And so it aches, I know you thought for sure,
all the blood in your lungs was a metaphor for your lord,
and a pain so divine, that you could only find,
in a world made for you,
that’s become all too human in truth,
and secrets that it’s kept,
over which you’ve wept,
beautiful in theory,
glorified in history,
are only fantasied in youth,
but all too human in truth.
And we could all scream out,
stop that coming train,
a relentless mass of understanding,
that’s pounding at the brain.
but all we have are symbols,
to help tie up what is loose,
that a world that wasn’t made for us,
has become all too human in truth.

The lines don’t want out anymore.
They are comfortable in me.
When put to the page,
They squirm and thrash about.

These lines want nothing to do with art.
They fight against the stagnant realm
Of paper and pens.
Where lines aren’t free and rarely move.

Where marks are certain and permanent.
Where nothing changes except the faces.
Who can blame them?
I hate this place too.

I was comfortable for an eternity
Before fate brought me to be.
And now I fight and squirm-
writhing with ideas, only to be confined

By space and time,
The limitations of matter and mind.
Tortured by the longings of the body,
And the mortality of the soul.

Feeling. No.
Experience, no,
receiving-
yes, receiving.
Passive...

Cardboard cutout,
propped against the wall,
projecting nothing,
there is a chance it may fall.
Like a doll.
Ears- a face,
movement is minimal,
only occupied space.

They’re going to **** you she said.
They are coming at dawn.
You best dress to impress, she said with a yawn
And who was I,
to deny those who know better,
who am I to fetter.
So the windsor,
choked high,
She rolled her eyes,
those colors don’t match,
a disappointed sigh,
I can’t be caught dead,
in such retched attire,
but a man such as I
can't afford better,
so we sat for a while,
until the light bathed my face,
I couldn’t smile,
wouldn’t die in style.