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you’re in such a rush to get to what’s next,
to the end of the page,
that you forget why you came here
in the first place.

you’ve forgotten the reason you were made
and replaced it with the busy day to day.
you can’t remember why you came here,
and yet you rush to get to the next place-
life is not a stop and go, pickup, drop shop,
where you can pick out your favorite gatorade
drink up
and feel like you’re top notch-
you’ve got to sweat in 89 degrees
with no AC
and heavy humidity
before you get through the ice cold doors
of the western beef,
buy yourself groceries,
get home,
and eat!
what I mean is,
you can’t just dream up a dream,
it has to be toiled over
until you can’t lift the weight of it in your hands anymore,
until it has to fly or sink,
and you have faith enough to leap after it
even if there’s no ground beneath your feet,
even if the chances are slim
and the captain begs you to stay on shore
and abort mission before your poorly timed transition
from dream to reality.

as long as you ignore reality.
and focus on what can be,
what can’t be now has room
to can.
Jun 28 · 36
-fear mundane living-
I’m so quick to fill my head with something
that I no longer have time to think,
to dream,
to imagine new things-
I just stick to my consuming routine,
always stuffing myself without remembering
that stuffing myself isn’t fulfilling,
but will actually leave me emptier than starving.
“It’s just the adult thing to do”:
replacing friends with fermentation,
replacing good times with good vibes,
going out to bars instead of each other’s houses,
getting high instead of getting pizza-
It’s what adults do.
You gotta give up the childish late nights laughing
the Mountain Dew
the game lights and the high hopes imbued.
Eventually you gotta spend more time smoking and dealing
and drinking away the bad day
than chasing a good one,
with your friends.
the truth is
you can’t find happiness
and you’re scared
you
won’t
find
it.
Jun 26 · 65
Florida Getaway
the humidity wasn’t even a speckled planned element,
or a slight forethought,
but as he could only taste salt in his cracking lips
and could barely open his eyes
as the sun and the sweat beat them shut,
he began to remember the musk-
and as his car swerved past the landfill
he began to remember the stench-
they accounted for all witnesses
and would be witnesses
but as the elements beat memory into his shut eyelids
and into his dripping nostrils
the nausea permitted open door ways.
After he planned for weeks
how to get her out of her
skin,
he could bury the body
but he couldn’t bury the scent of rotting corpse
mixed with sweat
*****
and Lavender Dream by Dolce Diruje-
and neither could he manage to drive with his eyes closed
while trying to ***** out the window,
splattering his face into a nearby semi,
spinning out of control,
flipping three times before
missing all roadside trees by pure-luck,
landing upside down in the nearby pond,
drowning the rest of his accomplices in their guilt,
and literally in water.
should’ve just vomited in your lap,
idiot.
Jun 22 · 152
The Pacifism of Anise
in an attempt to save what can’t be
Anjun begins his faithful quest
to deter tarator’s wrathful hand
and convert the faithless to faithfulness-

-O, lands, air, and flame,
can you hear my plea
for a risen dawn
over the rushing seas?
let my words be planted
like hidden seeds
inside the hearts
of my enemies-

-let peace succeed-

“My dearest brothers
Clothed in roaring fires
Let your mercy meet my words
And may your hatred transpire-
A loving hand I offer you
A loving heart to inspire
Love inside your empty chests
And raise up loves great pyre-

Mercy, peace and grace align
Let mercy burn and mercy shine
And let foes leave hand in hand
Friends at least till timeless ends

Mercy, love, and truest hope-
A twine of thread is easily broke,
Unless to another fastened
It can not prevent the chasm-
So let us tie our hearts in one
And let nations befriend, and with war be done.”

out of true love and heart he spoke,
and from the dark the hearts awoke-
yet
what is put into practice
is sure to follow through-

Anjun had surely come to the end of his quest
With Tarator’s men seeking holy steps
Yet the great Bear ,Neltoc, chief of tarotor, was not easily swayed
Inviting Anjun to speak privately about such holy ways-

Neltoc:
“Anjun, I know your heart is pure gold,
Desiring nothing but what you think is best,
Changing our ways of old
To become new, to change, to reassess.”

