to fill, to the brim,
                                   to the top
                                   of the  fall.
                                   (Water
                                               f
                                           a
                                        l
Give me something sal)ty - a sweeping sandy sea,
which I can freshen & cohere into a tidal swell.

Give me something vast -
some space to rush or a sky to stab.

"Dear Self,

                      Allow this echo ...this idea,
                      which staled to faint memory,
                      & then was risen -- abstractly --
                      ...into a fantasy...
                            ...to keep rising - steadily -

                                     sincerely,

                                                     back into life."

It all began with a bath

& finalized in a flood

upon his skin, as he showered-

-off the past & its *mud.

Black birds flew, across a bright blue sky...

Not lions, but battalions
of once-solitary animals --
the remaining tigers --
had proven to be social.

Although gradual, they did emerge
– together – as if contractual.

But their reaction was only natural,
even for such animals of predation
-- of blood --
of relation.

Salvation - they found
through alleviation of self,
via a translation of feelings –
the very same vibrations
that they all felt.

The same inhalations, the same exhalations --
the same preservation --
they all had longed for & sought.

They awoke together constituting a tribe
-- a risen nation -- built upon foundation
far stronger than *pride --

Engineered to escape dismay & damnation
through an ambush on heart ----
                                                            ­ attacking "the inside."

From the swamps & the grasslands,
from thick, rainy woods... even down
from the mountains -- they had prowled --
but now stood.

Each - tall, on all-fours.
Diligently, through liberality --
patiently, through humility –
after having followed a trail dotted with notes of morality -

vague striping had now arrived.

Forced to decamp -- to leave --
in a moment - from a moment,
from a place - to a new place,
from home - to a strange place...

had to move on - to relocate,
to a new home – collecting (recollecting) -- like lost pages --
together, through the author's life & death – forever,
                                                     as one total tome.

Rather resettle in ferocious & muted memory.
Rather stay (in silence), in caskets
– with all of their wishes -- boxed into a dream -
they awoke, increasing their probability
of survival, of stitching torn seams.

Nectar perfumed -
performing magic – making real such a thing,
re-revealing things wrongly assumed --
saving them within their tome,
rather sealing them within a collective tomb.

A treat for rusted senses – the smell of something so sweet.
Vague striping -- once-hardly seen -- now certain,

                \||/
these r --- (@) --- ys
                 /||\

shined as one streak.

Beasts of orange, white, & black
were accepted by tiny, black & yellow machines
-- striated from dark to light -- the last remaining colony.
The grist of surviving bees had “stood" back in return – buzzing, hovering.

But they had not drawn their lances (or one single line).
They formed a union -- committed to peace --
allowing all sexes to live - all males & females to bee
equal, as if all seen
through one, shared set-- the same set – of eyes.

For here -- in this saved-life -- even in death, no more would die.

Neither workers now born,
nor just one queen.

The colors bled together so --
each sides' striping now ran so deep.
The sides intersected, came together so --
each color was forced to bleed...

                                                       ­     ...out & die;

                                                           or together so -
                                         alternatively, as a whole,
                               they all could decide
                      to breathe.

                                                    *­Black birds flew, across a bright blue sky,
mimicking the colors below –
the honey gold & tiger’s eye.

Guilt can be dense &
undesirable; often,
it is swept away.

But it gives guidance,
& is something to be kept.
It is merely in-
                          stinct(ive),
                      ­    nate,
                          herent,
                     ­     born,
                          trinsic,
                   ­       tuition
                          side --

so ingrained --

that it must tear its way through,
with such wretchedness,
causing it to feel like roots are being torn.

I do not believe, however,
that it causes me harm; I believe
that is just its way of communicating,

So many voices & all ring true....
(Yours, mine, those that hide...)
But I'm here to offer a point of view --
Not a voice, but a course to set - to dive the depths,
                                                         ­                     across
                                     ­                       so-called divide.

So many different ways to say...(?)
 ...what is on one's mind....(?)
(?)...even when fundamentals, make us the same....(?)
....Even when, like light we've all come - from that place within
                                                        ­                              through space
                                                           ­                ‘cross spans of time.

We are a city, nation, world...
...an alliance; we are more.
But our thoughts oft come so neatly furled,
hiding our hearts,                          ...our honey...
                                        - our universal core.

Imagine if your eyes could see = “totally” = rather only partially,
                                                      ­                                  or individually....
There's so much more to you & me - only 2 parts - parts of it all,
                                                          ­                         adding to it all,
                                                            = summing
                                                  it all,
                                                irrevocably­.

He looked nowhere -- he only felt.
He closed his eyes; not much mattered to him. She came back (for him) --  that is all that mattered. He relaxed his body & stretched, resting his head over her shoulder. It was sunny & the rays drenched his face. If he was capable of smiling, he would have smiled. Conscience was content; he showed it in his own way, almost as if he was something more than a dog.

