Cut the limbs
off a boundary

of trees,
and the police come running.

He was more supported--
there was evidence--

twisted branches
on the ground--

video of it
in action.

It took three days
to go from comfort

to sorrow--
she who freed me

also made me
a ghost.

My i
diminished--

blood on all
my four walls.

I'm still
the only one

who sees red.
His wife doesn't seem to care.

She can always deny
everything

and stick her head
in another book.

You must have known.
That day I held your hand and you held my gaze
And the air was thick with smoke and unspoken words and tiresome clichés.
Your eyes crinkled softly like they always do.
Always, always in the pretentious books I would pour over for hours as I try to envision myself right there,
Comforting myself with the idea that someone, one day, will dance with me to the sound of nothing but two hearts beating in unison.
There is something desperately intimate about oxygenation.
Always in these silly, profound books, they describe their darling’s eyes with every hue known to man.
Deep, aquamarine, sparkling crystal orbs that you would be so happy to drown in.
Entrancing and stormy forests.
Pools of warm honey with gold flecks in them, sweet as dandelion wine.

I will not condescend to compare your eyes to saccharine.
Or bodies of water, for that matter, or trees.
I will not waste time equalizing them to shades of the rainbow.
What are eyes, really,
Other than a means to see?
All that is beautiful and all that is clean.
I hold my own eyes in higher esteem than yours, dear,
Because they allow me to revel in the way yours light up when you smile.
How the skin underneath creases and wrinkles in all the most endearing ways
Like the infinite pages of a book in some foreign language
That only I can understand.
The ability to do so is a prerogative of the infatuated.

I wonder if you’ll let me read this book more often now that we’re here, two forgotten souls grinning stupidly at each other in the dark.
You must have known, then, that I would spend every day of the rest of my life reading this book if you only allowed me to do so.
Embedded in my mind was the way the corners of your mouth shot up towards the heavens.
I did not have to trace it to know that it was there.
You must have known.
There was not a crumb of my being you did not hold in the callused palm of your hand.
All of the streetlights were doused by the blanket of the night and it was truly not a movie-worthy moment because there were no stars and the moon was out of sight and there were stray cats padding around in the neglected garbage dumpster and I could not even remember why we were laughing so hard and I loved you.
Unequivocally.

Eradication within a hollow abyss of such instinct... callibrating an insourmantable animallistic realization of a deeper defiled reconciled underlined evil lurking within...dominance of my debilitating disease...temptation to succumb to this numbing feeling...As if it all dissapears while I indulge into feeding my own agonizing addiction....something I keep feeding...tired of always fleeing not facing Life secluded within a snared trap of a battle am exausted from alliviating my feelings. I want to recuperate my sobreity, yet keep getting intoxicated to deal with inner dealings. Envelopped in tranquilizing my own self with destructive substances to hide this pain am living...slowly killing myself just to think am living.

As I contemplate at deconstructing my past...where did I go wrong Lord...is my Life even worth living?
The experiences I attain am NOT finding enjoyment at completing...
How the **** do I recover from this deep sadness am feeling?
Despair await me as my thoughts form this sentences am speaking
I ask myself the harshes questions...Is my Life to someone out there hold meaning?
Lord free me from this inprisonement am feeling...
Undersiedged and captivated am losing focus on how I ought to be living...
withstanding the problems I face with ******* toxins I keep utilizing when I desire to be quitting.
Rehab many say is the answer they keep pleading...yet cannot fully shut the door where old habits keep creeping...
Alone, conflicted and restless...am left when am dope feeding...
Is me, myself and I...who I ought to be healing...
In time...this will also dissapear
I just ask of thee Lord, let me make it out alive
Out crawl from this ticking time death-bomb I keep re-living.

full oblivion
and absence of consciousness
i am i am

The world is not perfect, nor is it kind; with each progressive step forward, we leave more behind.

The rich give a copper piece, while they take ten gold. Has your charity forgotten the old man and boy, who harvest your coal? What merit is there in giving, if one takes more?

It's interesting, that humans have made "humanity" a show; kindness, compassion, fun, how many do you know?

For a world that's global warming, the hottest summer days feel so... cold.

Perhaps it is a global warning, to let the others knows, that most of us have a house... but too few, a home.

This house is a prison, its cells are polished purple heart, behind which I am truly alone; I am the person who admires this "purple" heart, though I loathe my own.

I am a whisper, reaching far and wide, through this phone. To most my words are beautiful poems; to few they are more; something that their hearts can hold, and have some warmth amidst the cold.

i shot a question
into the air   i landed
in my human mind

Crackling leaves on the walk home.

French hysterics.
Off the deep end in chasm.
Manic.
Sequence fathom through the room light.
Dreadful.
Sarcastic rummaging through cheek bones as papier-meche.
Quiet.
Rubbing eyes.
Folding Sweatshirt to tunneling tunes that keep you alive long enough.


Garrett Johnson.