Anjun:
“Mighty Neltoc, what you speak is true,
I only seek to enlighten and share new truths.
For a nation cannot truly be set free
Until the leaders release the power to serve the lowly,
Which is what the divine scripture has shown me,
Which I believe wholly”

Neltoc and Anjun conversed long into the night,
Discussing their shared values of their people-
Although clearly it was dark outside,
The light on the inside shows two men, both equals.
The bear and the mourning bird had formed new trust
And had compelled a new start, though still feeble-

but upon the wall a shadow was seen cast,
as a fox moved outside the window
(a fresh zealous disciple desiring to protect Anjun,
in fear was cracking back the arms of his longbow)
but mighty Neltoc was prepared for an attack
having archers on the roof of his palace;
so when the shots into the foxes skin we’re heard,
Neltoc became enraged with malice!
turning now to Anjun with fear and anger,
he asks his newfound friend why he’d done this.

though the mourning bird plead innocent
the thread of trust had already been broken;
so even though Anjun was free of guilt,
the floor confessed his throat had been cut open-

news throughout both nations spread quickly,
waking all able hearts from their sleeping
and as the warriors readied in the cities,
disciples could be heard in Anise weeping:

(the mourning bird
is dead
and the sun
bows in shame
------- watching -------
as they lay a precious spirit
deep in its grave)


ring now the bells of destruction
and weep for the passing of anjun!
here comes the king to silence an eruption,
to destroy tarator and bring about their final doom!

off with the head for who the mourning bird has bled
and lay him dead so that the beasts may now be fed
eating of the flesh which has stolen flesh
and may the bells toll at the finalized revenge!


(off with the head for which the pacifist was bred
and lay his kingdom in the rubble of its death
burning up this weakness that only fire can perfect,
leave none left behind, finalize our steps!)
-
we trust in the power of blood
to write this tale complete!
cowardice has no place
within the eyes of fate,
oh great sword of death, let your glory be our final speech!

out with the heart for which wickedness does start
and cleanse the dark out from where it does depart,
cut open the chest and remove its sacred parts
scatter the remains on the plains under heaven’s stars!


(out with the eyes from which shedding tears are cried
and purge all charity from the lion’s pride
rip open the skin and remove what lies inside
scatter the remains on the plains under the mornings sky!)

we trust in the power of blood
to write this tale complete!
cowardice has no place
within the eyes of fate,
oh great sword of death, let your glory be our final speech!

Blood
Rain down
Blood
Rain down
Blood
Rain down
Pardon all our sins
Blood
Rain down
Blood
Rain down
Blood
Rain down
And in your rain let fate be set!

split open the earth
and let the bodies fall in
as bones seep into dirt
we forget their origins

as the trumpets begin to sound
a weeping wail is heard
for although securing victory
the king's last words were heard.
for as sickness has no allegiance
falling on the good and bad,
though the wicked may be dead
the righteous lose the head they had.

peace returns to the land
but at what perilous price
two cities meet now hand in hand
but at the cost of a lion's life.
you can only bury the bodies for so long
until the ground has no more room
and they leave their homes
returning to the surface
to find you,
alone.
when they find you in the bedroom next to your wife,
the skeletons walking out in front of her eyes
will wake her, shaking all their parts and cry
out the hidden reasons why
you buried them
alive.
it's like life is trying to throw up,
but you keep swallowing until there’s no more space
to store the putrid sludge without
bursting out, dripping from your face!
swallow all you want to
but all the acid will only rise
until the time of bursting has
arrived.
so speak out!
cast your ***** into the ears
of those who will hear it!
and pray that the shame of speaking your poison
is strong enough to prevent you from
crawling up close
near it!
Sometimes
at work
I like to lift open my eyes
nice and wide,
to the point where
when I walk
the wind blows
right inside.
It burns,
making my eyes feel like their frying
with a nice crispy batter
coating the juices surrounding my eye *****.
I laugh loudly
and proudly,
knowing my coworkers think I’m insane,
when I’m just a normal guy.
I am finally something more
than just your
ordinary time piece,
ticking by on a concrete
slab-
I am immortalized
through the grimacing look in their eyes!

