Surface tension
Tender
Snips away at the inner bruising
Behind the eyes the windows are shut
And the curtains drawn
Run fingers over hidden ribs in the early morning
Witching hours
When fairy dust can decorate the pores
For imaginations sake

Morning skinny is now a norm
I plaster the walls of my subconscious
With posters of picture perfect shells

What they want
What you want
What I have convinced myself I think you want
What I want

What we want

I want to stop
I have told tall tales as unstable as my legs
Written them in invisible ink
Doused with sour lemon stings
So only I can see them
They appear before I eat
And in the quakes of my stomach aches

I know it is there to protect me
The most important parts of my body
The bubble which constantly pokes at me to ask
“what if there was nothing more than me
What if we couldn’t see
Shapes or sizes or colours or better
What if we couldn’t see pretty

Would that make you happy?

How
do I make you happy?”

Some days

Some days I want to travel,
Have an exciting adventure
Unravel the globe real slow
And hold adrenaline in my palms.
Some days I wish i was something
More than this body dragging me around
More than the clothes setting a status
As the gravity keeps me on ground
Looking up to people who only look down.
Instead of the ones who pave paths
Regardless of anyone coming around.

Sometimes I lay on the floor
Mapping out my mind on the ceiling
Only to run out of ink and out the door
then the rain is still pouring in.
Sometimes I get lost in a game,
In a world quite unlike my own,
Where I play a hero and dragons are slain
All in the name of a throne.
Save the world only to remain.
Unknown.

Some days I wish I could be anything
Move mountains in a moment of time
With one arm I could swing
And make this whole world mine.
Seamlessly craft it and watch it with care
In the air, I could watch it be grown.
But some days, like today, I am tired
And would just like to go home.
Save my world and remain.
Unknown.

Some days i want to travel,
Have an exciting adventure
Unravel the globe real slow
And hold adrenaline in my palms.
Some days i wish i was something
More than this body dragging me around
More than the clothes setting a status
As the gravity keeps me on ground
Looking up to people who only look down.
Instead of the ones who pave paths
Regardless of anyone coming around.

Sometimes I lay on the floor
Mapping out my mind on the ceiling
Only to run out of ink and out the door
then the rain is still pouring in.

In the gloom of each day when it's dying
Standing to is the normal routine.
A time which I use for reflecting
On what we have done or we've seen.

It's the time, when my view blends with darkness;
And as daytime gives way to the night,
I review the way that we're working.
Are we doing this wrong or right?

Did Jim keep his distance from Stan at the creek?
Why Rod was stung by those bees.
And Frank, who found that crossing point
Despite its concealment by trees.

And the cache that we found on the high ground.
The call of a barking deer.
Searching that corpse before burying.
And asking why am I here?

Note:
Private Jim Kelly, national serviceman;
Private Eddy Stankowski, national serviceman;
Private Rod Menhennet, national serviceman;
Lance corporal Frank Chambers, national serviceman; and
Me.

I've been still,
Caught in a sweet stasis,
Buried under the same, baseless
Candied gags, slippery hags, body bags ー
But I can't go back.
Haven't moved forward either,
So I still sit silent here.
Maybe I'll someday wither ー

Like dandelions as they scatter in the wind,
I will feel no more the weight of societal sins.
Staying awake in anticipation;
That feeling you get when you see a road blocked
and a wrecked car hoping it was an accident
Eventful; excitement to see that tar black
Crimson on tarmac
and those trampled, broken-pretty shells ー

I want to be a doll.
A pretty hollow pale porcelain
you still can't hurt when I slip through your hands,
Or when you let go and drop me,
Or smash me into the ground ー
It's all the same, isn't it?
You buy, bore, break, blame, build, rebuild
Rebreak, reblame, replace...

I remake real-fake love into stanza-sized stories
Just to rebrand them as poetry;
A molded part to inspire some abstract art.
They're better off that way,
Locked in and stationary;
Sweet standstill sanctuary.
And I'll stay to watch their models fail and break,
As they too, disintegrate ー fellow ******* degenerates

This time I was at your disposal,
But we're all just glorified disposables ー
Ever-hungry, hedonistic at heart.

Hi. Do you care enough to hear me whine?
I fear that you don’t see me
collecting dust in the dim corner of your room.
And while you stand and stare,
completely absorbed by your own despair,
I remain
ready to serve you  
and your meaningless life.
I can clean your room, yet I can’t clean your mind
of the false reality exemplified by your kind.


We are similar though, you and I.
Wasting our time amassing, acquiring, accumulating.
Honestly, we’re mere specks of life,
surrendering to realities constructed by our minds.
Don’t you know that your beloved earthly pleasures
are one and the same as the ******* that I collect?
Hard-earned, elusive, temporal, disposable.
Its laughable how ignorant you are;
consumed by your own subliminal thoughts,
leaving you searching for the remnants of what is and what is not.


Can’t you see the fallacies present in your head?
Gleaming yet blinding, salient yet obscure.
Armed with benevolent promises
that ultimately leave you for dead.
Can’t you see that what you crave
will inevitably **** you down to your grave?
Incessantly coated with wondrous, tempting illusions
that disguise its true nature--garbage.
Garbage. Connect the dots, you fool.
Can’t you see that you and I are one and the same?