some of us are bog people
we live with the snails and the maggots
making bacteria
we're suckers for substance
the dirt speaks to us
some of us are bog people
we hang with the microorganisms
making pilgrimages
we're slimey silt and silage
full-tilt and raw
the dirt wants us

dig it or dig it not
we can't help it
some of us are just bog people

My skin can hear your colors
From the other end
Of happiness

But the line is folding in a loop
Closing in a circle
And the end is the beginning

Time is tesselating
Unto itself
But we have not the senses

There is no loss
Just continuation
Into the unknown

Relativity delays
The arrival of awareness
Consciousness is slow to form

The cooling of the mold
Takes a great deal more
Hence, the procrastination

Inert and habitual;
Words taking root
In everything

My end and your beginning
Collided into a freshly manifesting
Iteration of existence

The bud becomes
The fruit
A new cycle

I'm a biochemical construct
mechanical of flesh and bone
software-infused hardware being,
another release,
an incrementally updated
version of humanity;
all off my data cells
come with prerequisites
I had no knowledge of;
the veins of my dreams
were blueprints and schemes
in my mother’s blood
in my father’s skin;
I scribble but cannot rewrite
the me, the I,
procedurally generated,
processed by algorithms;
and the purpose is clear
perpetuate and iterate,
move on with baby steps
not merely in time and distance,
but beyond existence

a feeling of incomplete awakening
where sleep has not set in before
a glimpse of another time and space
calm primordial darkness
pervading unity
predating everything
before the stars
and gravity
arcane sensation of belonging
expanding intuition warming
self-awareness fading in
thickening drive
for breaking out of comfort
for a journey of discovery
the cracking of the eggshell
the slow withdrawal
of the veil of slumber
outstretched arms will welcome
the emergence
come alive
my eyes are yours now

Stomach dressed in black holes,
Heart of velvet chained with barbed wire.
Second guessing instinct,
And I attempt to trust the liar.
Sampling my memories
Try to collect what I have learned.
Bringing it, just below the surface.
Is this the life I've earned?
I'd like to believe I deserve more.
In fact, I think I will.
But as of late it seems my life
Is standing perfectly still.
And the God in me
Promises fruition.
"But it can only come,
With a trust in intuition."

3/30/17

My head hurts, mom
Please come and take the pain away, mom
I'm not holding my breath, I can't breath
No one understands my brain, but me
The way I think, the path I've lain
and when the dead comes and whispers in my ear,
I'll make sure that you come and hear.
↝⍣↝⍣↝⍣↝
My tears keep stealing water from the ocean
and every effort I make ends in lost devotion.
My heart hurts, mom
Please come and take the pain away, mom
I don't know who I want near, mom
Everyone I want can't come here, mom
It's my natural instinct to run to you, mom
But, I try my hardest to show you I grew, mom
I'm not some little girl with an innocent mentality
But, I am someone who tries to escape reality
Two attempts and I've failed, mom
I'm feeling better but my mind is still jailed
I will keep my mind locked up for now
And only let thoughts out that you allow.

Instead of being sick
I've chosen to be honest
and it's a simple exchange of words.

To take my mind and body
hand in hand or thought for thought
to bring them together
and understand
that I need to be healthy.

To speak philosophy and psychology
I will need to be an example
of health and a preacher
of true self respect--
that does not let sugary foods
and media persuade me
from my identity.

It is not by the grace
of a supernatural deity
that I come to improve,
or the supreme control of ulterior  motives,
nor world justice.

But the illusion of self control itself
that begets me to strengthen my core
to show--
that we are all beyond:
our basic habits,
worthy of salvation,
that all animals
if desired can become
more than our de-faults.

Our existence consists of a resistance to the persistent indifference,
The instinct without substance, consistent yet distant,
That will influence our adolescence, make us insistent and violent,
Until in an instant we will all become silent.