And

I laugh so loudly
and
I laugh so proudly,
knowing my coworkers think I’m insane,
when I’m just a normal guy,
making them feel afraid,
while I feel so alive.
Jun 12 · 19
-whatever you do-
“make sure you make it big,
and worth it!
because the last thing you want is to
die young
feel empty
chase the wind
and stay where you are-

I know death comes to me
unstoppable
unwavering
focused on its path of contact,
ready to grind my bones
until all that’s left is a weathered stone-

nothing will stop what comes for me,
so I will take joy in making it small,
not worried about the end at all,
for the wind will blow and call
and all I can do is let myself be carried away
until my path is interrupted by a hot breath
and I disintegrate.

so whatever you do,
make sure that it counts in your heart
and not in the eyes.
Jun 3 · 27
minus twenty
i used to have nightmares
around nine o' clock
where my dad would burst through my door
screaming like his face would fall off,
and then he'd rush to grab me
and then I'd cower away,
and then my bed would swallow me whole,
i couldn't handle these demon days.
but when i'd wake up
and see your sour eyes
I'd try to think of a way
to escape your sour mind
before you could unhinge
your dangling jaw
and scream:
"you are good for nothing, and you have no brains at all!"
-i'd rather not be here
lying wide awake,
but then again,
which hell should i choose today?-
eroding before me
are these tiny strings
still pulling apart
still tied to me,
but
I know these delicate attachments
won’t last as long as
the ropes I tie around my waist,
but the invisible touch can sometimes
silently vibrate against my skin
and catch the lighting,
reminding me who’s at the end
of my string
far away from me,
and I can be happy-
yet
sometimes
I see
that this
hidden thread
is marked in crimson blood
threading itself through my skin
into my muscles
and out back again-
I must not only
pull out my scissors
to cut
but
now I must
pull until the barb slices through my skin again-
a lesson I will never learn.
Apr 27 · 175
-hindsight-
have you seen his eyes?
or did the maggots get them first
when his skull sunk into dirt-

did the roots latch on and pull?
or did his body choose to dive deep
and anchor at earth’s feet-

was he wearing a crown?
or was his head scalped and dry
leaving no room for pride-

did they celebrate when his body was found?
everyone blames the one who seeks the skies
but forget they were born belowdecks-

I love to see children in session.
their lives are in harmonic transfantasia
until a conductor calls upon them for duty-

did you see which trains they boarded?
for they left in a rush
and may never remember their heartsong-

did anyone catch the conductors name?
a traveler near to a tender soul
can meld it to his very own-

will they remember home?
when the aromas return on a springs breeze
a new nose will turn away-

it won’t be long.
a foots journey will return
back where it belongs.

-for their dreams are drowned out by the whistle,
their hearts meander upon riches,
and their skulls blow away as what was good is enjoyed
by maggots
and dirt-
We Are Stories Dec 2020
Painted colors
Painted colors
You said we’d be painted
To be different from the others
But all I see
Are walls painted
Grey

I bring my little light
Into a bigger night
I fear that the darkness
Can cover my little life
But I know this candle
Will burn back the dark
Till day
Break.

