the sun has vanished
and the world has run cold.

and i can't

remember a time i've run to you
for warmth, intimate or otherwise.

but in the darkness?
you're all there is.
or rather,
you're all i'd like to see.

so i sprint to the monitor,
blue ribbon in hand—
hoping for a moment,
you sense the urgency in my

[hello! :)]

and the ice is creeping up my spine
as i wait
for three dots that promise a reply

you shoot back

[oh hi.]

and the milk that once
enriched my bones
curdles
and i fall to dust;
nervous.

you hold a power that frightens me
your warmth, your chill, like heights

(i like the view, but cannot breathe.)

and would you, as well, compare the light
to an embrace?
the switch of grey to red to green,
like the caress of the abyss?

i want to be known by you.

(but cannot bare to be perceived.)

message those who deserve a good bye.
like i'm leaving oz tomorrow;
like i can live in my dreams
of february.

i want to be known by you,

but as messages pile up
i'm buried.

80, 190, 270.
texts, sexts, mirrors, enemies.
(wishes to be seen.)

one more message then back to
the problem at hand, so
shuffle the deck until you know
whats wrong with me.

i can't keep pretending my
notifications are off when i'm
waiting for your reply,
( & i'm flooded by noise. )

but i, among the hurricane
in the eye of the storm

ask to be known by you.

if i don't reach out
will you?

everything  got real quiet
and his thoughts opened up
and inspiration struck
and he knew that he was

it's not often he seems himself here
swimming through his cacophony of fears
he wonders whether he truly knows
the bounds of what his emotions hold

he wonders whether the eye of God shines itself upon him
knowing how deep and dark his need is for sin
it's not possible to know the truth of it
to know whether his emotions play him like a puppet

it's easy to see all from a birds-eye view
and he knows he'll look back and hate that he knew
what it was the entire time he was supposed to do

it's getting loud again so i think i should say
who this poem is written about on this day
his thoughts opened up and they went astray
he knows there's only one spot he can truly hideaway
so if you wonder who this poem is about
i guess you must look further than the words i spout

At times, it sounds like crowds are cheering, when I'm sitting in a silent room.

With my lower jaw working on a merger with my upper. I take a deep breath and sigh.

Until I hear the silence.

The thin bare bones of a silence that was

Shattered calm, a mirror cracked

Snapped underfoot like a plastic toy

Smashed, a fragile thing destroyed

Beauty broken by a careless word!

In through one ear
Out the other
I'm not talking about sounds
I'm talking about flies
And they're so loud

I am trying to listen to the birdsong
But all I am hearing are cars
And screaming and arguments and doubts
And I am trying to hear the birdsong
And I, in focusing on the things that are not birdsong
And being annoyed,
I cannot hear the bubbling brook
And the wolves howl
And the cicadas
And I do not notice
Because I am trying to listen to the birdsong.

World is a mess .
Don't disturb the way of its noise.