sat in the back seat, watching the hills cladding SH2 go by, with a tightened silence all over my face, couldn't help reflect:

sometimes it digs deep down into me, thinking of all the conceptions planned out that i was considered to have aligned with, but can't bring myself to think the same. to what degree am i the image of failure in all my leader's and follower's books? all simply for abiding by ideologies that seem to occur naturally.

but, am i failing myself and, transitively, failing more critically henceforth, if i disavow my own convictions for sake of demonstrating love to those i care the most for? is it worse to disappoint my parents, who've thrown large parts of their lives to the wind for my sake; my friends, who've laid down their loyalty for knowing, mutually assured, that collectively our virtues are assured; to weaken strength or trust in other's eyes for the sake of my own moral solidification?

or to let my very self evaporate slowly away, a puddle left out under the bright light pouring from their hearts?

dug up my own bones, what
a shock, from the soil. found
myself amidst the roots and
stones, tangled up, not an act
of fiction or faith. just position.

and, so, turned to the wrought
ligaments of my jaw, i asked
"why were we buried so
shallow?". but, bones don't speak.
history is nameless and without
sight. we stand on the precipice
of a crumbling tower, and, down
in the cellar, ferment languages
unspoken. hands in pockets,
well, i wandered down,
expressionless, steps ringing
hollow on the uncatalogued
leaves of stairs, and drank deep
of tongues untouched. and such
are all knowings. and god knows
i learnt next to nothing, but that the
sun always rose. that lovers spurned
each twilight, waiting.

and for all of the square meters
grown up in glades everlasting,
for all the soil tilled and grass
come back brighter, my shoes
were all the muddier, my eyes
were full of eternal shine, my
****** heart was healin'. the
sky was only blue.

last time, before i
slept, i felt the huge vast
emptying of the housing
of myself. the
feel of melatonin, shape
of space too impossible
to occupy. coalescing thoughts
as a pearl bound in ring of
starlight.
and i rolled out of my body
& stepped acres
& came alight beside the
porching of your own,
and, in whatever moment's motion
you were carried through, i
saw
faint blue, pulse in your neck,
and lay my hand on your cheek,
and was happy
a lasting moment
until i didn't exist.

parts of me wound up real nice n tight, like
knots on the corners, some made-out mend;
you'd said
just enough to infer what had really happened,
as the days tousled past
in a blue haze.

and i wonder what had gone wrong, as
all of the possibilities writhe, in my own hands
(finer slice, never seen),
and drive me sick beyond any mineshaft
running down on through circles
of hell in my stomach:
little hot red streaks of
dulled-away panic, drizzling across my chest.
little sad indents, calloused bent-away
everyday musings: songs i won't
ever let ring.

couldn't hold it against you, though,
or hold anything at all. this isn't my game. not now.
terminally unsure, move or play to unmake.

or just wake up, another morning, dreamless and dry.

you were a shimmering blinding point in the
schemes of a brass-gleaming, **** ugly world. could
have sworn salvation was strikes of seconds on your
wrist-watch. could've felt beautiful under your gaze,
'nother moment. but beautiful me, in a clause you
spelled out
with eye-beats and the gnashing of calm,
was just rearrangement of belief. the world's so pretty, yeah,
you wouldn't believe. well, i couldn't see.

and finally i, truly, am shown **** ugly
me: the burning safety blanket,
the unwinding net, the snowblinding fisherman,
out on the lake.

a pure bird sings out in the hedge,
as i sing up a storm
out in the street.
wanderin', as
usual*.

to fold nicely into
next-moments, to heed
and stifle breath subtly
lit up, glow
on the belly of the
sky mild-cloudy afternoon
we sit and spin our threads.
find small spiders on the sheets,
crawling toward the sun, first,
as we all should've been.

bent n frayed back, all of
this clambering, and all of
the world, and its futures
laid out on 'til
projective infinities,
sometimes halt breath
but
there's plenty o' time,
vast oceans, lightyears
spilling out of the woodwork,
marbles downgutter,
glistening victory &
everything else.

yr light, sweet shine,
sweet universe, blurred
n all glory, as usual,
rains on in
soft patterns.