Once the grey box takes you
Tumbles up and shakes you
And puts you to the test,
Let them cut you open
Spill the paint to show them
That your colors can’t be repressed!
When they try and hold you
Crumple up and fold you
And mold into something else,
Burn your wick till empty
Set fire to the plenty
Your fire cannot be dispelled!
Dec 2020 · 176
Kahnt Wrehkognyze Ure Voyse
We Are Stories Dec 2020
you hear the call
you answer the call
you follow the call
you chase after the call
but after all
who is calling
who is taking the fall
who are you leaving behind
back on the wall
an empty hall
shouting empty calls-
who are you leaving
to pursue what you are believing-
who is at the back hand
of your swing-
who is carrying the burden
that you’re carrying-
who takes up your cross
as you carry a wooden symbol
claiming that you hear the call-
i sit and wonder if you heard nothing after all
except the voices inside the heart
where deception befalls-
Dec 2020 · 100
ihn a poosh sichooation
We Are Stories Dec 2020
Thick smoke spit
My tonic
Swell eyes split
Black cloud fix
Late night drips
Late night sips
Sipping up sap
Sapping up tipsy
Tap taps on the tips
Watch the floor lifting
Shifting
Smash, crackle crispy
Crunch mc nuggets
Four AM grizzly
Grizzle grease griot
Giving slurred wispily
Words like the feet
Falling faster swiftly
Like the head shoulder
Knees toes tickling
The senses of motion
Devotion to sick things!
Sick things!
Sick things!
Few friends out late
Grab a cake
Grab a mate
Grab a bake
Grab a fate
Drive it fast
Make it last
Make it crash
Make it all end quickly!
Quickly!
While she sleeps softly
Coughing up blood
Never felt haunting
Wanting her to wake up
Like the day's drugs scoffing
I'm the same drunk drugged up mug
With a lie stuck to the name like made up love
Like made up stories of truth masked with icing on top
Like the cherry minus vanilla, minus chocolate, minus ice cream, minus nice things
Minus life, minus death, minus point, minus breath, minus art, minus stability, minus self sufficient tranquility!
Find life
Find it right
Find it tonight
Find it before it's time
Find it before it's out of sight
Find it before your friends dead in head lights
Find it before you're a murderer plastered on the headlines
Find it before you find out that you wasted all this time on bad highs
Bad rhymes
Pushing away coffee cake
And pineapple plates
For a daily dose of dead drives.
We Are Stories Nov 2020
the gateway
guarded by your skull
leads many to their grave,
reminds many of the way home,
for the paths burned through
lead to all too familiar places,
and the burns of rage and true way
leave all too familiar traces-
how can we move forward
when the gateway leads you to fear?
how can we move forward
when the road to purpose only faintly appears?
we have our sight
but our mind’s eye isn’t clear-
we lift our bodies
but our mind’s soul won’t make a move,
won’t get out of here.
our hearts burn true to lead us to our destiny
but honestly
we’re trapped inside this hopeless mind, and we’ll forever be
And never leave
unless we change the prison we know, with gruesome force
and change our course
in time-
We Are Stories Nov 2020
when the axe is poised above our head
and our foes brandish it with haste
to relieve our necks of their heavy dread
and to bring death, destruction, and shame-
i remember the words a song once said
of seeing a brother in the enemy's face
and will not fight back against my death,
and hope my foe’s soul wont meet my same fate.
We Are Stories Nov 2020
faintly it can still be heard
crawling with
overgrown nails
up the creaking ribs
crunching on each bone
spreading deadly poison.
inside us all
lives
this desolated creature
waiting to fill our lungs
and with forceful breath
fly out into the wind-
it can still be heard
gnawing
growing
fattening itself
to spread it's diseases
until the regurgitation inclination
springs it upward
and out toward the air,
to consume
and destroy
all of it's enemies-
Nov 2020 · 22
a speck of dust
We Are Stories Nov 2020
a pebble pounce bounces down the deep street
blowing with the brushing breeze
until the undertones of unpleasant winds
bring to a stop the stumbling pebbles steep steps-

listen
catch your breath
before life convinces you
to waist your lungs on a screaming match
with a sidewalk-
you don't know about the wind
little pebble.
all you know about is your pounce bounce
flouncing, doused in doing your daily doings-
yet you don't know about the wind
little pebble.
when your steps are stopped, you must be stopped
and when the breeze dies down, you cannot move-
yet you think you are in control of your movements

listen
acknowledge that you don't know where you are going
or what your doing with your goings
and maybe
when the goings stop their showing
and tentative winds stop blowing
and you are sitting
stuck
without motion
on a sidewalk crack
slipping through
yet intact
maybe you will not curse the road you are on
but thank the wind for carrying you this far
little pebble.
Nov 2020 · 30
professional development
We Are Stories Nov 2020
just an undercooked
distasteful rare
half way there
mouthful of hair
always striving
with underwhelming care
to do my least best
the least that i can
the least i can bare
-
yet that's all it takes
to be standing here
making clear
with joyous sneers
praised for malintent
in how i lead my peers
to do their least best
the least that they can
the least they can fear
We Are Stories Oct 2020
there aren't enough blank screens
and entertaining fillings
to make me feel like my words have meaning
and that life is worth taking off the gloves
touching
feeling-
breathing in and being thankful for living.
Oct 2020 · 40
-like chaff-
We Are Stories Oct 2020
someone came along
and cut the string-
scissors in hand
with malicious intendings;

its fun to watch things fall
or weightless things float to the ceiling
to watch them crack open
or lose shape at the breaking endings-

