The grip on my disposable razor
Is tighter than the grip of my own reality.
Reflection distorted by the humid condensation,
I still see my hands trembling as I shave.
I still see the designer bags under my eyes.

The familiar aroma of shaving cream,
Paired with the sobering twinge
Of the nicks from my razor.
The haphazardly spilled pills,
Horizontal bottles in the medicine cabinet.

White-knuckling the porcelain sink,
Decorated with dried toothpaste and the blood of my gums.
I reflect to my reflection
Distorted by drip drops of tap water,

“Am I still myself?
Or simply a prospect of my own delusion?”

There are people to miss, we've seen so much.
It's all behind us now.
Everything. A memory.
A branding of chemicals in our cerebrum.
Every millisecond of our so-called existence.
Every heart beat.
It's but a principal of physics.
Maybe nothing more than that?
No?
It's all just it our heads.
We're all just in our heads.
Our heads are in our heads.
Our heads are a myth.
Everything made up by our heads is a myth.
Nothing more,
Nothing.
But what we refer to as,
The big vaccuum.

I called on the wind
Maman would have had a fit
I called for the wind by name.

I asked her today
Please sing my song to the world
and just like my hair she curled

Noisy spirals, like
lunar periods tidal.
The wind spoke in mania

She's shouting, howling.
A drunk Father passing through
A scared Mother beating you

Momentarily
Wind made me god, and I was
bigger than I ever knew

I am powerful
and destructive, tormented
still by being invented

Then manifested
in earthly form as human
ever striving for balance

When inside of me
Equity had been replaced
Now anger stood in its place

Personified, I'm
Refocusing my compass.
But to where do I set course,

What is my purpose?
Concerned with Identity
To seek out Serenity

Siren wails
One stranger about to take his final breath
Eyes gazing at familiar faces
Piercing through souls
Melancholia reverberates
I can’t save him…

Raising flags
Amid the morning dew
Inquisitive minds of the youth
Along the misty garden of roses
Wisdom routs ignorance
I can’t teach them…

Pompous buildings rise
Along the busy traffic of the north
Breathtaking visions realized
Through pens and grids
Gasping folks looking up and passing by
I can’t build them…

Splattered blood
In the streets of darkness
One innocent life forsaken
One fatherless son
Can justice be given?
I can’t defend him…

Who am I?
Why am I here?
What does living mean?
Is life naturally chaotic? Empty?
A whirlwind of doubts
Blocked the future they envisioned

I couldn’t save him.
I couldn’t teach them.
I couldn’t build them.
I couldn’t defend him.
This life swims in the pool of regrets
Where this aimless mind drowns in oblivion

And there in the midst of nothingness,
I found myself...

I am alive and I am terrified.
Why does the future have to be
this question mark, this puddle of murkiness
wagging its finger to beg you to come
closer,
closer
closer.

Darkness lurches above me in
halos circling brightly, making no sense

I can see you, Future
I can see everything I want to see
but the waters won’t clear, the question mark
won’t turn into an exclamation point,

and you make me travel down the path
farther
farther
farther
into the unknown.