I love words and
I love metaphors.
I love the muse that inspires the words
and how flawlessly these words form metaphors.

I love deciding how people perceive me.
Even I am beautiful when painted metaphorically.

We're all crying while we slave away,
Smiling when we're free.
If only we could see the freedom
in that flash of teeth.
But only if we mean it,
Yes only of it's meant
Tell me whats the worth of worrying
You'll drown inside cement?
Now the others rest upon the middle
they get no relief
They don't wish to see the sun
Until they go to sleep
And the lookers down sit perched upon
The place that is implied
They only care to swoop if they can peck
and pick apart our lives.
All these observations made
Behind a pair of glasses
From these marblesque devices
Run by lightning seeming massless
Thinking "if only we were classless,
Careless, living off of instinct
at least we'd be so unaware
that we are reaching a brink
Where those who work away
for birds of prey
are sick of slaving days
and rise with those who wish to see the sun.
How they'll rattle the cage.

I can see it in the shadows of my walls
the corners of the empty white rooms
the concave stomachs of little kids
your dried, chewed-up bottom lip
the hollows of Mum’s cheeks
the ticking of a metronome
the gaps in the bookcase
the crusty, sore noses
the bleeding nails
the white walls
skinny wrists
burnt paper
filaments
unlights
people
limbs
you
me.

It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy ****, I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.

The words have been said,
Oh they have been said.
But theres so many questions still in my head.

I wonder, I wonder.
My mind trailing in circles like birds in the sky.
What if? What if? How can I trust?
And why?

Why, why why must I think so much?
For too much thinking makes me so out of touch.
Out of tune, like an old claironet, blaring and sounding in the off pitch sound of it.

So for now I'll write and compose.
Compose myself for who would ever know,
of the symphony of thoughts mixed up in my mind,
Waiting for that harmonized day where there'll be clarity I'll find.

It is a growing issue
that the amount of metaphors
never used before by the hand of man
is decreasing significantly
and needs to be addressed soon
because the number of poets appearing
out of nowhere
is increasing exponentially
because we all want to
compare our love to the wind
forever competing
for self entitled originality
and instant gratification
until all we have left in this world
is cliche
after cliche
after cliche.
Where will we find ourselves
when we find out
all the words are taken?

Once passed
Always alive
You Lou
Have me hypnotized.
Not a word
I have heard
Sounds more real
Than the ones
you've told

I too,
Have been
"Waiting
For the man."
Head up Lexington
And start lookin'
For a dear
Dear friend
Of mine;
But mostly
For that one,
Quick, fix.

Soon after
"******" hits
And I too
Am dosed,
I - don't - know.
My only
Wonder now is
If a smack
Syringe can be
As good as
It sounds at
This moment