Through the branches of the trees
comes blackness.
There is nothing on the other side.
Relax and it waters down.
Focus and it glints like a blade.

Drifting formless from room to room
I am the ghost in my house.
The leaves have somehow found their way inside,
they will soon let in the cold behind them.

Relax, focus.
Blackness holds its form.

Pop a few Bukowskis to set the day off right
And sip a little Hemingway to keep me feeling bright
Smoking on that Ginsberg, mind is opening wide

Doing lines of Robert Louis Stevenson,
and a Hookah full of Baudelaire
Ingesting Kerouac, it feels good I swear
Coleridge into my lungs, floating on thick air
Shooting up some Burroughs, my literary affair

I begin to lose sight of reality, taking some Cocteau
Tripping with the Kesey, my life is nearly through
A final hit of Huxley as transcendence I try to pursue

But old Walt Whitman, is where I say adieu.

I sip my drink in waterfalls
looking to fill a hole
whose origin I haven't quite
yet figured out.
I make the same mistake
because maybe I can fill this void
with all the luck of the 3rd time
with all the regrets of the coming 4th.

Oh my King,
Let these not be demons

I've never spent more time with my thoughts
Than when I'm spending my thoughts with you

No daydream was ever more fantastic
Than when it was a night on the couch for two

I've never laid awake so much
Yet slept so comfortably
To think you could be in a dream
Can put the mind at ease

I've never felt so starved
I've never felt so secure
I've never felt so many things
Of that you know, I'm sure.

But when we're on the other side
And we can then embrace
We'll thank each others tenfold for when
Only laptops we could trace

Corralled at the ceiling,
a garden of flowers
tied with delicate, colorful stems.
Helium petals bob softly above and
I pluck a blue stem of my own.

At home, out of sight
my small clumsy fingers
knot the blue string proudly around my neck,
like a trophy. I giggle with delight -
the orb floats just above me,
a faithful bird, a pet.

Then, down the hall come the quickness and shuffles
of house-shoed feet feeling possible threats.
Mother’s face blossoms red, breaks open
exposing her white bear teeth.
Her green eyes **** and twitch.

A black ballpoint pen meets my flower, and slowly
it wilts, crinkles, shrinks
beneath her feminine fists.
The severed blue stem bleeds nothing but silence
and momma's eyes bleed tears
of what?