how did we start,
equating hope to silly?
the fallacy of optimism,
contrasted by the truth of pessimism,
confused as realism, facts
sent by a goal of ataraxia
(unachievable)

supported by leadership position
(unaccessible)

tinted of eudaimonia
(indefinible)
and the loss of getting ahead
at what cost?
do you tear down
others' hope
with your glance,
fuelled by your own
cowardly manner,
afraid of losing
what you never had,
walks around telling others they won't miss it?

no point in thinking
about right or wrong,
in the end, is it ever up to us?

I wonder about my hopes.
I may have lost them all,
yet I fail to indulge
in the epicurean practice
of abandonment.

no glory, joy, or
gold—if it mattered—awaits me,
it's something its consequence
will hurl a spear
between my blades

and watch me fall to the absence of sea.

but there is hope for the child
that once held my hand
and said “you're kind.”

thus with this spear,
I may take sail
into the abundance of tears.

there are three freckles on my shoulder
for every time our skins touched,
a new freckle bloomed, softly,
as if distilled energy from your body.

these, had I never seen before,
I was never aware enough
of our selves to know.
and then I beg you so,

don't remember me for what I said—
remember I lied, remember the pain
that I caused and the wave,
washing over your wound,
rubbing salt on the cracks.

forget and don't forgive me
as forgiveness unasked for still,
remember the heart we used to be,
remember the dagger bleed,
allow the freckles to haunt me.

let me scratch with claw and teeth
for the rest of eternity,

for the ache of another:
who either way did not deserve me.

waltzing along
our beloved song

I used to be
quite better at this,

didn't intend to step on your feet,
you didn't intend to care about me.

and when the music stops,
will you say a prayer

for the sake of a soul remnant,

for the sake of a no longer living
man that believed
that dance with the dead
was the cure for his pain?

stronger than the gods you stand
although divine force is what you lack,
I've seen you pull from the underworld
a thousand times back.

and with every sun's turn
I glance at your wings from behind,
the distance does nothing,
to that what death cannot touch.

my love, that is, immortal;
for-ever thriving, living, eternal,
resilient and stained
as the very hands that cup now your face

and the rest has been scratched to ashes
for there is none I could ever write,
say, sing, or act, that to your worth
a fair tribute could offer.

yet there is love! all there is,
not blind or unaware, but
present and alert,
and knowing;

on every smile and laughter,
every glint of your eye,
every word innate to your mouth,
it leeches and grows...

and so it will continue to.

it will reach the skies,
haunt the gods.
disturb their beds of clouds
and horrify them in their wake.

rob them of a divinity that was never meant to be
steal the golden laurel leaves,
snap the lyre's chords,
destroy the heavens for this song.

drop and spill seeds of love
under every fallen one
and watch it corrupt it all—
witness the fall and rise.

of a god forgotten.

until I am but a memory.

until you come from the firmament
into my decaying arms,
and tell me you are safe
at last.

Today I got a flower.
I put it in a bowl with water and dirt.
every day, water it,
again and again,
but the flower didn't seem to like this.

I continued my routine
Until the flower was feeble and I stopped.
I asked a friend, “no idea,” they said.
That was a lie. I don't have any friends.

But turns out the flower didn't need
the water and I needed something else.

birds are free to fly and soar the skies
while we're hostage of gravity and the ground,
tied by human limbs and tasks, money and bonds,
our friends who deceive us and
families we do not trust.
no feathers to rely on, no bird or angel
can help us leave the floor,
we'll only go down with the passage of time.
there's no hope or sky for the living self,
as there is no ground for
the birds we chase from it.
each to their realm.
pitying each other envying each other
for the ability we do not have.
no escape or faith or help from our enemies,
nothing to change our flesh and life.
our blood carries something but it isn't pretty,
it isn't beautiful, no time to run,
there are no wings on your back and
no feathers on my arms.
this is no way to live. live. live. leave.
this, fear my flight, I would fall to fly,
feel the gravity at its most and decay,
like the angel;
we will all become light.

warm fingers swift and smoothly
in the air, I watch the words
come undone in front of us,
they splatter sweetly onto the page.
you hand me the paper and
my crooked fingers curl around it,
your magic lingers, stains the tips.
the words continue a flow as
you thread, into my mind labyrinth
through the holes on my cloak and
I watch, baffled, the golden streams
falling with care on and in-to my skin.
if magic is that which nature can-not fathom;
your words as alien as the meaning befallen
every-time your fingers cross'd mine.

my life is not beautiful.
it just is and that is enough.
refraining from falling
into the hopelessness I've created,
that prison of my own manufacture.

I put water over the stove
and sit in this carcass
while I myself,
a cadaver if you will,
wait for it to complace me.

the lost dreams and
suspires wander these walls
that have trapped
every abandoned hope hides
behind these eternal furniture.

how am I supposed
to thread beautifully with
all this weight? my arms
are full, with bruises and plates;
***** plates I carry on
from door to door before
running away holding more.

should I drop, let them shatter?
is it cowardice, or care for the self?
my friend has said they
are no different.

to know there is no expectation present
you mustn't know what an expectation is.
so, do you, my friend?
the flies on the still life
are agreeing with us.

do you allow them dictate
that which is beautiful, why,
when they haven't got a feeling?

do you allow me dictate
that which isn't?
tell me beauty's antonym
and I'll teach you to survive

between humans and the flies
that peck at the remains
of what once lost I retrieved,
and corrupted it came back.

on my floors the plates stay shattered
my soles bleed on every step
on the edge of hopelessness.

it is not for us; romantics,
sinners of massacre, thieves of all kinds.

lives cannot be made beautiful,
yet you found beauty in its lack.
I wanted encouragement yet only found courage—
to write, grieve, and die.