You are a book i read
By definition metaphorically
Everything is on the page
Chapter and verse not hidden
But i do not see it!!!
Gaping holes in consciousness
Normal!!! Normal!!! Normal!!!
If i could comprehend you always
I would never fear one moment
Of your existence is precious and holy
To you        not me        unless
I make it so
Through effort
Perhaps i will see you as
       a
Folio in a wayside shrine

Our zoo is not locked up at all,
and it doesn't look like a zoo.
It looks like there's no keeper in here,
but this is not true.

He does exist, he's watching us,
he doesn't let us escape before we die.

He makes us feel that zookeepers are us,
but it's not like that.

But I better shut up,
as he can overhear my words.
I better come back to my lair,
trying to hibernate.
And you better come back to your screeching,
your gibbering and neighing,
your whooping,
then the guard will be pleased,
he will love you.

In the deep beyond sun's shine,
I lie there, hidden in secrets, defined.
Deep, where the crystal blue turns charcoal black,
And lifelines of lies break from light's slack.

Diving down beyond the reach of light,
Plunging into my horrid un-perishing night,
Then manifests that most frightening thing to see:
A mirror reflecting the whole of me.

I've been feeling the itch to write a poem but there isn't much left on the surface for me to comb. I think the problem is that I feel too at ease within my own home, nothing tragic has happened so my skin feels so securely fastened that nothing can access the workings of my inner axis. I want to cut the straps and let everything fall to the floor, I want so much for my guts to push against the closet doors so my skeletons can adore the metaphorical gore and reach out to feel for more. What i need is for the pain to come back, a crow to seek out the dove and commit a passionate attack. I desperately need that confinement to feel the claustrophobic sense of pleasure in every tightening breath while I scratch and scratch at the surface until my nails are ****** and cracked. Everything has gotten dry and stale, I hope for something to block up my tracks and make my mind derail.

Nature metaphors
And descriptive similes
All fail to capture
How sweet and lovely and good
And desirable you are

My heart is the book,
My conscience is the author,
My childhood is the prologue,
My growing phase is the pages with the most lessons,
My ideas are the metaphoric words,
My successes are the exciting paragraphs,
My challenges are the hair-rising lines,
My teenage life of naiveness is all the questions of the story,
And my adulthood answers it all, maybe some.
The last chapter defines what is right and wrong in my life,
The time before my passing is the page that holds you from continuing -to finish, to accept that it wont last.

And it ends,
And you flip the last blank page,

Thereafter, only God knows what happens to the story, to me.

It was kind of like you were injecting me with yourself
Except you keep missing the vein.

The bruises on my arms became the out-played artsy reminder of your actuality
Though you made sure that when the reminder faded and healed you were right there to bring me back into your world of needles and twisted gravity

What makes you think you can leave for weeks
You're standing near but you've never been further away from my desperate grasp

The withdrawal of you is excruciating
Like a recovering alcoholic in a liquor store except there's no automatic door or transparent window to reveal a salvation on the other side.

The only salvation is taking another hit of you
So, that is what I shall do
Until the day I overdose on your *intoxication .