Longing for the kiss of bitter reality,

Much of bare humane nature has been deprived of mentality.

Though the holy reputation,

The Anglican halls fill with the souls of the unwanted and unloved.

Much atonement to be done,

All in the name of Himself.

Said a few prayers amidst this deadly nightshade,

filled with poison,

But blessed with beauty and rage.

Shaking the wings of their terrible youth,

we strayed from the heavens above.

Mistaking pain for love,

masochists,

with the love for such *******,

all alone in our dark paradise.

Whilst we knew that the “happy ending” that love promised

is likely to never be fulfilled,

We went in search of the rich wine that intoxicates us,

the empty pitcher.

After searching for our angel for decades, we finally

stumbled upon him,

He helped us to unfurl our wings and guided us, the devils,

to soar high into the heavens in ourselves,

Constantly reminding us,

that the devil,

was once an angel too.

i miss reading and the enjoyment that stemmed from seeing the world through other people's words
the library used to be my favorite place and books were my sole escape but lately i can't bring myself to read
it's as if all those years never lifting my nose from a book is catching up with me and i don't know how to slow down and fix it

i have a list of books i would like to read or that other people would like me to read
and i feel guilty everytime i look at it
it'd be great if i read something off it but im scared it won't feel the same as it did when I needed an escape from reality
feels stulid when i say it out loud but when i was a kid i needed books and the worlds they provided
and now not so much

it's not like the love i had for literature has just disappeared i know it's still there
it's just stored away for a rainy day when my brain again fails to process the fast paced world around me and reality again becomes suffocating

until then I'll try to write my own stories onto blue lines and blank screens and hope that's enough to keep myself from falling into dark times
I'll write stories real and fake to remind myself it's okay to take up space and live in the real world

Reading at the bar
Drinking at the library
         —Henry Chinaski

We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.

~
We don't need
Other worlds
We need mirrors

We need thin waists
And a hysteresis curve
To the hips

Let us drink in the sea
And laugh as our number
Comes up

Let us commit
To be noncommittal
And talk nary a word

On age and death
Over afternoon tea
In the bright withered garden

Where the goodness of man
Longed to be more
Than its darkling reflection
~

Smithereens
we,
with, on, a truck’s van
speeding scrapping,
alas, vagabond voyage ceiling

Well, astral jumping from a car /cinnamonned sun/
isn’t hard then I see, creek

We,
the cloak, the moment and me the contracting,
a book of flights spread open, we
a discarding,
as its wing from gold smothered in
most blue sky and a red sign towards
embarking to a new life/face encrusting

Joy, lazy, lounged,
like a banjo in its autumn on a porch jiggly slouch,
strings light freeze at wind, clasp, then step up and
as the hitchhiker dance.

Amèlie, I caught your sound!
your theme, lastly away,
the accordion’s as of now met,
adopted in a knee’s set,
one leg around the other a mess.
Hanging springs of it, at edge.

Maroon,
eyes currently in wood carved,
steampunk clogs, clads there
fine.

Mellow,
whole body a cello,
from boots with folly drunk
through wood prolonging curved
to the “f”s at the end of ideas and
caramel hair known as falling leaves’
place.

This
will
be
a
great
something.

Laid open!
Further!
Hitter!
Onward higher!

Off,
so off
we
go