The girl with pineapple-colored hair & her jet-black friend continued cruising back home. Conscience had a breeze to inhale, light to find shelter under, a shoulder to lean & rest on... he could not be happier.
He had been reunited with his friend.

She continued down the coastal highway.
Her red & orange -lensed, aviator sunglasses kept steady & leveled, as her head, neck, & body rested easy & buoyant. Her breath was full. Her breathing was smooth, as was her driving. Her turning was tight.
She not only looked it... she was, confident.

“...And they said I wouldn’t make it,” she thought to herself, smirking as she finished said thought.

She had followed her heart & conscience, courageously so.
She had faced horrors & awful odds -- loneliness.... Terrible things....... terrible, terrible things....
that everyone faces.

But she faced terribleness differently;
she danced differently. She was mocked, but she continued moving.
She had faced the same fires, as well as all of the same fears....
that everyone faces.

But she was driven - a real rocketeer.
....Yet to crash, yet to burn....
She had proven herself before;
& this time around was no different ...so far.

“....And they said I wouldn’t make it,” she thought again.

She smirked.
She now also faced a semi-trailer truck... It was dark -- an even deeper shade than Conscience. The truck barreled towards her, looking like a black hole on wheels; its horn now blaring -- screaming at her, just as loudly as those who mocked her had.

(Her) Conscience did not move. He was fine; he was still happy. Content, he was deaf to such noise....

“& YOU ARE BLIND TO IT!” the truck screeched.

“YOU WILL MAKE NOTHING,
   YOU WILL MAKE IT NOWHERE!”

She smirked, once more....

before she drove head-on, into the obsidian rig.

“The wreckage was unspeakable.”
                                                  ­            “I have nothing to say...”
         “That girl was so young...”
                                                      ­          “...That poor little dog....”
“Why do these things
                                       have to happen?”

At the very least, one would expect to hear comments such as these.
....But nothing was said -- not one word.

Her red & orange aviators burned...
...not in fire, but like fire -- matching her spirit.

She drove right through that truck... as if it were a ghost - - as if it were an echo - -  ...(as if it did not exist).

She continued smirking,

“This ending is happy,” she thought to herself.

She continued driv(en.)ing.
Conscience made for a horrible navigator -- at least right now. He slept the entire ride back home; although by the end, he awoke -- white.

Unturned by fear, & bleached with love,
together -- regardless of the color of their hairs or the amount of
flaws that either possessed -- the two returned home, as
diamonds, unearthed from the rough.
                         All that really mattered
                         was that each of them
possessed, at least 1 grain of
light.

The property was quiet; the neighborhood was dark.
The tires slowly pulled down the long driveway.
The crunching of gravel was all that could be heard.

Inside the house was nothing of value -- not really at least.
There was a grand piano in the corner of one of the back rooms. It could be seen from main hall, which opened into a living room; although, it looked more like a reading room.

There was nothing of value in this house.
There were only books, occupying all of the shelving & available space. The house was not cluttered. It was neat & very orderly; it looked well-decorated. It is just that upon closer examination there was not really much inside ...besides that piano, of course.

The front door could be seen from the piano's bench. The door then swung open.

Conscience ran in,
feeling more at home than ever before. He continued on with his parade, until he grew tired & curled up alongside the opened instrument. Conscience now white, contrasted with the piano black finish; however, he agreed with its song.

She sat upon the ebony bench. It was most certainly leather... It was comfortable & felt familiar to her. Her fingers danced over the keys, surprisingly, playing blues. But it was not sad; it was soulful.

...It was beautiful.

If this was an ending,
it would be a happy one.

Driven -- was he - into its heart,
into all of its horror. Stained,
was he - in the darkest of reds.

As was part of her.

As she sank with him -
into said-red,
causing said-heart
to sink - to no longer tread.

The archer watched; the archer laughed.
She - his spine - - - - - - the arrow’s shaft.
Their target drowned, as their target bled,
as he be buried within the prey, which now be dead.
As he be buried - the arrowhead.

Fleeing gravity - the arrow had sailed.
From course - the arrow had never bailed.

Aim had been taken,
- with such fixation -

like eyes on a bright star
in an almost-empty sky.
The arrow....

had been properly placed & aligned,
using the feather of ****.

It then sprang from a string,
which had not one knot;
& ‘twas guided by wings -- by a 3-feather fletching --
once the arrow... once they, were shot.


                                    'Twas carved,
              with such a masterful nock
        that when released - no contact
          with the bowstring was made

       - like a harp perfectly plucked.
    The line snapped back into place
for it was taut (as it was taught).

The hooded-archer’s sight was true,
as they were trained -- to aim -- to do.
Thus the arrow -- them, they -- flew.
The distance it covered - - only grew.

Woven of softwood & hardwood,
no warping at all; this arrow now buried -
- with it's point in the heart of it all.

Anger be -
where Anger
be banished.

