perhaps the most forlorn thing this world holds
looking at myself, seeing those who hurt me the most reflected in my face

Is it harder to love yourself when you have your mothers eyes?
Perhaps. But they are not your eyes, they belong to me, my own unique trench of blue and green
we'll say that they are from my Greek Grandfather, as he did not have the chance to make me want to look like someone different

the only power you have over me anymore is when I look in the mirror

I looked at you
You looked into me
and it's funny how there was a feeling of sincerity
Like the years of screaming fights, box springs in the street
The over-arching feeling of the heat, the heat, the heat
Is it just me or
I can swear your eyes just tied a rope around my waist and pulled me through it all,
whipped around by a horse, feet stuck in the saddle running home after last call
I see you and I know your hurt, because it is my own
And there are multitudes of actions that pain ultimately condones.
So I am sorry for it all
And I love you.

how beautifully reckless humans are
they are so afraid of the end, the great Black Death
so afraid that they use words to describe it as bleak, silent, cold, lonesome
If only they could see that nothing has to be culpable for bringing an end to things

He said,
“The way the words leave your mouth, it seems like they cascade down into a pool of your very being.”
I said,
“That is because my words are all I know how to trust.”
He said,
“Not even so.”
I said - yes, today; I can trust it.
And so I did, and so it goes.
Kurt Vonnegut was a better writer than me, and even he could realize when and how to pull the wool over someone’s eyes.

I wish to know
if humans were made to suffer.
I think the answer is perhaps just simply, some of them.
for in the world of solipsism, if it matters to you, it matters
Mind over matter, or matter over mind
there always exists a jubilance of time
to look within our selves and cast that ugly stain away;
to open your mouth & let the smell of soul-decay
find its way to me, please, for then I can recall
that I am home for once, and you can tie my wrists to a hook on the wall.
For I never find it simple or productive to trust someone who has not dipped their toes into the pools of that which eludes
me

there exists a fate within our mouths as soon as we are born.
Do we manifest into something which incites awe
or do we discontinue the reckoning days
&cry onto our cracked clay skin with severity?

Endlessless, or, freedom, is what I see when I think of you
Freedom of spirit and mind and tongue, a sharp one at that and you have this whiskey fire in you
phantom feelings leave nothing to trust or even to just
hold on to

Committed to lavish feelings of hedonistic desire
like a girl that knows wrong from right and looks at you to reconcile the two
Water, always water, placing us somewhere cold, where knowledge of shared experience can rarely push themselves on, tried
and true

And so the old saying goes, you've heard it before.
do you sink
or do you exhale in with the forced raspy mumble of when your Mother saw her first jewelry box?

The angel may dance, and holy, she may seem
and there is nothing more sweet than cathartic release of the torment you've seen

Breathe heavy in the exhale
Like a coma wrapped around your neck
and sure, no one heard the voices
or saw the chance of circular respite
Choke on your ugly and do it because you deserve it.

You're nothing but flesh and a mind drenched by solipsism and a weak sense of self
People before you questioned what the meaning of this all was, and people after you will sense the magic of your heart wrenching cries every time they walk by a mirror
that you used to
when you were 14
and the World seemed like something you could really stick your tongue into, something you could really lick from the inside

You feel like you know what it is, what is it?
It's all or nothing.
And this world is not kind to stagnate people.