and i
run back to see
the things i kept close to me
are destroyed or out of reach-
just a boy
staring at the sky
wondering when that balloon will come back down for me-
or when the rubber will touch the sun and begin melting.
Oct 2020 · 119
a dancing glancing
We Are Stories Oct 2020
people are either clouds
caverns
or crowds
-jagged inside and out
hard to condense into one thing
or a mystery, never to be pulled down.
yet they capture
our eyes
and minds
making us wonder what lies inside:
what is left to be figured out.
We Are Stories Oct 2020
i play with a pencil, placed on my desk
pattering the patterns playing in my head
and heart, helping me to focus on the board
proudly performing arts in art class, thinking of more
than the blank page
the perfect slate
the new creation to be made
im creating
recreating
imitating
the intimidating, impressive instrument
imprinting the imprints through pencil and finger prints
banging out the band's
sick-nasty
convulsive
seizure inducing
polyrhythms-
i shake my head
but i wish i could shake my soul
scream out of control
yell until their ears bleed
and i ***** uncontrollably
to the sound of these sounds sounding
like i need to say something to stop their stomping, stamping, pounding

-the teacher kicks my desk
and tells me to get back to work
and to stop tapping
because i should be doing something else;
it doesn't matter
can't remember what it was i was supposed to be doing anyway-
We Are Stories Oct 2020
i might not always be the best fit
and might not be able to squeeze my edges in
i will doubt myself again
and i will think that someone else belongs where i am-

there isn't enough time in the day
for me to get the thoughts out of the way
to deal with the shame
and the self hate-
as the minute hand spins round and around
i cannot stop myself
from thinking that God's breath was waisted
that he should've made someone else
and that the air i've tasted
should've been ****** from my lungs
something i never should've felt.
i see the sun in others eyes
and worship their beauty
and curse my ground
because the radiating light
from the sun i'm viewing
could never come from my mouth
or my heart
or something inside my stomach
growling for more-
all i do is consume
and drink up the spills on the floor-
i am the dog
begging for the scraps
and i am unworthy of anything
besides that.
besides the moldy trash.

i might not always be the best fit
and might not be able to squeeze my edges in
i will doubt myself again
and i will think that someone else belongs where i am-
because where could i belong!
where would my place be
would i sit beside you
or beneath your feet-

(my heart humbled knows what i deserve
-the worst
-the crumbs
-the feet upon my head
but you pick me up
tell me i'm free
wash me clean
throw me a feast
robe me
and celebrate how you are no longer lonely
for your cherished son
who did you wrong
and spit on your name
is not lost in a grave
but is home-
i
am
home)
Oct 2020 · 84
Untitled
We Are Stories Oct 2020
truthfully
you will never see me
the way i see you
and you will never forgive me
like i do-
because
we are different you and i
different grass
same sky
different heart
different minds
different understandings of riddled rhymes-
and you will try and see me
and i will try and see you
-truthfully
i do
see you-
but that's not enough for one to be seen
and heard
and understood;
there has to be a greater blanket
to cover up good
to cover up blood
and to hide all the wounds-
but as you cut in deep
you stab me too.
Oct 2020 · 32
-penny thoughts-
We Are Stories Oct 2020
Holly smokes a packet a day
and it makes her voice sound raspy-
but business can’t stop you from being a babe,
but these babes just ain’t that classy-
and you can shake what your momma gave ya
and get all that you need crassly
but that can’t stop the people from starting to say
“I think that girl gets nasty”.
Oct 2020 · 30
-receipt paper poetry-
We Are Stories Oct 2020
You are the rain
sometimes cooling down
sometimes in the way
sometimes comforting me on my couch
sometimes frightening with rage-
but you are not just the rain
you are a cold front
on a hot day
with the sun still shining-
brushing against my face;
and I dream of when you’ll come
and I beg that you would stay,
I anticipate the moving clouds
knowing they carry you my way-
but you are not just a cold front,
you are not just the rain,
you are an old tree
in Bryant park
protecting our great love
protecting me in your shade;
and I know God has planted you
and I know that he is great,
but I am thankful for your falling leaves
casting beauty in my face,
calming me down with your grace-
-there is not a more beautiful place-
We Are Stories Oct 2020
im having a good time
im listening in
reading your lines
and listening in.
im having a good time
going blind
staring hard at my computer light
smiling
laughing
enjoying life-

and you ask me
"you ever watch V.R ****?
it's something else man,
you need to try it sometime."

