I’ve become an expert in
stringing together
the loose pieces
(collectively) known as
myself
and rearranging them
to another's liking:
a composer      of sorts
        taking requests:
an ensemble of personalities
each one curated for
somebody else

I walk through life,
writing countless stories.
Surely of thousands stories,
a dozen would be deaths.
Plucking death from life;
is plucking seed from a fruit.

What is there to gain?
We say life have no reason, purpose, nor excuses.
So what say we live?

Plucking the seeds;
I witness countless threads.
From the bitterness of fate;
to the sadness of departure;
down to the solitary of loneliness.

I fear fighting those who have nothing,
those with nothing find comfort in death.
But... is death truly nothing?
Life is full, but emptied to the eyes of death;
Therefore, I tend to see life as nothing
and death as nothing;
ultimately, seeing through life and death.

as i sat in the decadence

of that New York moment

i knew i was in trouble

for the depth of my love

was darker than the red i sipped

The stalling plane fell,
A toy, yawing back on its tail,
Tilting left and down
And down.

The boy’s dad at the stick,
Frozen,
Face immobile,
Almost careless as they fell;
He, his mother, and his father,
And a stranger, next to him,
Tumbling above Montana
Prairie hills surging
Nearer
And nearer.

The stranger clenched the boy;
The tail dragger impacted a rising knoll.
The engine clanged and broke,
Dirt enveloped the shattered cabin.

Silence smothered cacophony.

Conscious of being dragged
Through a **** in the fuselage
Out into open air,
The boy saw little,
Couldn't make out the stranger's face.

His mother came through the side of the plane
A Cesarean section, reversed,
The boy's hope reborn
At the emergence of his mother.

She appeared dazed,
He thought, unruffled,
Dusty with a smearing of bright red lipstick
Stretching up from the corner of her mouth
To the edges of her right ear.

The boy knew it must be blood.

His father lay,
Crumpled oddly,
Head twisted between
Stick and dashboard;
Right arm somehow
Lolling through the fuselage.

Blood smeared the arm, the head.
Everything still,
Motion slow...
Echoes.

The stranger moved on hands and knees,
Inspected the boy
His mother,
Pulled them away
From wreckage,
Surveyed the scene.

Turning then to the man
Twisted and still,
Grotesque within the shell,
The stranger gazed.

Gasping,  the boy jolted.
Saw,
Thought he saw,
His father’s hand ****,
Move up and backward to his face.

The boy heard,
Thought he heard,
His father sigh.

Fear surging
The son,
Caught in a wave,
Realized his first response,
Horror,
A sense of ******* returning,
Having glimpsed,
If only for a few seconds,
Freedom.

Maybe hope is just an illusion,
a mirage,
which prevents us from seeing the reality,
fooling us to believe that its actually there,
fooling us to believe that it'll actually help,                                
but it's all a lie,                                                             ­   
a lie so white,
as if like snow,
that falls on you,
giving you a glimpse of happiness,
just a tick of satisfaction,
but soon it melts,
drowning you in a puddle,
a puddle of fake hope and expectations,
a puddle of fake happiness and flustering sensations.
And that is when you'll realize,
that hope is nothing but a clean white lie.