My days are gone, wondering,
I am alone,
terrain full of thoughts, lost,
I’m
dying of thirst in the
want of life.
Nothing more to weep for,
I’m dying

I.
Fireman, censor of literature and destroyer of knowledge, with his mighty flamethrower. He loves his work. He loves trouble and strife. He loves fascination with the people next door. Mostly, he loves his hammock. But sleep will be his final unrest.

II.
A gift for the darkness: reading from the forbidden kept hidden in the air-conditioning duct. The walls within turn on and off like Cora Pearl. His wife listens to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. They walk on as an extinguished connection. In the flickering of his eyeballs, he dreams of driving recklessly to Dover Beach and drowning her.

III.
Burning bright. He is burning so brightly. In the factory of mirrors, he takes a hard look. He's a flammable book. And it's a pleasure to burn. "What are you doing?" She asks. "Putting one foot in front of another." He answers.

My thoughts come to me differently.
They find me in the form of riddles
And the form of prose.
Both of which I must pull apart
And study each piece separately
Before I can finally be sure of their meaning.
As if I am 16 again,
Sitting in my high school English class
Debating the meaning of a newly introduced piece of literature,
The only student in the room
Who truly cared
If the author colored the curtain blue
Due to an emotional turmoil he faced
Or simply because he fancied the color.
Because studying the work of literature greats
Who have long since passed from this world
Offers me the smallest sliver of hope
That I might be able decode my own turmoils
And be able to truly face them
Instead of running and hiding
When my mind once again becomes a whirlwind of unintelligible monstrosities
Made of my deeply hidden fears
And hopes that I can’t bear to look at in the light of day.

I tell the made-up stories of raconteurs
pouring their hearts out on empty paper

I help people learn, love, and laugh;
They dream with others as a source of
happiness, hope n' stuff

'your name' appears in books
that makes people cry

I am somehow a sanctuary of
people with dreams that remain fruitless
They use my name to fantasize about the times
they can never fully feel;

I, y/n.

Do it well, do it fully,
give in, forget the past,
you’ve done no wrong,
write everything little poet,
this isn’t motivation, just write,
be better than any love.
Be the ideal

We are like Wilber
The pig in Charlottes web
Needing help from
A friend when
Needing to prove ones worth

We are like shade silver wing
The tiny bat
That has to use his wit
DIY to save his friends
And family
We all have a purpose and duty
Beautiful
And brains
And are lovable
If we put our minds to it
Or work together.