I want to get lost in the right directions.
Find my way among the stars.
Use my heart as a compass and my mind as a map to figure it out.
I want to feel the freedom when I breathe, feel a new ground underneath my feet.
And, if things go as they wish, maybe I'll end up happy amongst the stars themselves and shine with the intensity of a thousand stars.

My parents gave me a pink childhood framed with lace and luxury--
but a black stain has spread there, deep as the amount of time
I’ve spent thinking about what people are capable of, and how they can stand
hanging a mirror in every bathroom, because water cannot clean people
of the lie they told their brother or the betrayal inflicted against their friend,
some wrongs of which may never be realized, but will always remain
in the form of a new freckle on my left cheek or shadow beneath my eye.
And I am sorry, because I should have sooner heeded my mother’s words
when she told me I was the moral compass grounding you stonedust streets.

Your childhood resembled a light bulb broken before it tasted electricity,
no one taught you North from South and how different the terrain may become
when you find yourself in the mountains with only sandals on your feet.
I had been that for you, and you told me as much every weekend we spent
riding in the bed of my father’s pickup truck and shouting against wind-gusts
that threatened to carry our voices away from one another--

I have sinced learned there are many ways to **** a person.
I killed you when I stole your sense of direction like floorboards from beneath
your cracked and bleeding feet, and allowed you to fall--who knows how far--
landing in a pile of skin-biting needles and leftover sediment,
the very bottom of brown-glass bottles strewn across the floor.
Staying would have saved you, I’m sure, and I’ll never forget that I turned away
out of fear, cowardice, because I hated the sight of your skin-and-bone crowd,
friends in name but not in heart, and left you lost among them,
And you who knew no better remained, your humanity
expelled with each smoke-laden breath and then evaporating, nonextant.

I carry a broken compass
It's a store bought thing
It's been dropped so many times
When compared it points the wrong way
Always pointing south
When north is the other way
Now though the needle doesn't move
I've gotten lost a few times
But I have found my way
Somebody bought me a necklace
It's a pendant
It's a compass rose
Show me the way
Through this hell
It's sterling silver
For protect
Came with the words
'To help you find your way
May your journey
Give way to the adventure
Of never dying '
Odd way to put it
I carry a broken compass
Maybe it will point
Me to the end

I looked to the sky and it spelled out your
each gesture, the clouds were your hands,
moving with a silent ease to earth, spilling
down to touch me. There is much I wish
I could pluck from my heart and my bones
and construct for us our own city.

But it is you who will be building, and
maybe my words are the bricks you will use
new worlds, places of beauty and wonder.
I feel myself turning to gold, an ancient effigy
to all that love beholds; an advocate of you.
A living tribute to the glow that surrounds
my each move, it is all

all for you. I have stumbled from the cave
and found you there. But I do not think
a lifetime would be enough, (though you are  
a talisman that protects me from all ill wishes)
a lifetime is too short to return this charm
this hope: the shining compass
under my skin that points always to you.

Overflew from the sewers into the chalice
and they drank it because
it's soaked in
jewels.

Toxic.

Wagging a finger like it's a dense singularity
being hammered into by juggernaut.
No. No. No. No. No.
Smiling because futility,
chuckling because we're so ******* stupid,
blowhards, tryhards, beggars, dancers,
corp. embezzlers, poets with loose morals
and empty wallets.

F is for ****;
like I'm gonna ******* till you **** me over,
waiting for someone to give me a lobotomy in
metaphor or metaphysics, or spiritually,
or actually take a butterknife
to a soft spot in the skull and
drain the fluids with mosquito bites.

I.E; I walked home in the dark alone
and broke down in a cereal aisle
and asked the cashier if I could get
help with the self checkout while
tears in my eyes.

**** whose watching over me now,
white people **** white people just for fun sometimes.
I really don't care how low the human soul falls
even as I investigate accidentally.

Bedlam in the parking lots and Babylon
is burning, burning, burning,
hair held high up by olympian comic book super heroes
[Clark Kent is an ancient egyptian]
tossing egg salad and burnt coffee into
the sphinx's gaping swirling pampered flushing mouth.

We lose ourselves when we follow our moral compass.

The distance between us
Small enough to feel your stirring thoughts
Long enough to lose yourself in the abyss
Is it possible to sense the presence of another
Across the span of your own lonely world?
Perhaps we're two ships who've lost their bearing
Floating aimlessly
Passing in the night
But then again we are just two people
Whose compasses stopped working
At exactly the right moment