Stop staring at those stars, glittering beyond the tip of my pointing finger; they hold less importance than yourself.

Yes, they twinkle ..& wink, sometimes tease...
as they burn.. as they linger; however, to them...
it is YOU,  whom shines higher & brighter,
as fire in their skies.  It is you... who is cherished.
It is onto you.. all those stars do hold.

Your magic resides down here,  below the clouds,  in everything you think & do.  You may not burn in the same way as the stars you see in space, but: you do light paths, warn ships, save lives, as a star-of-Earth, star-child.

Just as you gaze at  & envy the stars above,  they gaze back,
& envy you; so simmer down star-child ..relax, recognize your worth.

Hold your composure & simply grow,
&, notice now ..how you glow.

Do not wish for another life,
or a different set of eyes.
What you possess is so unique,
pure & white, beyond that of Dove.
More so, even, than any star up there..

Now stop your tears,
dry your eyes,
& please do breathe
..even when life...
is airtight,
& you feel trapped
within a tightly capped jar,
or encapsulated, like a ship,
too big, to escape or break out past the bottleneck....

Remember these words when you are down,

“Dear...  You... are grander & brighter than any star.
Those up there burn.. for you, as a sign of respect ..for you.
For it is you... who is a 'who' ..a human, living ...alive.
For it is You.. who reminds them.. of what they ...no longer are.”

To hell with you... should you throw your coins to those poor stars.
They are not wells...  They have no mouths.  They have no hunger.  They can do nothing with your wishes, for they...
have already  starved.  They hear your cries, but they cry, too,
as they envy you... everything... you....  are.

I won't fight for you.
I won't fight for anyone, but myself;
but, I will wait for you.

It is true..
She is no angel...
But, no demon... either.
Something else, rather..
something known as "human."

"Into my belly -- my being -- you go," crooned Saturn,
  the halo-crowned king & self-proclaimed sovereign of this speckled, obsidian space.

The "stars" brightly torch for him - only, those are not stars, but rather vivid, angry-torches; & they are headed his-way, enclosing in on him.

He is a monster, you see…
& the “stars” - a burning sea -
wish for him to burn, to no longer “be,”
for when he burns supreme,
he does not stop & only eats.

His taste buds, now-skewed; his power
was misused. His breath now-reeked
with the scent of his sons -

as he had given into fear --

as his father before him
& his father before his,
& so on.

His fangs dove deep, through oceans of flesh,
like dolphins made-of-scissors through oceans of felt,
while others were not even chewed
& simply plummeted into
those acidic depths - alive
& quite conscious.

"Although you have no conscience, it is truly a compliment to have been consumed by you, father,"
Saturn's stomach bellowed.

"I am as much of a threat as you feared me to be," his son said,
  as he sliced surrounding lining, stuffing & skin.

“I am a threat, not a treat. I was born to win
    – to live ….& you… father - - - -are now dead.”

"I am neither blinded by arrogance, nor do I defy for rebellious reason or loot; you left me no choice, father… You knew this to be true.

     Oh father, oh father – if only you had chewed...”

Do I not have the right - to be free of the chain -  ...to be free?
Or am I in fact truly insane?

I am in fact entitled to this thing. I am entitled to it.
...to this thing I know in my heart –
to this thing I feel in my gut.
Am I not?" the son asked his fallen father,
wearing a dark somber mask.

"Of course you are, my brother!" said a second son of Saturn.
  Smiling – he too was now saved.

“As are we all,” the second son said
   as he plunged his brother's gut with quite a curvy dagger,

“As are we all,” the second son said,
  twisting the blade, repeating the pattern..
  
      of his father, Saturn.

Still smiling at
his butchered brother
as well as
his fallen father,
& into pools - into mirrors so red,
into his eyes, into his head ----

At his actions & all that just was done
- at himself -
until he, himself (his mind)
had come undone.

& then,
in unison -
several other sons
joined in on
this passed-along pattern,
this disgust, which they called "fun."

Handed down,
from father to sons.
Like father, like son -
power is blotted with paranoia,
& drips golden greed.
The entire family – an outbreak -
one God-awful disease.

Seemingly forgotten
- carrying more augustness though,
more than freedom, more than self -
a different cog of a different weight -
quite quiet, but its fruit I promise, lie in wait,

as it only wants to operate.

Hold steady your might & muster yourself.
Look further through the telescope, beyond even color,
& you shall clarify this kaleidoscope.
Do not become another misanthrope.

Some may say
                       that this
                                     is a toll.
                    Sometimes
                    a sacrifice,
                but a small price -
           to pay to save your soul.

Sometimes,
when I am unable to speak my mind
..I cry, like a child.  I sit in the dark
on my bed, wanting to talk with fire ..wanting to spew hot words,
wanting to flow, like freed lava...
But, alas..
       I
am caged;
I am something -- once-wild -- tamed.
I am someone timid, someone who is too
afraid.

