Love is jank
Life is jank
That scientist who said the male seahorse has the babies is jank
Laundry is jank
Corona is jank
I am jank
You are jank
This site
is dank

She drew arrows on paper
Thin lines and angles
Head to hand, table to elbow
A neat triangle

Time is flying like a butterfly,
While my mind soars like a vulture
Broad, starving, and searching
A desert of what life was lies beneath me

Every creature, every semblance of what was
Has hidden away. Even the night owls
Are forced to scavenge close to home

Wind trembles under my wings
I command where I want to be taken but
Everything is empty

The watering hole is a mirage
The trees have forsaken their leaves
The carcasses that would have fed me
Have been picked over by rabbits and mice
Before the coyote or eagles
Could have even smelt it

And what is left for me?
I hope for a bone, gristle, maybe even fur
Something to put away the gnawing hunger
That echoes fervently inside my head

And yet
Even the starving wind has eaten away
The fur and crushed bones
Which the sun had also devoured into dust

Shall I land? Allow my feet to once again
Touch the sands that I've refused to acknowledge
And, somehow, truly begin to feel the fire
Of the sky beating down on me
As it has with every other creature...

Or shall I fly on?
Slowly, hopeful of the next scape
Being led by a careless butterfly
Which ***** it's wings as an infant walks
Only resting for food and drink

But... aren't I also as that?
A being that soars, not caring to see
What is below or around me
As my goal is not the frog
Not the eagle
Not even the wolf

My goal is me, tomorrow
As each flap of the butterfly's wings
Is valued at less than a drop of morning dew
The relentless need to push on
Is in symmetry between it and I
So, I must fly on.

Above the wasted desert
Beyond the wind of bones
Beside the sun that drinks us away
And behind the butterfly
Which never, once, thought of me

I abhor the state of boredom
That feeling of endless thoughts swarming in your head
Yet, nothing appealing ever comes to mind

So many hours and days lie ahead of me
Hopefully, I’ll find some use of them soon

Anyone else want to punch a hole in the wall
and admire the sun rays shining as you step through
that hole like it's a metaphor for freedom?
No? Just me?
I'll have to send the invitations out.

This distillation manifesting in peculiar patterns
Swirling overhead
With eyes that track indirect and understated
Waves that come to slight heads before
Dissipating, I've yet to see them
Break

And there's an agitated dash of nature still
Lurking deep
In blinding, binding, ever present light
In color schemes
That this changing property offers still
Strange it seems
In calm neurosis, slipping through the deep
Brings such panic

A rhythm imprinted in this form
An engraving of the time that passed
Not my friend, no not my friend at all
Such panic, oh such panic
Oh, whatever it is I hold, I've held some time before
What I release, I do so of my own volition
A half truth I'll see myself beside

As I lie still, eyes wide, glaring at the ceiling
As I die slowly, effortlessly, can't stop my head from reeling
Hollow victories
So preoccupied with afterlife; the only meaning I can see in the cyclic thoughts
Entirely dependent on what I can become

I lay on my back
I stare at the ceiling
Winding my mind up
Thinking in patterns

Down on the carpet
Listening to traffic
Grasping at ghosts
Feeling like static

Nothing is concrete
But this feeling so lucid
Demands that I try
To bury myself in it

To become a mold
Static like an image
To hold on this pattern
To hold on anything