Isn't the trolley problem so silly?
     right. like, if you were on one track and there were five people on
     the other, i'd save you in a heartbeat
How sweet.
If it was * * * * * ** * *
     that's not true
     if it were between the two of you...
     i would pull the lever right as the trolley reaches the junction
     thrashing it back and forth as hard as i could
     jostling it off the track until it falls lifeless on its side.

Only, the survives of humankind
lays in the ***** of  lies and truth:
As per head of men wrinkle her changes.

Only, reason for the actual pretends becomes
Hidden valley as people act like the
rest of the reasons are unknown.

Only, I understand the organic of love
You ,think highly of me;
but im going through grieves.

Only, if I can sees your eyes
to understand though his mind.

the hours slept matters not
body and mind is tired no matter what
a cup of coffee gone cold
spark is gone, warmth the hearth cant hold
the only thing constant is doubt
what is life really about?
existing in a place
a house, but not a home
life as cluttered as this poem
meaning as clouded as in a storm
how low can i go?
only after this downward spiral will i know.

Alabaster hands
I paint like I know you
but I am afraid
I paint like I know
the hours of holy songs he sang
when chip by chip
he broke his David
out of stone

but I mumble with a brush
polluted a tomb
with thievery and doubt
if I return to you
I will do so stollen
rolled up in bay and --
my Florence! I couldn't see you
I was lost

I could not be him
he unleashed, I hold
and now you wear his hands
like a beloved scar
and then you haunt my sleep
with your eyes of old

I am sessile, sterile - I doubt.
I cannot speak.
stone carved inadequate, for
I do not know hands
the venules and the etchings.
I could not learn

fiddling like a cricket
in the arms of leaf
I see him leap through ages
to come and observe
I am an artefact flaw
and him the sound perfectionist
he inspects fingers
as they stumble in paint
ever-looming, giant, bearded
with a broken nose

you, Florence! He steals
movement, instill it, gifts it
you wear it, then you watch me
with museum eyes
Good love,
I am no David
do not ask that of me, I may weep
stone in my hand
I sling stutter over my shoulder
and watch the forever tyrant grow

Fear of wounds from the past
A broken man unearthed once again
Fear of unending convalescence
Stemmed from the spine of circumstance
Lingering pain of mistakes made in youth
Physical nightmares
Please forgive me, my corporeal self
My judgement was clouded
And now I am the better man
That I should have been back then
People say I'm lucky that I still breathe
A part of me died that day
They should of left me there, beneath the trees

sorrow fills my body but i don't notice
until it's too late.
but when is
"too late"?
is it when my tears are barreling out of their ducts like tsunamis?
or when i can't get out of bed more than twice a day?
or when i don't know if the reason i can't breathe is the weight of melancholy on my chest or not?
or is "too late"
the beginning of it all?
when is it "too late"?
"too late" has a certain ring to it.
it sounds
like when you're rushing to get someplace important but you trip and fall
and realize
that it doesn't truly matter.
because nothing does.
when is "too late"?