"no, i definitely wont do that"
was all i could say
because the fact is that
many will tell me
that **** makes a new way
a new spark
in their grey hearts
in need of extra blush-
but i see the pain
i know the truth
"but my life is my own, it doesn't affect you"
is all i hear from every single person-

so i'll keep pretending
that i don't care as much as i do
as much as the rage in my heart does
as much as the pain in my mind does
for there is no proper connection
there is only fantasy
and *** loses luster
when mixed with depravity-
desperate love
ruins patient kindness,
and poisons kisses
with licentious darkness-
We Are Stories Sep 2020
there's still a boy
trying to fly
trying to dream-
in his mind
that he can fly-
and if he could try
he would first touch the ceiling fan
spinning on high
wobbling out of control
with loose screws that used to be tight-
then he'd make his way outside
and crash through the clouds
get a foaming cloud beard,
maybe drink the cloud dry.

wouldn't that be something-

wouldn't that be something if we could all just levitate above the ground
and maybe shoot into the heavens without ever coming down
and maybe we could get away from the day to day for just a few years
or maybe if we could fly, life's needs would disappear-
or at least the car payments
and at least the gas
maybe I'd own some shoes and for once they'd last-

but the truth is-
no matter how high you can fly, life will never drift away-
you'll still be 24, depressed, feeling meaningless, and dismayed;
that fence you couldn't quite squeeze through will only grow, it wont fade-
you'll just stare at the wall and wish for something else instead-
maybe a cloud blanket
or a bullet in your head.
We Are Stories Sep 2020
there is a greying definition
of covering to protect-
the loosened tightening of fingers
contracting and outstretched.
one must take care to be gentle
with the laying on of hands
for the comfort turns to pain in time
with all the palm’s reprimands.
greyed between control and love
the words will stick and poke,
until the image stays full grasped-
what once was tender holding is now a choke.
We Are Stories Sep 2020
grandma hoists her paralyzed son
out of bed
lifts his head
shakes in dread
(a grandson, now their kid)-
she takes her time
doesn’t whine
about how much pain it is
-
when they get to the church
she opens the door
struggles some more
because of the strength of her spouse
who is old as death
and out of breath,
moments from his heart giving out
-
so when the pastor preaches
she goes at it again
reaches out to heaven,
all but her husband can hear the sound-
this time with anger and rage
she pleads and she prays,
that the two coffins she built will fill by the end of the day
and her two burdens will be stuck in the ground.
We Are Stories Aug 2020
taking a look in the mirror
you find that there is mostly you;
the walls became smaller yet superior-
once they’re out there’s no coming back through.
and you
wonder why
as the days go by
the people you once had
in your life,
by your side,
leave and they never come back,
never try,
never climb
over those walls
with those apology letters saying
I
am
sorry
will you
please
forgive
me
now-
they’re not sorry
(they’re not sorry)
they’re not sorry
(they’re not sorry)
im not sorry
I’m not sorry!
if you wanted us to stay,
then why did you try so hard to push us away;
if all you wanted was equality
then why you try so hard to make your voice
the only voice I could hear, could breathe, could see, could believe, could stomach, or could retrieve!

as your walls go up
and the blinds fall down
don’t peek outside
to see if we’re around,
because you said it,
you said we should leave
simply because
we had disagreed;
you’re always saying, that we never listen
and when we stop talking, you finally get all your words in
to call us the blind, the defective, and the useless,
but a friend can only stay so long and endure all your bruises!
so when you look back at now, when quite some time has past
remember my words to you, though unsympathetic, they will last:
you were the hypocrite, pleading for peace but sparking rage,
disowning everyone you knew, hiding away in your cage!
and when the pain and hurt from others finally went away
you crawled back out just in time to reassure us that you still hate
everything that disagrees with anything that you do,
hitting us with harmful words, severing connections right through-

your
opinions
have poisoned yourself
I know
it’s because
you’re going through hell
and
you
just
want
some
company-
We Are Stories Aug 2020
sometimes
things don’t play out the way you want them to
but what’s up to you
is whether that makes it good or bad
- some don’t understand and won’t ever do
that the reaction and emotional transaction
is something you get to choose-
regardless of the feelings others had.
We Are Stories Aug 2020
even all things
formed and hardened
subject themselves to change
and to be changed
for what is
cannot refuse the weathering-
deciding to stay the same
letting the same form remain.

