the stars, quite literally,
aligned for the sweet & sour
meddling of the human race.
an artistic, feuding mortality now born,
thanks to the haphazard and
wildly unlikely mix of
tingling elements.
humans, we are in a
tiny sliver of time.
the stars, oh wow, they gave us
our legs and quickly enough
an unearthly load of growing pains.
a prophecy, a gift, a humble endowment
of neuroplasticity.
the tiniest sliver of time, where the stars
aligned, for the tiniest burst of
clumsy, hopeful light.
in these star-kissed structures we grow,
fail, fail more and fail again until
finally we decide which failure defines
our livelihood– a raw and honorable
pursuit which is not our ultimate
footprint. the starts, they know,
they die.
we must live our lives knowing
that we are in a sliver of time.

Fawning over the fissile festivities,
with which I fake my facile form.
Fatal futility floods my far-flung faith in myself.

Feeding the fires of my forgery,
Frantic forethought,
Fictionalizing the facts before my faithless eyes.

Forclosing upon the fractional freedoms that I've so long fought for.
Fearing the unforgiving firestorm that follows,
Once I've finally exhausted faith in my future.

Fielding my final fight,
Standing fast in the face of futility.
Fit to fly into the fray.

You complained when the drinks ran out;
Alcohol's synonymous with fun, you said.
I rolled my eyes, presented the concept
Of conversation- you wouldn't give in
And, in exasperation,
I split the bottle on the bone in my leg, shard to shin,
Muttered snidly as I bled,
"Hope you like red".

(Better to be, than keep feeling dead)

Can nothing ask
Why it is there
If it’s nothing in the first place?

Succulent flourishes
a brief sense of essence
fleeting life within a blade of grass
cutting reality by a sliver
rational itching sensation
overwhelming pit of doom
distinct summary, concluded
the life we call ours is no more
falling one by one in a green field
filled with dread and suspense
being consumed with blinding greed

I was thinking
A thought

That turned into flashes
of grandeur, greatly mundane, yet profound storytelling
of the conscious mind's eye

Yet, I fall into the trap of tracing and chasing
the dream ...

I fall into the trance of
tracing back, a transient feel
yet, feeling so out of place

Placed - here, and here I hear it
A thought, that became a stream of opening
That fluidness of it's true nature
of becoming a story - that never happened

- Yet, feels like reality -

I wake up
And think about my memories of my day to day experience
I see them like I see my dreams
I can NOT distinguish between one or the other (in past tense)

Yet, there is something so real
Yet, fake about a memory
Because a dream is rememebered the same way as a memory

That is the fine line, I constnalty walk upon