walking through a daze  suffocating the world
walking across America no face mask
just mind wars wine tours
all along a stretch of highway
spitting on bugs sweating all my love
rivers drowning faith

so now i know how the world dies
not within fire
not within ice
but supplication
i remember lesser wars but not this
where everyone is afraid to challenge political ****
never seen weakness  like now

Supplication confuses the wishes of liberty
fear mongering rampant within all mainstream media
how to climb that Precipice to get to you?

if not then we all die.

:: 11.16.2020 ::

I once wrote poems
spilling my darkness
onto paper
now
I wish to write poems
spilling the light
I have found within myself
however
I seem to have lost my touch

-Kejtil

A paper wasp
Is stuck on my bus.
She is whisked away from her nest,
Miles and miles away.
I watch her,
Pensively,
As she crawls across my hand.
She will never make the trip back,
I think,
We have gone too far.
I look at her,
And in pity,
I dab a bit of juice on my finger
For her to drink.

when I picked up my pen,
I wanted to write about
gray skies
and thunderstorms
and the sound of rain
and laughter
and splashing in puddles.

I wanted to write about
the hole he left in the wall
by the staircase,
and how it seemed so much bigger
than his fist.
I couldn’t believe he made such an impact
with one blow
before he walked away.
I couldn’t believe he made such an impact
by walking away.

I wanted to write about
cigarettes and smoke
and young men with blackened lungs
and why we love
the things that destroy us.

I wanted to write about
this numbness
and how I feel nothing
but everything
at the same time,
and how I’m not sure
which is worse.

I wanted to write about
your cologne
and your citrus-scented shampoo
and how the smell lingered
on my pillow
long after you left,
and how I found someone new
but still fell asleep
to the thought of you.

I wanted to write until
my fingers blistered
and began to ache,
and my demons fell
from my overflowing mind
and drowned in ink.

but when I picked up my pen,
I had shaky hands.

I sat there silently
and I trembled
and broke down
and let my tears fall,
and my thoughts did not stop
racing through my head

but none of them
managed to escape onto paper.

here, time is a truck
with waxed wheels. but it
keeps pacing, keeps paving the path
to destruction; in dreams, I pluck

myself from its sheath, let it sweep
over me like a tide; on the
ground, I gather my garments,
as stones and seashells, slip

into their ethers, where eternity
waits. here, pyramids don’t converge
as they taper; they tunnel
like a lair that has lost its lucidity

& I’m wandering within their walls,
clueless, clouded—a captive child
eager to escape into enlightenment,
or another dream, where bliss befalls.

this is a paper-dream gobbling
reality—down to its
bone, bruised bare & bleeding.

being stuck, they say, is uncomfortable.
i believe it’s not necessarily true. for instance,

...i like getting stuck inside my room and read for a day or two or three or four, forever.
...i like getting that last song stuck in my head for a day or two or three or four, forever.
...i like getting stuck in traffic with my pen and paper.
...i like getting stuck in the moment...perhaps, with you.

getting stuck is an opportunity, staying stuck is unhealthy

staying stuck on a single story out of convenience regardless of its completeness is poison mistaken for remedy