Sometimes I feel like I’m in the midst of a junk yard
***** junk yard girl
I’m part of all the scrap metal
Rusting away
Under the gentle yet violent embrace of such a ridiculously big sun, so powerful and on top of us
It’s no wonder summers make it so hard to breathe...
Then again so does the brisk wind, in a bitter winter

You can’t win.

I imagine myself immersed in the sand of a desert
the sand enters my cuticles till they explode
let me just bleed
In total
Peace

Letting the sand run through my fingers, just for a brief moment

I can control time.

Like popcorn stuck in your molars
While the smooth butter just lathers up your taste buds
I live feeling bipolar

Nostalgia can ******* away
with a high so strong
It makes me want to live

Maybe it’s the magic of those late 90’s cartoons glaring through my tv screen

Sugary cereals before they were so bad for you

Maybe it’s how people seem, from the distance of time

Like an alien
I roam around this life that is mine
Advanced enough to blend in
Curious enough to stand out looking lost.


-Sindi Kafazi

I used to be a Glock 40,
my aim impeccable.
I made the decision,
I pulled the trigger,
I hit my target.
Lately, I've been a musket shot;
unpredictable,
and somehow even more dangerous than usual.
I miss the center and wind up somewhere in the corner of the paper.
Dust flies from the shrapnel
where I used to have a single trail of smoke indicating the bullet, crumpled but whole,
placing a hole where I wanted it to,
and one unbroken shell, slightly charred,
dropping near my feet.
But here I am watching people take cover
as my pieces go flying, destroyed by my own chaos,
tearing anything and everything apart in its path.
I used to be deadly but precise.
Now I'm not sure what I am.
I'm certainly causing damage,
but more to myself than anyone else...
I confuse and startle people more than strike fear in them,
and that's insufficient...
I want to be better,
but I keep going off without warning,
and people avoid me to avoid getting hit,
but they're not scared,
they're simply learning,
and I don't know how I feel about that,
maybe I'm not a gun anymore,
maybe I'm the target,
I certainly feel like a piece of paper,
flimsy and vulnerable against the onslaught of lead,
blown to bits and drifting off in the cloud of dust...
maybe I don't want to be a gun anymore.
I certainly don't want to be a target.
Maybe I don't want to be a pistol
or a musket
or a bow or a knife or a clenched fist,
maybe I want to be a person.

do you ever miss the rain?

which one?

that one.

yeah i do.

the simple feelings of safety

the smell of the rain

the similarity of home

where you didnt care about technicality

or psychology

when nobody cared about each other but felt home

do you miss the old screen?

you mean the OS?

no the screen

where it was simple but complex

the feeling of the rain mixed

feeling of friends

not that feeling

the other feeling

the similarity of the old layout

not old the better one

yeah the better one

where it seemed as if you knew it for so long

but you didn't

when everyone was innocent

no sketches

playing at home with no pressure

with a head that stops when you stop

the feeling of feeling as if the adults know everything out there

where you felt as if being sad was just a myth

miss the old room?

which one?

the magical one

where your imagination ruled the emptiness

now filled with a head that is technical as it can be

why?

because maturing

looking at the abyss called reality

where everybody is a child

being an adult is just a myth

everybody feels alone, feels selfish, trying to wisen up

they can’t

because you just can't

wise people aren't wise

they aren't adults

they are just children

acting like adults

people want to get on top

why?

because

why?

why not?

everybody looks up to you

everybody obeys to your rules

they aren't forced to or obliged to

they just do

why?

because they are searching for an example of an adult

they search for a person to look up to that no one can look down on you for

but when you are the person on top

you still feel alone

you don't feel complete

you feel like a child

but then you look for another person to look up to

there are no other

so the cycle continues

everybody stomping on each other

we are on top of a flying rock and everyone is focused on looking down upon people with different imaginary views

why?

why not just have fun?

do you ever miss the rain?

which one?

Primrose path
Sprinting sessions
From dark undergrounds
Never leave until unexpected

Admiration
Image collections
Optic characters imitations
Personality as a theatrical affair

Social fluency
Horse and carriage
Stepladder for gnomes
White concrete eclipsing the streets

Cigarettes
Music on Bourbon Street
Caged souls, walking zombies
Poverty weeps the loudest social lie

Existence
Revolving door exit
To doubt linear presence
Historic currency is a cold death

Ideology
Tall buildings
Redesigned inner child
Your snake skin is the verse of life

what a pity

spent the last few years idling in a thin sense of self;
amid outstretched pores looking to photosynthesize more eccentric disposition
even though i know you know my woes consecrate through the spirit, through the veins
what i have shown you is thicker than blood–better count your blessings

so HA! neglect wont erase the ways ive molded your mind
its a gift, to
ditch reason for compassion
to breathe vanity
to breathe immortal sorrow…

my most absurd suggestion yet, now listen closely:
when the tips of my fingers freeze over, let sleeping mountains lie
do hate, but dont devour it;
holy holy holy holy hold the past like a knife
apologies for my insincerity but you must understand…
****, what is left of me?

trembling and then the blade clutters aloof, to and fro and to
i cower from the vision of my wicked phantom,
skin stretched tight over my bones–yet do what He says, for
He makes ruin a honey-like intoxicant
omega three, anti-this anti-that, acronyms galore,
each a little dose of layers of
Him, unraveling atop my fragility

Mellow
Mundane
Mutiny
Meets the madman
Conducting orchestration
For our mothers lips
Saint Frances
Saint Frances
Saint Frances
I hope you've arrived
Cacooned eyes awaiting
Ephemeral steady fluctuation
Persephone gaze
Diana's rage
Eternal blue flame
Dripping crimson fingertips
The heavens eloped when you left us here.
us.
here
Remains.
Remains on the fire escape
An external buzz
Heard during my cigarette break
My sight caught by persephones polenating powerhouses who remains meditative and floating
Above the clover grass
Elucid and fleeting
Yet evermore
Remains on the tumbling limestones and mounds of our ancestors.
I beg for your wisdom
Sometimes I think
I'm hearing your voice
Asking me to be calm
And stop searching so deep
Saying your "with me
In more than the form of a humble bumble bee
But still keep running for me through the vast trees
Until you find your self unmoving and buckled at the knees"