I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads
what you see from a distance
wave hands
say hello to you.
I've been confused
ever since stand alone in the crowd,
no one sees me
except for a pair of eyes
that is lodged in people's heads
which I never knew before;
and the clouds turn blue but don't hurt flowing right over the head
then the birds rise expel the wind
who had tossed my long hair.
I just stare at them,
hope they don't look at me.
However, the world suddenly stopped. And my world seems to have a limit
to transcend isolation.
I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads,
which has been left behind by old memories,
and when the new comrades have become adept at reading signs,
and therefore we have bonded
like a relationship
that we are not really aware of.
I'm a foreigner
at the crossroads,
greet you as a stranger too,
but now everyone is busy making their own festival,
and don't ask,
I make a festival for whom,
except for the day
when I'm not known anymore.

Someday I will bring this world to its knees for everything that it has done to me.
And while it begs for my forgiveness, I will simply watch as it trembles at the echos of my laugh

I Stick the whole world to my wall
and Notice
things that I almost Understand their real meaning

Sheep in the city:

the world is bigger at night --


without the people.

I dream of you every night
I loathe the sun rise
For my time with you
Is gone when I open my eyes

You talk to me
As if I’m the only one in the world
The skies are gray
But my world is blue when I’m next to you

I want you  
Like the forbidden fruits
Our forbidden love
Will never make sense
To the fools who judge
What they never understood

The time numbs. I want it raw like it was.
Like ******* and ******.
Something powerful and honest.

I let lies continue.
Fantasies I tease myself with.
I never follow these potential trails.
I’m terrified of not having blissful reverie.
Closure haunts me. I’m scared of definition.

I live in a time that never ends.
I breath the exhaust we know but cannot see.
The world spins upon my shoulders, I pass it on without using my hands.
People die, it’s distant.
Life doesn’t mean much.

I live here in a puddle.
I love all the potential I have to waste.
I don’t know what I would slobber on without it.

I want something raw.
Something abrasive, without some sort of superficial veil.
If I brush back another thin facade just to uncover a clearer image of *******.
I’ll slump the world with my bear hands, and whatever blunt object is abreast.
The ensuing postlude or coattail if you will, is gruesome and redefines the word genocide.

Life passes by because it’s not cut with iron anymore. It’s chiseled away with fantastic stone and underlying hopeful chimes of music. A method to which leaves reality unclear, and insipid. Quite literally dull and un-vitriolic.

The time jingoes tore babies from teats, bounced sore bosoms, and buried John Doe’s in mass graves beside schools. Is long gone.

I live in a butterfly massacre.

When a thing is done
as a means to an end
Any meaning that thing
might have had,
Is ended.

Doing the right thing,
for the wrong reasons,
brings much worse calamity & destruction
Then doing a cataclismically wrong thing,
For all the right reasons.

When we do right,
with cruelty & ill intent
Lifetimes are spent
covering it up.
When we do wrong,
with pureness of heart
Lifetimes are given
to making it right.

The 1st is paid for with Blood,
The 2nd with Spirit
And both eventually come due.

The World we are living in today
Is that time...