What is worse than a broken-heart?
What is worse.. is a shattered dream.
Sometimes it is better to lose a slab or piece
& endure the post-suffering than to fully collapse
& suffer the loss of the entire pyramid.

What is worse than a broken-heart?
There are far worse things: one example being...
a shattered everything.

Blue.
Red.
Blue.
Red.
Blue.
Red.
Blue.
Red.

Red blood had spilled.
Blue blood once coursed, ..till the Hornet struck.

“That wasp!” the Siren shouted, running off into the shadows after the villain known as V.

The scent of copper in the air; &, the Siren ~ a hound.

He now lie there, as flashing lights viciously blinded his sight, & sirens
drowned out his hearing.

“Better off bleeding ..than dead,” a voice then said,

                            seeping into his world of silence, like mist.

“Nasty gouge.  Nearly tore you in two, huh?  Now look at yourself.... Paralyzed, are we?” a paramedic said ~ jolting him back to consciousness.

His eyes wide, now.  Although, he could not speak. However, now seemed to be more the time for listening.  He did not really have much of a choice though ---- He could not really move either.  But he could see.  He could move his eyelids a bit too.  He could hear.  His focus had almost returned.  He just lacked movement & a few other essentials, including speech.  So the paramedic continued,

“Wasps are parasitoids.  The males usually die afterwards....
& the offspring ...usually go off, killing much more than their hosts.  ....God only knows what you have created.
Seems your true horror will be
living through it all ..witnessing it all.  Seeing it all."

"Parts of yourself,
trapped within a murderous legacy.  Rest easy though, Fallon.
All of this horror comes with costs, but it all also comes coupled with value.  Wasps, hornets, the lot-of-them.... although seemingly selfish or-even evil - are vital; they parasitize; & in most places, this gives way to gardens.  Is horticulture not enough of a justification for their existence?"

"They are deceptively guised as something else, without a doubt.
Proceed with caution, but be aware.  Although hostile, more so a threat are the pests.  ...Destructive things.  Collectively,
~the true epidemic."

"Think about it, wide-eyed-man, & until you figure it all out... Rest your eyes,” the paramedic concluded, motioning a quiet "Shh"
with one hand, while closing his eyes with ******* of the other.

He was conscious.  However, he was paralyzed; & his eyelids,
housing the only muscles he could articulate, were now sealed shut.
Glued.

“DOA,” he heard the paramedic announce to another.

Not before long, he was zipped-up; although in some way,
he felt protected.  He did not feel as if he was being hauled off,
in some black-bag-of-a-coffin.

"One more day,"

he had reassured himself of this; but. here it was - the next day ...& he found himself thinking -- once more --

"One more day."

If he is her king,
then she is his country
..the land he fights for,
the land he lives in:
His home..

"You are so lucky."

    "Lucky? **** that. Pardon my language, but luck? No.
       I built this. I saw it & believed in it. I brought this to life.
        Pardon me & no offense intended, but luck has nothing to do with it."

It crackled & popped,
after it had moved like an eel.
It glowed & then charred;
it was pungent.
It was impossible to conceal.

He claimed to be mesmerized.
That it was medicinal -
for the pain.
But in truth,
he was abstracted --
-- singed & weakened..
Oh, flame...

As wolves hide, beneath sheep skin & wool -
snakes hide too, beneath false-scale & "bull."

It hungrily burned,
so brightly,
in the dark that night -
as the serpent revealed itself
to its captive-sheep -- hungry too.

The silver-tongue then began to poison & part out...
Draining them; eating them; killing them.

"Bah!" cried the sheep.

"Bah!" cried the world.

Till a wolf rose, and wolfed this snake -
snakes slither short of being wolfsbane,
whereas, a wolf
is snakesbane.

Dragons do not exist,
but wolves do.
False-dragons beware.
Fire does not dwell
within the belly of the beast..
The only fire that burns
is the one from the encampment...

...the encampment where the shepherd lie dead, bitten & poisoned --
where the sheep huddle, terrified & bloodied --
where the snake no longer slithers - twas silenced --
not by the sheep-dog - the sheep-dog ran away -- towards the horizon & its promising new days.

The snake's skin sizzled,
as it crackled
& popped,

The wolf in a frenzy - of sorts.
seeing red,
as it rips apart reptilian flayed, red-drenched, raw- remains --
caught, red-handed --
but only in the eyes-of-God,
in the still-eyes of the snake -
the wolf's reflection,
itself.

Death...

..is

nothing,
but the moment,
       the artist,
is finally allowed
to step back,
& view
        their life's work.

Weaver of words: mag-!-cal.

Lives in a lighthouse; &,
on their person is kept a compass,
crisscrossed beyond four quadrants.
Thoughts ...trail about, drift over, around,
the watchperson -- the only human being -- the lighthouse's caretaker,
operator...  the keeper of this torch & beacon.

