If we are all just for our own sake,
what conclusion could we ever come to?
What are we then,
how--what makes us so great
that even our mere existance is
the explanation of our presence;
each some sort of unique gift to the universe?
I, you, we are each a bundle of cells,
hormones, arguably a soul,
but definitely atoms in space--
space, which is both infinitely large
& infinitely small.

Instead of right or wrong,
we are diminished to foolish little snowflakes,
all dumbly in our own way, "human."
"Art for art's sake," we are all
paintings on the mantle:
abstract & upside-down,
but nobody can tell the difference.

Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die

Continuums of our nature
are starting to draw us together
like god created us to be.

me for you
and you for me
we harmonize in our balance
and falter in our articulations
but someday we hunger for more
more consistency in what we can control
nobody telling us where to go
knowing that we must hold our own
in this confounding world

We just want a home
a place to reside
when all the world is knocking with dilemmas
we can withhold in the shelter

But this residence won't only mask our problems
it will fix
all the brokenness of our past
we will have stability alas
and its up to us to carry on, no other shoulder to lean on
but our own
and each others
i on your shoulder
and you on mine
moving forward, always in time.

it's not about luck, you know
it's about reading the cracks in the sidewalk
and taking the route that your heart beats toward
and saying the words that feel right
and reaching out when your fingers itch to
and reading more into luck than just coincidence

i swear, it's all a pattern
sure, we shift like tectonic plates
all over the place, but we are still
when it matters most, time moves around us
and you've just got to recognize that quiet
submit to the current

it's not about luck, you know
it's about reading too much into the little things
and ignoring the big picture
just for a little while

I used to break bottles on the ground
and the glass I would use to fill my words
just like people
glass never breaks the same
some will find its way into weapons
and others are simply
echoes in the night
some words are empty
and others are so full
that they spill all over the concrete
filled with water
or rocks
I want them to weigh you down
sometimes
and other times I want you to be able to stand on them
like I do
when I scream messages on street corners
blood dripping down my face
I will promise myself I will never write another empty word
and instead of filling my words with weapons
I'll fill them with sunlight
or unused happiness

I don't break bottles anymore
the only thing I can break well
is myself
and
silence

We are beautiful contradictions.
Living, while dying,
and rarely satisfied with either.

yesterday i was alone and walking down some tunnel
that was the opposite of crowded and yet i felt as if i took up the whole space and more
and my words ran long lines, longer than my normal short thoughts
breaking up in weird places
and then for the first time in a long time my mind spoke with my body instead of my soul
and my voice was coming back at me from the concrete walls
and i realized
i was talking to myself and i was answering myself and even as the conversation continued
i thought, all these times i’ve called myself crazy and now i’m proving my theories right
but there’s nobody here to bear witness to the fact
that i am arguing the existence of my own sanity
and i fell silent only when i encountered another human being and suddenly
i felt ashamed, even though the words i had been saying
were nothing short of some sort of honest truth, and actually
i kind of liked being crazy and i vowed that the next time i find myself
really, truly alone
i’m gonna check in on how i’m feeling
because my voice seems to know me better than i know myself
and i’d like to know myself

I am afraid that everyday I am becoming increasingly better at impersonating myself
the ticks of another hum in my bones
and I am standing on a balcony
watching myself walk by
I hear my laugh coming from other peoples mouths
and I see my sad eyes
when I look into the faces of the crowd
I am afraid that everyone around me will know me too well
or not well enough
the wind will blow my hair on this balcony just as it has
to the people below
I have no idea what I'm doing
neither do they
I wonder if they see themselves in me
I mean whoever I am
we all use each other
to build ourselves
recycling feelings
expressions
combinations of words
until we find something that we can live with

I am afraid that I will find myself if I jump off this balcony
I am afraid that I will lose myself if I jump off this balcony

I am not sure which is worse

I am afraid.