this is not a death-wish
this is a resurrection.
on nights, you grow
weary of the sound of
your own breathing,
there is a fierce sun
burning inside you,
you must use it to grow,
not to scorch all you have.
you have tender hands,
why do you use them
to peel away your
conscious?
there is a thunder in
that insipid heart of yours,
go, forage it out.

They'll Hate You If You're Pretty
They'll Hate You If You're Not
They'll Hate You For What You Lack
They'll Hate You For What You Got

In a stream of wrought
Invisibly
I reflect ripple and wave
thirsty for sun rays
my moments dribble by
these keys tapping beneath thumbs
my boss appreciates the drum
rocks against my body
easily downs the dream
my tone a calm serene
a frosty sheen but between
the cracks emotion currents
ebb and flow rushing to where?
longing logging lobbing for air
her head bobbing to the trickling sound
fishing through a stream of movement
distant in her delusion
work is getting done;
and I am like water
in a stream of thought

Be like water my son.

My son now
Stone facade houses
and buildings
In a forest
House my son now
and tell him their story
in whispers.
He listens, as he always does!