Protected; &, in many ways blessed,
this keeper stands, zipped in prayers & threads:
inked, by a something, similar to a Valkyrie,
whom laced herself, by sewing parts of her being,
in-color, into his skin.  She covered him in...

X's: perfumed, the keeper stands, keeping
the lighthouse functioning  ...safeguarded, harbored,  ..himself.
Playing his part, & performing to a T -- precisely -- quite efficiently;
however, with her help.

With her lace wrapped 'round
his neck, down to his toes.
He keeps the gears & cogs,
& other parts of this place,
turning, churning...ro-
-wing, bursting forth shine, all-year-round.
Said to be only a man, yet his actions roar,
& his ship-of-a-mind, much like-a-shark ..always
stays oared, keeping watch, always on;
moving up & down, much like
that light-at-the-top, himself.

Built for supernatural-speed, much like her:
she chose him to uphold this house, & see to its upkeep,
because she believes in him, & yet, she also did...

..because within its glass & walls, like paper drawn, all-over-on,
-- sketched upon -- scribbled & scrabbled in her permanent ink
he would watch
over the world & the rest of the sea, safely.  For she branded him, not to burn him,
but to protect him.

She:
an angelic woman who watches over him,
-- overseeing this watcher of the sea --
pecked herself into him,
with her words glowing...  like
fluorescent lighting, veining -- deep, but showing through --underneath his skin.  She: the watcher of this watchman.  Always watching, even
when he rarely dreams.

The Hen... is everywhere, & yet... invisible -- hidden, in a sense --
but ..full-breasted she struts: a paladin,
provid-ing pro-tection...
for ....this fighting monk:
the keeper of this torch & beacon.

Is it really the crocodile ..doing the crying?
If you look closer... the reptile is licking its lips,
mouth wide-open, with its eyes aglow; &, it is
...the man inside, sobbing, wearing the dead crocodile's skin..
crying underneath, salting his own wounds.  The man inside...
snug up against the crocodile-coat's lining,
after this man tore right through
...the reptile ---- to see if what it
showed was true.

Well, it turns out... this crocodile once did cry.
It turns out ...this crocodile once did so:
lubricated its eyes,
so it could see -- amidst --
in all the moments of its bloodied kills
& murky fights.  While it was blind
..with rage, while it fed... while its prey
sprayed, bled ---- out ...it would force itself to cry,
so its eyes would not ...from all the liquid copper
& lead... dry.  So that it could see everything,
as it tasted everything.  It turns out ...this crocodile's tears
were in fact sincere.

There was just no coupled sadness.  Or ...remorse attached....
The thing did not feel...  It used its ducts differently, that is.

This understanding disgusted him; referencing, of course...
to the man walking around in this crocodile's skin ...with its mouth
wedged wide-open & its tongue dangling, swinging back & forth
-- forever licking its lips -- moving to 'n' fro ...with the swaying of his hips, that is...
after he crawling up out
of the swamp, wondering
how the hell such evil can exist,
& feeling bitter -- mad as hell -- wanting to scream,

"What the fu..!"

Wondering why the hell...
such things must persist
...making him do
that which... he judged
must be done ...making
him do what he did...

Making him become...
the very ..thing he, first,
set out to hunt; the aquatic reptile -- the monster --
this crocodile that, now, hung
like mink around his neck
---- with the top of its mouth, resting ...atop his head,
as he sobs & walks - truly sincere...
looking miserable.

Some would say he looks like sh...

Anyways... I should digress.  ...Just let it be known that
the crocodile is not the one doing the crying...
It is the man ....inside
of it...

The one ...walking about,
wearing its skin ...is the one responsible
for shedding

               all these ..tears.

This mind loathed itself.
It loathed not knowing.
It loathed its perception
of existence.

It wanted to unleash its love.
It feared, however, Time..
only sped up.  Its inhales
grew short.  Its exhales:
not either ..fully up to par.
It misused its gift.
Breathing, that is...

Because it wanted to know
..to understand, but instead...
because of that ..it became mad
& blind with rage.  It forgot
all about its quest.  About
how it wanted to see & unmask...
all that there is.  It regressed,
as such ..in a way, stunting itself,
becoming far too sensitive.
It grew bitter & lost weight,
became cold & eventually,
too, became old ...weak,
as it had not exercised itself
in the right way.  It had failed
itself, instead, unraveling everything
it had made, including dreams
it had once planned to make.
It threw away all goodness,
& lost itself in its own wake,
letting go of all sake.

Till it came to,
& decided, rather
to let go of all hate.
Its breaths, then
lengthened.  As it
began to see, again,
after having, first,
gone down that dark path
within its cage, within the ..head.

Life is like crying;
eventually you run -
out of emotion;

eventually,
you run low -- out, of teardrops;
the crying does stop.

When I was younger, my mother taught me about monsters -
how they will always be. Although, I am grateful because she
taught me how to live & to live, Happily.