yet they will try
to mask the craters
in their complexion-
some will die
before admitting
some roots have severed connections-
for none like to look back
and see that
what has past
is true;
for admitting all the past acts
or the rough patch
can mean some pain lasts
in their view-

but we are all bruised and cracked deep in our bones
with lasting acts that won’t leave us alone
we were made to break at some point in time
but that doesn’t mean that pain controls our lives-
and even when change leaves us in the dark
and we miss home so much with it’s warming heart,
there is a light shining it’s brilliant warmth
and if we just trust, I know that we can still have life in our storms.
We Are Stories Aug 2020
we like to justify:
lie
create
or at least try
to make
or state
a reason why
we do
what we do
or why we chose that we don't
but the truth
we ignore
is that we don't know, and we won't-
Aug 2020 · 27
-justification-
We Are Stories Aug 2020
you ask yourself
you trust yourself
and you go on your way

you believe your truth
you accept your proof
and you go on your way

you live life with max ease
you do as you please
and you go on your way

but you can't trust yourself
you can't trust anyone else
to give you the answers, and show you the way

so just know that you don't
that you always won't
or either muster the confidence to simply say

"i don't know what i'm doing"
"theres no way of knowing"
"i'm trying to make the best of my fate"

or

"i trust in the stars"
"i leave life up to chance"
"i believe there's a God still showing me grace"
We Are Stories Aug 2020
all open their eyes to fear
seeing nothing but what can't be escaped-
even in a world they paint,
what they create
can't get them out of here-
so we
tell stories
make up lies
make our selves feel better
  maybe in time
  we will find
  something that casts this cage away
  -forever
but until then we
search for truth
but ignore what's waiting
down at the bottom of the stairs
  they say
  don't stare
  don't focus too hard
  or you will find that your fate
  isn't
   going
    anywhere-
We Are Stories May 2020
if you wake up
empty stomach
tired and hungry
and pour coffee down into the empty hole,
it will slide right through
- such is life;
sometimes
racing myself to the bathroom
is a more pleasurable experience
than not visiting those marble floors at all
that day
that week
those three weeks-
it is by far
the more pleasurable experience
to feel the burn in my stomach
the churn
and groan
than to have nothing happen at all
-such is life;
it is an odd enlightenment
to be aware of the pleasure received
from the release of what we spend filling ourselves up with.
we fill ourselves
we stuff ourselves
and we eagerly await to get rid of it,
and we enjoy it,
at least I do,
for although such things are not what we discuss,
it is what we feel
it is who we are
-such is life
May 2020 · 650
-separation anxiety-
We Are Stories May 2020
it's not the sound that you miss
or the view
or even the touch
or the lips
or the sound of the walking shoes
rushing forward in a stamping blitz
halted by the shadow's looming lightlessness

its not any of this

what you miss is knowing

knowing that you're not standing next to the wind
or particles drifting through your hands-
but knowing
that someone is there
and they have no plans of going-
May 2020 · 116
free
We Are Stories May 2020
do you ever want to take
everyone you love
stuff them in a box
push them out the door
somewhere far away
where they can’t be seen or heard
and you can finally find some time alone
lonely
free as a bird
We Are Stories Apr 2020
there is no guarantee that we get to cash in
when we feel the rug pull
out from under our heels and we start to slip
we get what we pay for
we get what we bought
and the life we have is really all we have
until it's not.
thats that, and theres nothing to it
Apr 2020 · 191
-thankful wake and breath-
We Are Stories Apr 2020
just because I lay my bones out dry for everyone to see that I feel things more than they ever thought I could
doesn’t make me special
doesn’t make me unique
does make me something good
or make my words a grandiose speech-
it may show that I’m week
maybe humble
maybe showing that I stumble on my broken feet
but why on earth would you take advice
from someone who’s foundation is defeat.

the truth is that we’re all hopeless to some extent, relating to something sad, something as empty as we feel
we like to feel something that seems real
something real to us
something we can see
something that we can look and and see ourself reflecting back perfectly.
but when has taking your time to look in the mirror for an extra half hour
looking at your blemishes, your skin decaying, you imperfect features, the shame lying inside your eyes, the unshaven neck, and your unkempt hair
ever brought you to any new place
any new hope,
or is it still the same-
and that’s just how it goes
when the only thing you can look up to
is a reflection that you hate to see
hate to be
hate to remind yourself that that is you
hate to remind myself that that is me.

