existing only in the memory, in the mirror
sublime image, a dotted line
wanting, crashing, writhing fatally
imaginary conversations, air drawings

no friend to call mine, intimacy denied
crunchy brain turning to foam
classes blurring, ears ringing
banging the floor till wrists are bruised

profanity, cruelty, pretty girls hating
feeling unwanted by boys (and the girls)
invisible or dissolved?

dishonoured, disgruntled, disillusioned, disenchanted
how right I was all alone
my subconscious mind sending tremors
       disconnection with my own spirit

"I am" I constantly whisper to myself
  in the little gaps of time I'm not dissociated
   fully aware of my material,
                                    not a vaporised form
that I assumed from the treatment of others

vapours solidify, vaporise, dissolve and vanish

Stunted, the same, by
          highs
            and
           lows
           alike.
A jubilant parade inside
           some nights.
Silver linings? Ticking timebombs! Infinite splinters!
No good time left unexploded.
Rusted blood iron and red wine
filling my eyes.
          Tired of feeling "weird."
          Tired of know I'm being.

I wish I wanted anything in a way that didn't
                              scare me.
I wish I could love anything in ways that
                            couldn't hurt--
                           --inward or out--

                    I wish...
                    I think...
If I sit on this bench...for a long time,
and keep perfectly still...but make subtle
                    eye contact
          with some of the crows...
they'll accept me as one of them?

                    Teach me to fly
                    Or, at least, hide
                       in plain sight.
        A new vocabulary for my quiet
              when it starts to get mean.

Entangled, alike, by
          lows
          and
          highs,
         the same.
Convenient jailbreak for a Name--
               --Say it.
Chewing paper? Eat the playbook. Shred this formula.
No good night goes unpunished.
Rusted blood in my mouth, and red wine--
crying outside
                    Tired of being fragile
                    Tired of knowing I know.

                   And how 'bout the crows?

                   I'm good for a laugh, they suppose.

Vampires with flowers
Don't notice me with when
Hero, I came for you, before it sours
Like-wise, with anarchy's cowl, I don't sin...

Happy, is a dire field?
Here is my moon, my first more
Does a ******, increase the yield...?
Naivete; is this moon the beginning of a war?

Woe be a seemly world...
Of the same house of prayer...
As a wholesome lip, that, becomes a cherub
Ask me now, if vampire's share...?

When flowers earn a smile...
A shared essence, a lethal ball
Has rolled and rolled, ruling a while
In front of a noble season, for which I have invented a wall...

With me, there is altogether...
Without me, there is a pride in a rage
Withheld from me, is your kindness to bother
With a bared flower, have I seen patience, age?

Summer wind hold my hand,
grasp it, rub it gentle  in the  sun
honeyed soothing mother’s touch.

Hide the coughing chimneys up ahead,
the night in the strut of yellow cat eyes,
amber streetlights yielding to blue tv glows.

Coming cold blows my hands into jacket tight.
The star I follow now hidden,  dark,
lost in the arguing noise outside and in.

Kind, Kind, Kind.
Kind to the people,
Kind to the world,
Kind to anyone but yourself.

Stuck in a passageway, never in a room,
Never with someone who can understand you.
A glimpse of light, of you being truthful,
And then the door closes, you’re left behind again.

Do you know them?
Do they know you?
Would they bother, would they care?
If they really knew who you were?

Your voice is an echo, there’s no sound,
Nothing of yours, are these even your thoughts?
Trying is hard, fearing what you are,
They’ll know one day, they’ll be told by the scars.

You’re kind aren’t you?
Kind, kind, kind.
Kind to the people,
Kind to the world,
Kind to anyone but the ones who matter.

You have nothing, you are nothing.
Empty eyes, empty heard.
What good is your love,
When you can’t even love.

You are so wise aren’t you?
Your words are never wrong,
You know the world and they don’t,
Isn’t that your whole thing, isn’t that who you are?

Stuck in a passageway, never in a room,
You only fit in, when you’re mute,
It’s okay, It’s fine.
You’ll try when the time’s right.

What regrets, what meanings?
Aren’t you just deceiving yourself with what’s not true?
I hope the dead cannot see the world,
I hope she cannot see what you’ve become.

You can’t bother trying,
So why want it at all?
What point are you trying to make?
Too afraid, too tired?
You didn’t even try.

Kind, kind, kind
Kind to the people,
Kind to the world,
Kind to anyone but the one who knows you.

There was once a butterfly,
who flapped her wings.
She was unique, she was beautiful,
and she wanted to die from within.

She was but a child,
she had only known so little,
she had barely learnt how to fly,
so why was she abtucted from the night sky?

The clouds overshadowed the sun,
Rain fell, even though it was summer.
She seeked a shelter, a place to be in,
She hoped for someone to listen.

There was once a butterfly,
who flapped her wings.
She was unique, she was beautiful,
and she wanted to die from within.

She was different, the winds said,
so the world hated her, the clouds wept.
She wanted to fly to the end of the world,
where they’d be no one to judge, no one to fear.

Why didn’t you hear,
the song of misery the wings carried.
Why didn’t you save her,
And listen to her despair?

There was once a butterfly,
who flapped her wings.
She was unique, she was beautiful,
and she wanted to die from within.

She had reached it,
the end of the world.
There was no to judge,
No one to fear.

So she could fly freely,
so no one hated her,
so she had a saviour,
and not a guy who couldn’t save her.

There was once a butterfly,
who flapped her wings.
She was unique, she was beautiful,
and she wanted to live from within.

In front of my eyes is a white ceiling, plain and smooth,
and I can hear my chest pounding.
I can feel my lungs breathing--inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
Then there are tugging, swinging, running---
back and forth and back and forth.
Where did it come from?
I have no clue.
White ceiling, is it all you?

In the time it took me to start over
I died by your side with closure
on my self-imposed solitude
from every soul in a fighting mood
with inherited axes to grind
in line
to use the men’s bathroom
during the last game,
immune to the toxic byproducts
of extended cab pick-up trucks
circling the drain of
made up
settling sentiment trickling
through the air connecting
you lungs with mine,
an irredeemable line
in the low tide sand
and
inescapable memory holes
fret the yet again brethren
sending their regards
while they take up arms
against mended fences
wrestling
with a cost,
the interest,
and late fees eternal
grown from the infernal
jest we let foment
into rent checks and
a stale hex
revealed next
to nothing
in a book I did not write
that you read all the same