Like rocks that fill my pockets, it just weighs me down. Regret always whispering doubt, it would be better just to drown.

I hold it between parted lips, his name that can't be said. Like sandpaper on the tongue, my frustrations so deep I cracked and bled.

Tell me Sorrow why I sit, on the corner of Self and Obligation. While in the cloak of night I cry, and choke on my own damnation.

I can't wash this new lover off my body, the filth won't rinse away. Another name on the list, another excuse not to stay.

It burns within like a thousand fires, desire that can't be repressed. But I'm so busy punishing myself, that I may never rest.

Shoulds
Have horns
And ram reindeer with
Thistle bush antlers

I grow
From the seeds of others
Leaf green
As lilac winter tells me.

And the advice of others
Protects
Culpability from
The mouth of a sweet whisper.

Shoulds
Grow fangs
And live in dark forests
I know this to be their opinion.

I live
Longer longings
I rise
With every new day

And they, are still there
Dressed in soft leather,
Stirring teas and
Ready to tell me paths ahead

Predicting the worst weather
Without knowing the storm
They condone.
Advice.

Mercies at  juxtapositional refinement
Abandoned constitutional confinement
Handshakes on the bridged ligaments

The sweet melodious serene dreams fleets
One after the other like peculiar inventions
The mellow scenes of frames realignments

Wonderful crafted words verses paradigm
Harmonic jazz awesomeness, decode freeness
Orchestral spontaneity drills pragmatic energy

Yet, as the gingered steams rise from the hot brew
The scented breeze of life vaticinates with a smile afar
Whispers of "no obligation, no expectations" reverbs..... on and on....on and on

There was a time, when you
walked with your
heart on hand, shinning.
Nothing could impart
you, but then as a poison,
Civilization toppled your
walls  screamingly and bore
its burden upon your arms
and spirit.

Bounded, they spat on you,
shackled you with their insults.
They called you Beast,
but in your own way,
you were anything, but
slaven.

You are conflagration, but
Civilization consumes you,
mutiny creeps in the cells
of your veins, you hope to
strangle it and charm
the world as yours.

You are expected
to be a saint, but you are
anything but saintly.
You are a raw torrent of velocity
-you await to burn dry the world
of its own criminal flood, the
very one that binds you.

They deny you, to be any
part of god, but god's machinery
is nothing but cosmic, ******, profane
blasphemy, hunger, goliath, mutiny,
unbroken.

Morning is lovely and cool
puppy is scratching himself
kitties await being fed
goats in their stall want to browse
chickens are seeking new ground
doves cooing soft in their cage
I want to go back to bed.

"Mature"
doesn't based on age, on experience,
but it is based on how you think about the situation .

I want to tell you I miss you, but my words are caught in my throat and I'm not obligated to breath for lies that are attached to memories that are now vague to my own sense of comfort.

When the penny has
dropped on the situation,
and the silence binds
your obligation,
I am sorry.