Of a round-shaped chocolate cake,
Of unlit candles of which the numbers has increased by one since the last time
Of empty chairs
Of balloons hanging on the wall
Of colorful hats neatly arranged on the table cloth
Of empty porcelain saucers

Like many years before
The boy sits there in silence
On an old wooden chair adjacent to the round table
No surprise nor gift
Nor people nor appetite

Like many years before
He acts like the cool Han Solo
Minus his 200 years old Chewbacca
‘Cause he only has his little antic toy car

No matter how luxurious it may seem
The cake, candles, confetti, balloons and all
The missing essence of people
And happiness and serenity
Could not make it up for him

He is a birthday boy who is not cherished or cheered on
He is a birthday boy with no joy
Like many years before
He finger crosses for the next year to be better

i strip metaphors off my skin
the feeling of you, something i never knew
i drink similies like they're gin
wishing and wishing and wishing,
i wish

It's been awhile
since I have let myself feel
anything at all.

My friend the feeler
Tells me to stop thinking
To follow my intuition
As though thinking,
Has not been how I’ve gotten myself this far
Like telling a runner
To stop using their legs
To cross the finish line
To walk on their hands, if their feet are tripping on the dirt.
I tell my friend the feeler,
That I’ll try
Knowing full well that this is not something I can accomplish
I am a thinker,
I know my strengths
What I am good at
And I know where I fail (though I loathe to,
and never will, admit it)
So I tell her I’ll try
Not that I can’t,
Not that I can’t stop thinking
Can’t stop using my legs,

But that I’ll try
Because I am a thinker
And I know that learning something new isn’t impossible
Just hard

how do i reconcile my warmth with my machinery?
mechanical contraption checking the boxes
poet longing to form a beating heart with only words

the colder parts of me suggest i have some sort of surgery
creativity can be threaded to the bone with stitches

the softer places whisper in my ear a cure of sugar and cinnamon
logic is only an imagined intention

but i feel the pendulum swing
and it stops not for compromise

in other worlds..." he corrected himself -

"The being in constant astonishment in other worlds - words, dies. Starves from too much food."
TOO MUCH ASTONISHMENT.

such astonishment to be unlearned in the meeting of two friends on a bench,
the opening of curtains to a blue-gold sky
the sheer pleasure of creating a world -
(word?)
- and a person and a FEELING
from a black-inked nib and a white scratched page

THIS IS THE FATE OF THE WATCHER
trapped alone in astonishment, a seer
Cassandra of ordinary happenings.

look at the living that is being LIVED!
- and never believed.

I saw a grey love.
As rotten as a deserted carcass.
The hidden motive.
The rage of hunger.
Grey garnished it all.

I hesitated,
Took a step back.
The mossy green heart sparkled.
Nauseating me with the dark.

I had to rescue the promises.
Its yellow body.
Its broken limbs.

As I slithered into the grey,
It settled on me.
I smelled of blazing bricks,
waiting for the Fall.

The yellow evaporated;
steam settled on my unshielded eyes.
I didn’t hesitate.

It tingled.
It left.

And here I am growing with the mossy green heart.