I swore I meant to get baptized
you ended up with my head under water,
just alittle too long that time
and it should be cold instead of hotter.
I fight against the rough waves
my arms reach out for you instead of splashing.
I prefer that method where I’m being saved
instead of receiving a verbal thrashing.

Rooted in ground, meant to settle down,
hiding under the rubble,
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
While I’m bound to always maybe poke around
believe me I don’t want to cause trouble.
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I’ve always wanted a bigger bath tub
she craves to have a yard once more.
Everyday I trade both for a back rub
you ask “is your body even sore?”
I tell her who doesn’t feel some strain
and that her hands have always felt healing,
infact they cure almost every single pain
that I’ve had the misfortune of feeling

Hearing no sound, except the counting down
too far and deep in a puddle
you’re not Sonic in the bubble.
A trick I found is to always use a spin pound
straight from the knuckle,
I’m not Sonic in the bubble.

I only want the best chocolate
but I won’t pay for it out of pocket,
I expect a free taste to know if it’s worth my time.
Like picking doors and lockets
and sticking your fingers into sockets
it’s the type of thrill you don’t want to define.

You taught me a love like I had as I became one with the universe.
You taught me like as if I were the sky. Rays between, above as below.
I meet with the stars, as the sun settles and the moon blooms
Oh sweet prairie, let me lay down
In sweet scents and tickles on my face
Sweet love like a release of air
To be your breath
Our breath
The breath in between.
I long
For you.

Three
chests heave-
in the dark,
Breathing throughout
Each exhale.
The soundscape
adopts
a sleepers tone;
As
the clock's
      Tick tock,
Counting each second;
Becomes infinite-
The midnight's
metronome
Insues...

Once upon a time, I willed myself to dream
that you'd care if I wore my heart on my sleeve. Ever since, I have.
But not for you.
I do it for me.

the quick brown fox
jumped over the lazy dog
and spun a fancy tale
about the history of clichés

it beat a valiant bush
before burning a broken bridge
and kicking its own bucket
under six feet of foliage

now its dead like that horse it beat--
from counting chicks and party tricks
to counting sheep and hourly bleats
the fox is dead but oh was it quick!