I write letters to the ones that matter
To the ones that care
Even passing on a flight of stairs
I look
She looks
Our lives could be words in a story book
I read her face
She reads mine
A poet wouldn’t believe how much we rhyme
I hold her
She holds me
I wonder if this is all dream
Each page of mine intwined in hers
As we fall asleep until our yet to be written verse

I'm up to 35.
35 despaired pages, each turned with a painfully waning chance of happiness.
I weep for this diary
The crisp-white pages are darker than dark, tattooed with pain
Written in ink, but meant in blood.
(I'm starting to wonder if I have any left in my veins)

It's the flow of poisonous ink
The way you think
It's deadly
It's the sound of a beautiful scream
The way you dream
It's poetry

Your words are a dagger
Only stronger
Piercing through hearts
Touching a lifeless mind
Pain in some parts
But not difficult to find

It's the rain after lightning
The way your words pour
It's rhythmic
It's the heat of the sun setting
Powerful like never before
It's electric

Written or thought
I care not
Just that it's preserved
Because
This life is a song
**What will be your verse?

(scratched out the Ifs
concluded to end my day with spliff)


Raptured movement delay
scent of public transportation decay
the return of Christ in two stages.

Charging language with meaning
To the utmost possible degree

Chewing on the raw image
With eyes sharpened
Ripping into the pictorial flesh

.

A time suffocated
By terminal space

Remix of coded subjectivity
Black holes of pseudo-subjectivity
Surrounded by possessions

.

This biological catastrophe
A post-human construct

Fear of weaker morals
Elixirs into the cup of life
Ideas of what it means to be human


.