Is it better to be seen?
Or should I hide the parts
Of my mind, the unseemly
Things that eyes don't like, so
I can sell enough bits and
Pieces of my soul to
Pay this month's rent?

Is it better to be heard?
Or should I quiet the
Sounds that my thoughts are making
When feelings start biting
At my rib cage and my heart
Skips across the cold street
To keep the peace?

Is it better to be owned?
Or should I keep trying
To make it work? Just because,
I'm used to suffering
by now, you'd think it wouldn't
hurt so bad while watching
you walk away...

I have a question to ask
If God ever finds time
I've been wondering why for
Quite a while despite
My parents trying their best
Telling me I'd get it
but, Eventually
hasn't come yet.

Indigo shades steeping
to Indian ink blackness
******* thought
to a beautiful, terrible singularity
where words struggle
to escape gravity
but on we fly

As legs hang on rusty hinges
the strides of doorways
lesser long

wisdom crisps its palms 
up to the hearths of winter
on walks

Older finds joy 
watching little jelly movers
under the snowy leaves 
of autumn's fall

There is freedom 
in holding back;
experiencing exuberance
perched high in cedar
witnessing the now moments
of a uranian world
from a fifth dimensional view

Knowing that Love
sourced from the heart
affects the observed
just as true.

I can’t feel my body now
A lost connection between how I feel and who I really am
A feeling never ending
I lie inside myself for hours
In a deep sleep dreaming
I float with the river flowers
I suspect foul play above
Hungry hands reaching down
Taking another piece of me

Oh, the joyous day of our first breath.

Oh, the joyous day of our freedom.

Oh, the joyous day of our first day of understanding.

Oh, the joyous day of our first dreams.

Oh, the saddened day of our first heartbreak.

Oh, the saddened day of our first contemplation.

Oh, the saddened day of our first suffocation.

Oh, the saddened day of our first bad habits.

Oh, the saddened day of our last breath.

Now read it from bottom to top.

trembling roars make timber
shiver by the bank

and Beanpole stands contemplating
he'd be doing the right thing for the wrong reasons

... how I sit everyday with
my thoughts astray: how
wonderful each day?

mindful, nostalgic or absent

in my head repeating scenes:
smiles of yesterday? promises
of tomorrow? - No
- only knowing today.