She taught me another way.

She taught me how to reach,
how to touch parts of life, how to take piece-by-piece;
& how to devour pieces I think I cannot ...how to find hidden players
in this game of hide-&-seek. Beyond bars, she taught me how to breach. Even beyond black, she taught me how to bleach. She told me,

"My son, breathe."

She forged within me a voice.
& taught me Patience… …How to achieve….
…How to attain things others claim to want,
how to acquire the things I truly desire,
how to handle -- to hold -- things, others only hope of having.
She taught me how to survive; she taught me Faith.
She taught me how to dream;
she taught me how to seize.

She taught me how to speak.

She also taught me to do,
…how to face …& the importance of Strength
& coupling Courage; & along with Patience,
she taught me Restraint - how to think, & about riddles,
rules, & thought. She has taught me a lot;

she taught me everything, including when to rest
& that I can, even when I cannot.

When I was younger, my mother taught me about monsters -
how they will always be; but along with those shadows,
she also taught me,

...how to bear. Alongside those demons, she taught me how to care.
Alongside those storms, she taught me how to dare;
she taught me how to fly. Alongside all-hell,
she taught me how to share. Underneath the rain,
she taught me how to sail -- that I must sail --
as if all skies & all weathers are fair.

She taught me Justice & Balance -- about walls & force --
…about opposites & halves. She taught me how to stay my course;
& above all else, she taught me how to strike ---- ---- ---- ----
& that I am as strong as she is -- to raise my standards --
that she & I...
   -- that our stories,
    -- our lives
...are alike.

She taught me Love & how to correct something at its core.
She taught me how to vanquish evil (including all monsters)
resolving it (all of them) at the source.
...How to connect -- considerately -- at the source.

She taught me to attack!
To go for it! To try! To try harder!

She taught me to keep trying.
She taught me Heart. She showed me how to fight.

She taught me how to die, how to land....
with Grace upon lava - making things like magma,
into mere warm, toasting sand.

She taught me how to fall.
She guided me through the art of failure
& taught me of its science ---- making me resilient
& accepting of reliance.

When I was younger, my mother taught me about monsters -
how they will always be. When I was younger, my mother
...taught me,
& fed me;
she gave me a home,
a place to sleep. Security.
She kept me safe,
a child's dream;
because of her
I am Alive.
& because of her,
I am no sheep.

Because of her I have found Fortitude,
because of her I am able to leap.
It is because of her I dive.

When I was younger,
my mother taught me about monsters -
how they will always be. She also taught me
how to stand against each.

She said,

"You ...more than any of them,
  ...even more than any of their own terrible champions....
  They fear you, my-child, instead. They fear you
     ...far more than you fear any of them."

"....Each & every beast," she said.

When I was younger, my mother taught me about monsters...
She taught me not only as a parent or teacher,
but also as a heroine,

     ....as someone of courage,
             someone brave.

She led me, like light -- like a warrior, with a sense of doggedness,
like a knight, with passion & faith -- through life, ...to myself.

When I was younger, my mother taught me as a heroine.
& along the way, she introduced me to the hero within.

My mother is a liar.
She claims she is not an artist,
but (a) discipline she taught me - an art,

              the art of being ~~~~

....Of Rising & Accepting....
 --Of Standing - Face-to-Face --
    Against It All, Against All of It...

                                                         ­        ~~~~ against Everything.

....& just when everything finally seemed fine ~~~   ~
~ a storm broke loose....         Askew,                                /grew\
|
|
|
|
|                                                                 ~~~~ the vine.


All did twist together ~~~~ a merger of night & day.
Tension formed, & it looked to suffocate.

With their necks at a bend, they were pressed-                          -up,
against __
               the ceiling.

They could not fly, but they did not fall;
they were bound in this bind,                      & the squall ~~~~~~~~~~
only grew, till its course had run dry, & each
had successfully

pushed their way through.

....Up, a coiled ladder; pulling themselves, up each rung.  Till they arose into a land, with clouds for grass ~~~~
where it all finally b e gan ~~              ~   ~ to seem fine.
Something soothing.... A healing....
Pain ...slathered in balm;) this place ...happy.
This place.... .... .... ....     .... .... .... ....     .... .... .... ....     .... .... ....       ....calm.

Each force-fed a path, seemingly crooked & wrong. Each forced
..their way                                                         ...through clouds of grey,
through blinding white, through cold-light, through shades of night,
& tints of day.... Through teardrops & raindrops & thunder & ****,
each forced their way...                                through  ..the storm ~
                                                    here,

    ­                                                                 ­ to the calm.

I am not looking to alter my reality..
I am looking to understand it.

My name is Light,
& the Dark ..is my friend
           - where I start: my beginning ..in a sense.
           But, it is... not ..where ..I ....end.

We all have questions...
does no one among us have...
answers? There must be
some that know. “Reveal yourselves!”

“Come out! Wherever...”

