why would she be here?
why would she leave parts of herself
in a place that's been promised to ghosts?
for reasons unknown,
for motives unclear,
for every line that made her feel
a little less wanted each time it healed.
she stands and waits,
watching the remnants of light fade away,
letting herself submit to whatever comes next.
the whispers grow near,
her vision is blurry,
her posture is rigid,
her heart is so solemnly still.
she hopes to find peace
in leftover pieces that no one else needs,
but she can still use them to fix up the holes
before all of her disappears.
why would she be here?

I want to carve a hole in time we could inhabit
   together and feel it like forever

It's been endless weeks of grinding,
           days of searching for something not there
                 hours of wondering how long. (For you too, I think)
                             Don't want it.
Maybe we're the simulacra--standing in, here in doldrums...
Standing in on shaking knees, for...
  I dunno...

for the real we from last Wednesday...?

I want to drive out past last lights with you,
leave our droning town behind awhile (quit drowning).
I want it to be night time. Quiet talk and heater hum.
or a confident silence, filled up.
Let this be the carven time, perhaps: the cubic feet of the car.

We might be social insects, here
alight on lightest wings
When lives are fraught and frozen,
freeze a moment we can frame...
We might be social insects,
high on irridescent membrane wings
      Are we up too high for skeletons we tried to wear outside?

I guess we might be social insects
     (Suborder Apocrita)
Small things, we, I suppose. But sharing a mind, sometimes.
...You found one on my carpet. You forgot to take it home.

I want to wander aimless, slug cheap wine from steel cups
                                            (again)
     I want to let our skulls cloud with sour sips and easy laughs
     I want to catch your running eyes, scheming, through raindrops
     I want to sit on my couch again, drunken voices loud over
             French
                         Films
     I want to rest my cheek atop your head one more time
           before
                    we can't anymore.
Maybe that could be the time we carve

I think you can probably tell...          
I want it to be Wednesday, always, and watch you smoke in the rain.
In the carven time.

We’re two different people
from two inexplicably different worlds,
who can never truly
see things through the same eyes.

While I see,
a sky painted with beautiful and wild brushstrokes,
You see,
dilapidated high rises blurred by grey clouds.

I see,
a bubbling, bustling city of culture and people
While you see,
an overcrowded, noise polluted town.

I see,
the road to an unknown journey
You see,
cracked tarmac littered with potholes.

Because, while I like to daydream,
you like to plan
While I loved like a storm
you loved like a drought,

I lived in the little things - like inside jokes and playing the guitar
while you dreamt of more, like weddings and a fancy car.

you and I are from two different worlds
that can never be combined,
So with that I leave behind
something that could never quite be defined.

The sun shines.

So bright it does.

The heat can't lie.

But so our hearts.



The brightness, so blinding

Almost caring,

Nurturing,

What a shame it is.



The light stops at the pillar of the sky.

I see nothing with the naked eye.

Nothing but gloom.

Vision obstructed.



How greedy—

So greedy the clouds get,

Leaving folks in darkness.

Just like moles, we become.



Just like the Sun,

The heart don't lie.

They share a certain shine,

But a façade buries it.



My smile has turned to a lie.

Echoing tunes of the dark.

And reveals light only in sparkles,

As grains through an hour glass.



Deep down I smile,

Unlike any other,

A contagious smile,

All 32 of them shine.



As the grains of sand drop,

The clouds will eventually clear ,

My mask will crumble,

And the sun shall express its bright through my smile.

It's 8 o'clock in the morning
And I still thinking about the warning
That I got while I was eating
At buffet where they are seeking
Someone like a silly and to bully

And I was the perfect choice for that
As there was nothing in me but fat
And now here I am, sitting and crying
In the bathroom tearing and dying,
Of the pain that's a feeling and a dealing
With this kind of self-appealing

There they come, with a smile on their faces,
With a knife and cigarettes
Scratching and burning my skin to ashes
What do i need this kinda treatment?
Just because I got a belly and cheeks,
Makes me the one to see these freaks?

every word i ever wrote is for you,
every breath i ever took is for you.
you're the version of me that lives on in my head,
kept alive by the lives that i haven't lived.
you're the reason why i'm still here.
i'm afraid,
i'm afraid of the stillness that captures the thoughts
and refuses to give them back.
there you are.
all these years between us, but there you are.
there i am, all alone, cold and terrified
of the day that will come, but i'm still here,
locked up in a room inside my mind.
you're alive, so alive despite everything,
and i owe you a second chance at life.
you're the reason why both of us aren't dead.
every breath i ever took is for you,
every word i ever wrote is for you.

there's something wrong with my head.
minutes turn into days, days turn into nothingness,
fall through me like i'm made of holes,
scars form where grass used to grow.

i'm in the middle of an uninhabited desert,
i'm in a crowd, so dense there's barely room for a breath.
my thoughts follow their own footsteps,
caught in a game of hide-and-seek with myself.

i should've paid more attention to chemistry,
because i think my brain is missing some vital element,
one that would finally show me how to be whole.
but there is something wrong with my head.

I wanted to look to you like I was dancing
But the bugs on my bark weren't moving enough
I kept reaching skyward and praying for wind
     Never comes to a call, does it?
You could trace each fissure on my surface--why don'chya?--
     Find stories and runnels for flowing sap
Saw me off at the hip, maybe. See what jokes my rings have to tell

I'm tired of waiting for wind; I want to dance (I think?)

I wanted to look to you like I was thoughtful
So I sliced off a sheet of cyan and I robbed the sky
You called me "thief." ******' mean
     Always reaching for silver, aren't we?
Try to touch irises, press pupils. I've never been further than now
     Stories all end, so I'm told. But this one? Still going
Hacked apart, trying to show you my pieces. Chunks. Rough mince

So I stole again to pay the sky back. Ex nihilo, nihil fit
I can pour from empty, because I'm magic, baby!

I wanted to want to see you in Springtime
But we can't scrape Winter off our faces
     Sling me a flat stone that I can send spinning
Slapping across the water's surface
Did I hit the opposite bank? You could stitch together separate days
     if you only had the sinew and a proper needle
Blown apart by wind and explosive expecting. Chunks. Rough mince

I'm tired of waiting for wind. I'm tired of wanting to dance (I think?)
Not magic--well--not the kind that isn't bone and blood and skin
That's the sort of magic that doesn't exist.

I don't think I earned my name
When I was born, my mother sighed
               the second she
           was finished crying
Saturate the atmosphere and mix me in
              with molecules.
Invisible. I'm only air.
At least until I am exhaled.
                   And then?
Carbon monoxide. Waste product.
            Respiratory excreta.

I don't think I want my name.
And, even though I love this place,
                    the fact remains
                    it don't love me
                  and I can't make it...

               They still get bored so fast.
         And I can't tell if I can blame them.
                     But it used to last
                        a little longer.
           Longer strides and clearer eyes.
        Aching less from years' less crying.

Ache with me? I'm begging you.
Stay awhile or call me crazy. Just don't keep me caught
                           on this line.
No more warm or candied lies, no jangling nerve, anxiety
or brutal, ****** truths out hunting.

I know I am not interesting, but mercy on me please.
                   don't leave me yet or tire...
But, no, I am uninteresting--the gravest crime of our day.

I don't think you know my name.