Mosquitoes may drink my blood
I stay here to enjoy myself
the blood of the moon

the fireflies in the garden
and the whooping children
around a campfire somewhere

...Behind, a freight train rumbles past
...Once the hooves of bison pounded there

My dreams are blind and nameless
They **** on the spot
and eat when I'm away

Maybe it would be easier
without them, but when I see them
asleep, everything is fine

...Behind, a freight train rumbles past
...Once the hooves of bison pounded there

The more words I learn
The more apt I get at conveying the precise notion
But
The more words I learn
The further I separate myself from those I’m writing to

I cannot explain to those
That I need to hear me
In such a way which is meaningful
To them
for me

I toil on
Learning to say something simpler
Clearer
Despite the barrage of stimulus I wish to demonstrate
I toil on
Saying what's been said
Stealing greater sculptors scalpels


I am undone

Every day I pass

the forest, it's hard to see --


that we're transforming.

I kindled a fire,

from it blows a wind, it blows --


the fire far away.

Never any change!

Everything always the same --


with variations.

In the new country

I follow a friend, stepping --


within his footprints.

It is printed now,

as pure art: the sorrow, mine --


everyone's, isn't it?

Maybe there's no hope, too much time has passed
Whatever I started, never did last
Oh how I wished, I wished it would endure
Perhaps I did it with a heart impure
And now I look at the blank road ahead
Wanting to exist somewhere else instead
To retrace paths and restart, unseen
To come back feeling proud, with my conscience clean
But the laws of physics don't work that way
So if I have to live another day
I'll start again with no expectation
Maybe enjoy the process of creation,
Cast away the ropes that left my hands tied,
Be less consumed by the demons inside.
Let me forgive my mistakes, in the mind
Let me find the strength to leave them behind.

Circles—round a trip,
going all around the plains of plain thinking,
A blank mind; empty paper, ****** canvas,
As of the first I'll write: a masterpiece to create.

A shaking pen, a hold of my thoughts and emotions.
Dreams so unreal; feels so prohibited to a natural
thought. So I write them out in words.

Read through it, subtract, dissect,
read through it again; alter, adjust,
As many times, till I'm content with the piece.
But I'm never content; until the next piece,
the next piece, and next pieces after that.

Battling thoughts on whether to share or
archive for a later story. Post for likes, comments,
to please an ego—post for dispraise, inklings,
to better self, and writing capabilities.

For all-inclusive