*Before he could finish, he was taken...
---- for he drew too much attention.

It's already pretty tough: Eating this cake-of-a-life, that is..
But, on top of the moist cake is drizzled: Bitter Icing.
Now, however...
by the time you come to taste the icing & are hit with its sting,
you're already numb due to the ingredients used in the cake's recipe: You're better able to bite the bullet than you were as a boy.

But mentally ...you know it's there.
It tries to drain the little bit of feeling you've somehow
managed to retain....




He had finally arrived.

He summoned courage & took flight.
He forged strength & up a beanstalk
to a world of giants & dark magic he climbed.
He spotted the damsel, took a knee...
but before he could ask,
she asked him...

if he was sent by her husband,
for she was married.

He fell to his face, after
falling upon palm after palm,
but then he got up, & took a breath
for all that courage & strength
he was still made up of.

So back down the beanstalk
both of them climbed.  She returned
to her throne: &, he walked off the page
of fantasy, alone, forcing himself
to slice threw even the binding, running
..off  ...into more stories,  poems,  & rhymes.

But yet...
when
you then placed
your hand
upon my cheek,
even though
your fingers
& knuckles
were cold ----your touch...
warmed my soul;
& I knew,
somehow still
that you breathed
..& lived.
I knew,
somehow still...
you cared; yes,
in that moment,
I knew... I just knew...
that you
were not
yet, my love,
dead.

We are only separated by... air.
&, "Yes"    ...we can ..fly.

From beneath the sand --
up, into the air -- past clouds ----
beyond sky blue ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- SPACE.

We travel across all of this ..My Love,
on nothing more, but a falling star.

The day had been long &
was now just ending;
she was exhausted.

Her face glistened as she stood over the devil.

He was frail, as she was delicate. He had four limbs, a head.... but his body... lay twisted, crumpled -- more so, than anything typical. His skin, ashen; & his jaw hung lower, more relaxed & loosened
than average jaws. His tongue looked like a snake -- not like a snake's, but like a snake itself -- wildly undulating in the wind, like a ribbon -- fenced within weakened, chipped teeth.

The doorway -- to his broken-home -- was closing.

He lied there, stewing in rot - in a pool of rosy defeat. The physicality of it aside however, he lied there -- stewing -- but fierce.

His eyes were wide. Fierce, he was; as horrid as he was, he was also true ---- ---- ---- ----> he was also scared. His head moved like a bird's, like an owl's -- as he howled -- like a wolf to the moon.

Bound in a ribbon ~~~~~~~~~~~ a "wolfsbane" (if you will),
he now lie, restrained.

“No!
  No..,” he whined & moaned.

The lack of control infuriated him.

He let out a long, guttural growl ...a death-growl so loud & intense
...so dense; however, it ended, ending in dead-silence. It was a gravitational collapse & this demon was the sun -- the sun, which had finally come undone.

In its place sprung a Mayfly, carrying words -- words for her -- to be heard before it too die.

“Beauty...,” he softly began to cry.

His voice sounded broken (his spirit as well); but there was something else -- 'twas released -- that demon, his voice, spirit & home had all been set free.

His spirit had drifted, his home was uplifted, but his voice was carried & now ran forth like a river, from this Mayfly.

But she ignored the Mayfly, as well.
She had refused him her soul - herself,
she would not sell ...for all of the gold.

& so now, she bought nothing -
nothing sold, nothing told.

His voice sounded broken (his spirit as well), but this only meant that too broken -- was the spell.

“You are a princess, Miss Y. A princess ...a bleeding-heart.”

He,
now lie,
under the sun,
where his resonance collapsed in on itself -
where death had begun -
where birth would soon follow,
saving at the very least one,

from being drawn back down,
into The Hollow.

        Untwisted,
unwoven, unsnarled, unwound...
unknotted, uncoiled ...relaxed,
unbound --
upon the ground - at peace -
he lie --
upon the ground - reposed -
he did die,
as the last of the light
left each eye.

The duchess’s charity... effort, blood, sweat & time
culminated into one shallow tear, which finished trickling down the demon’s cold cheek, before beginning to richly run, in rivulets down her cheeks as well.

She turned, smiling -- laughing, not crying.
For that which she sought -- that which she got -
that which undid him, as well as his knot(of-a-heart) -
that which she was honored
to have brought about - that, which she brought out of
the devil himself -

that which she was proud of - that which for she would trade all of -
that which most of the world is deprived of -
that which you so rarely hear of...

                                       a devil’s love --
                        she had caught.

The less he saw,
the better off he was.
If others would not listen,
then this sight seemed useless; lost,
seemed his cause.

He was just about to leave it all behind,
till something else became conscious in his mind.

If the wave only swelled
-- along with all odds-against him --
then only swell, could he;

or else he would bring about damnation --
be damnation -- including his own damnation;
damnation - he would become,
himself.

