#zef
That feel when
re-burn fills bowl
Queen/King
out of gold
No clean smoke
No hairy rip
I scavenge
for oasis in glass
ash trays
Expect the soft
kiss and faint
*** sweat of old dreams
but the smoke
blows out and once
more the world shifts
For free
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
I'm more than what you make of me.
For instance, you see flesh, when I'm stars.
You see stretch marks, I see scars that
explain well the path I've been on
With kindness, I'm blessed, even messed
up in the head, I am words that announce
my presence silent or out loud,
and I'm not at fault when you can't feel it and
listen. I'm queer, I'm proud, you write ******
on my face while you're looking down
on me but I've only got smiles when I look up.
You, are ****** beyond me, beyond belief,
so maybe this is my peace.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
I stopped caring.
A view of the world outside
escapes my morning eyes.
I eclipse you.
A view of the world outside
reveals wire frame in black.
The sky is wide. I'm just beneath heaven.
Have you ever felt as close to god there?
On the Earth turned cement dry?
In the dregs where lines divide?
I stopped caring.
A view of the world outside
escapes my morning eyes.
I eclipse you.
I regret that I see lines, instead.
One triangle on its head, risen
above the sun, above the moon.
The sight of you, deprived,
drives me back inside.
----------------------------------------------
Felt mostly alone.
Never deprived.
Unhappy with life,
still overjoyed.
My mama stole my name.
My sister got her's took.
Pass the line from child
hood into adulthood,
looking like,
I know, I'm sure I know
I can't owe you money, yet,
I've never lived
on my own.
That's still true, too.
Don't know the sound of silence,
so when it's been most quiet
staying with roommates,
I take my chance at pretend.
I wake up dying, laughing
and crying at ghostly degrees
floating with motes of dust
on the sunbeams
crossing my mattress
in the living room.
Felt mostly alone.
Uneducated.
Contented by kicking cans, though.
Contented in stinky briefs,
and the shirt that's food
for my closet moths,
looking for cheap ways
to express the illness,
the anger I hide.
I believe, that some use our backs
for stacking currency. For work.
Invisible work, deep under the radar,
pack mule to their nickel,
fifty-fucking-cent pieces
and dimes.
I'm staring at pennies
they leave me to roll,
already rolling, like
they expect me to catch up.
The secret is:
they want it
so badly --
So game over. I ain't playing
no more, when the piece I play
climbs the backs of friends,
my brethren of the low-low,
one space at a time, with dice
cooked, favor to snake eyes
I'm not chasing pennies
if I'm so close to the floor
I'll always be carpet,
I'll part the lint and braid
to love what is free.
I'll always be base
to love what is free.
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC