Told 'good morning'
and a squeak-grunt
'hello' reply came out my pipes,
swallowing saliva
and a little burn in my throat;
couldn't take talking
I'm happy for staring at clouds,
Happy to stare
and wish I greeted first.

Cherry burns into the filter
so I go and clock in.

The worrisome point
is not (as would be thought of
            by the conventional person)
that I am too abstract,
or care too little
for my small audience;
                                        instead,
concern is granted
to the even slight recognition
of relateable content
                                    outside
the far-reaching grasp
of isolation and confusion that I may
produce.

Heart attacks in the living room,
I don't know where to go
but sit in the tub, lights off

I work out ideas of ideas

Some muse in hand
I don't believe in, I have
Wants, "go to the hills"-I'm there-
and grasslands I haven't seen
                [More work]
Like some words I'm not fit to wear
                [Fill in]
And the people who are interesting
Are dying, or shown in true light.

"I'll be like you someday"
but I actually hope not
I hope I may render my darkness
from some true light.

Lying in the tub.

Dead names with living faces,
        histories behind both
partial or unknown.

If you want to know me,
      let me speak,
If you let me speak,
      there might be silence.
                                                      Be­cause
we both know the dangers of familiarity;
inconsistencies with life and desire;
we both think [we know],
yet do so little.

To speak of I:
to recount,
            my actions,
strained decency                            and flaws.
To form a congruous picture of self...

I find ridiculous.

Let me swing between these lines and labels and lean on whatever may bear my weight.

I will leave you to decide who I am.

Whilst I will my chariot
to keep to who I am.

(looking at my phone)
I search for deadpan truths...
Attempting poetry
to pass the time.
_
Your eyes,
                  mine, we stare,
and not always at each other.
I'll write, for now

not knowing                  if I'll miss
                these moments;


with my muse right here.

Squished.
Into this barren plane

With time staring
into ceiling skies.

Wondering if I (have)
                            will        make it out
of the cave I was placed
before I die.

Won't you help me,
                  dear friend?
I cannot seem to recover,
                                from the places I see
and have never been.
                                  from what I hear
but have never said.
                                  From what you tell me,
I complain too much.

Then you turn to me, and say,
it is the strong
                                  that keep us meek.
The strong that keep us safe.
When I tell you, without honey
                                  nothing is sweet,
and no one has ever been safe.

And you turn, and I do,
And we are both sitting
in the same cave,

                              I, unamazed.