This thing he hated, would swell up
through his skin & become him.
This thing he hated, this thing he fought…
& he…

would be the one at fault….

He would be the one at fault
because he would be the one who said -

“I did everything I could!”

But he would be the one who did not.

He would reveal himself a knot;
he would reveal himself to be the knot.
His kindness – erased,
along with his harvestable skill,
along with his half-harvested will;
short of a breeze - harvestless-windmill,

No breath or movement,
a shortness of breath;
without any breath,
unable to breathe….

This damage – irreversible;
this dagger, deadly,
…if gone unsheathed.

“Well, well …finally, it is just you & me,” he said to himself.

But strength, he was born with,
along with all of the rest,
which he needed in order to pass
his own self-inflicted test.

& restraint, he grew into,
as he did
his character, &
senses of respect & love.


A destruction of self spread throughout the city…

         - A ****** nation, crippled now,
along with all forms of tenacity.

Then only swell could he…

if he be the wave itself -
the one bringing damnation -- the one destructing --
destroying & toying,
when one could be constructing
& reconstructing
the concept of self.

Then only swell could he…
against damnation, against himself.

Then only divide could he…
from damnation, within himself.

Once he became conscious,
he had no choice, but to turn a voice,
into a deed (done);
into action.

Forever may it be;
forever may it be.

“Forever may it be,” the iron stake rang,

as they landed…

voices, carried by choices –
the iron rang loudly,
as they landed – quoit after quoit,
after quoit.


It did not matter what went unheard;
all that mattered was
he was of a different color,
of a different feather….
He….

was a different kind of bird.

He could squawk & caw,
but to “see” – better off he was.

No matter who listened;
No matter the state of his physical self.

He could squawk & caw…

No matter the issue – he could squawk & caw…

He – was graced; he was gifted & he was just like you or me.

He…

could squawk & caw;
& so could she..

& so can you…

Squawk & caw,
all who can.

Squawk & caw,
squawk & caw.

Why? You may ignorantly ask.
Why? Really?
….Because you can.

Because when all is said & done,
the only thing that will have been taken from you
is this ability - to do.

“Do more!” he shouted,

as he resurrected himself.

Try harder….
& if others do not hear you –
you can only blame yourself.

So swell….

“Swell!” he screamed as he summoned himself.

Hearts break;
dreams do die.

Goodbyes can be h(e)ard.
But, we can fare all of this, quite well.
                                                         ­                                Dreams have died,
                                                           ­                                but for now -
                                                               ­                                              I am awake.

I may not have much,
but I do have values.

He looked down at himself | Melting in his own liquid-reflections.

He could not tell hydrogen & oxygen from their saliferous siblings ..
or sweat from blood.
Alas, sweet snow had mixed w/ mud.

                              Melt
                                        i
                      ­                     n (;)
           Fa d   iiiiiiiii  nnn    n    (.)g(.)   n i d n i w e r
                                           n
                               a     t  i  
        D    is    s ip
                                                         n
                                                        i
Yet, he stood welcoming -- smil
he was not dying.

     Cocooned in cold & covered in frost,
     soaked in smelting sleet & snow -
     he was no snowman though.
     No longer, at least --
     as that version [of himself] had died -
     if it ever, truly lived.
For under this moment,
     this new version ran forth,
     softening said sleeting-snowier-self,
          as it began to rise.
    
The melting was ending;
the thawing had now begun,
as the caveman stood ready, gratefully --
& cheerfully cried,
as inhibition combusted,
as he was being (re)carved --
out(side) of his cave,
under the swelling sun.

My spirit animal is ..an ostrich:
not afraid... but with my head
to the ground -- submitting --
in the sands.  Letting the cheetahs
have their short-distance-wins,
as I learn to breathe -- no matter what I do --
as I need ..& am.. required to ...as I kneel,
dip my head in darkness: Feeeel
& Meditate.

When the time is nigh ..& only then,  shall.I. step. ...out;
& when I do, even over the longest of stretches I shall see
-- not one or some, but... -- all the shortcuts & fastest routes.

Creating constellations ...forming woven webs,
by -- first -- taking some time ...to look up
& locate stars...
& to visualize the path,
connecting all of them, l.i.k.e. .d.o.t.s.

I could write with a stick
in the sands of my mind,
on the shore ~~near the water ~~
where it's easiest to inscribe.
But, come morn' ...given time...
my words will have washed away -- been carried off --
with the seaweed & foam~~ ...by the tide.

Or..
I could write in the dry-sand, further inland...
with hopes of
preserving all my thoughts-- I myself am... able ...to pen.
But, then... I'd spend my life having to constantly make sure
that each & every word I wrote stayed intact, & that...
every single sentence be properly aligned.
I'd not have the waves to fear, but, instead...
the footsteps ..the trampling... of naive natives
upon my sun-baked, written mind.

Or, perhaps...  I take that stick & just begin
to write... across
the sky.