thank God that I have a foundation not built on myself
on my own personal hell
and that although sometimes there’s comfort in knowing your pain is felt by someone else
true comfort is found by someone who can overcome the pain
someone who can overcome the mundane day to day
the pimples
the ****
and all other things-
still helping me to not look at myself so much
but to place my hand in his and
walk away.
We Are Stories Apr 2020
I roll out of my bed with my lips dry clamping to the side of my sheets
Like the sand clings to the side of a wet cheek and refuses to leave
Without first scratching your skin, unless you brush with care-
But then that just gets it everywhere
And all over bedroom floor
And all over the room
And the tub
And the bathtub mat
And somehow in the bed.

I rip my skin off of my lip because I have no more motivation to lift my head and turn my neck to try and see what this world has to offer me
Because
To be honest I’m tired of dragging myself out of an eternally cursed sleep of finally escaping what this life and my work and my toil had to bring,
I am ready to be rolled over, nailed down, lowered, covered, and then lulled to sleep, and thereby escape the day’s tolls that bring me crawling back into my bed
Dreading another day
Dragging my feet.
We Are Stories Apr 2020
in the time that you see this i will be asleep in the bed all ******* in my thoughts like you said that i would and you always have been right that eventually i wouldnt stand in this fight and thats always been true thats always been you and you know what to do to make this all go through so just say those "nice" words to the back of my head sleeping soundly on top of my pillows of dread dreaming that the sounds like my heart would be
dead.

i dont want to hear it anymore i dont want to hear it anymore i dont want to hear it anymore i dont want to hear it anymore
i never wanted to hear it anymore
and thats why i blast the music until my ears bleed
to drown out the noises you keep sending raging after me
and i want to be free
see the world
see the free
and be me
but you keep chasing after the ends of my sentences begging to be apart of some world together
like this will last forever and that you have to fit yourself inside before the page runs out of lines to include us both in the same half a centimetre space
connected with no room to move
no room to breathe
no room to be free me or just simply be

so by the time that you see this hopefully i will be asleep and you will be asleep and you wont come to tell me your "nice" words again and wake me up to your screaming and we could all just go to sleep once without a fight of whos right and how youre right and new and true and how my blue is too much to live and breathe and
bloom.
Apr 2020 · 55
klouded
We Are Stories Apr 2020
not a soul in sight

will we be alright
here
under a lonely light

when the lamp goes cold
that’s all that i
fear
We Are Stories Apr 2020
i just want to feel
something

i don’t want to be found
wanting

so as i climb my tower’s
walling

don’t pay attention to my lack
of care, i’m not falling-

i’m not
climbing down
if you can’t find me
don’t look around
-i have climbed my way
with no help from you-
i’m not
calming down
if you don’t like it
just ignore the sound
-I have found my way
with no help at all-



-at the foot
of your lonely tower
i will wait
just in case you tumble
i may not
have been there every hour
but i won’t leave
just in case you stumble-
Mar 2020 · 40
-graceful rake-
We Are Stories Mar 2020
gentle flowers under the sun
growing roots and growing up
brushing up against other stems
-feeling touch, feeling skin-
a soft brush on a petal
and it falls
right
off:
i never meant to hurt you
but i just didn’t think
to
stop.

i don’t want to be labeled by your names
i don’t want to be hurt for hurting again
i apologize for causing pain
but selfishness wants to never be treated the same!
i deserve the hate
i deserve your mistrust!
at least i hurt out of ignorance,
you hurt to make your hurt feel less than it does-

when all our
petals
fall to the
ground
will we
realize
the pain we’ve
given
to take back
all we’ve lost
has taken everything
that we have
and left us
paying the cost-
i know
i am the enemy
i know
that i have done you wrong
i learned my lesson,
took my shame,
but all your petals
at this rate
won’t last very long.
We Are Stories Mar 2020
a phone rings to my displeasure
- another time spent
in your voice
in your precious respect:
the one demanded
for which i was reprimanded
and ****** for returning empty handed;

and i ignore your call
long enough for it to get lost again
but your name
lingers inside my brain
the image of your name
the only markings behind my closed eyes-
i dont want to see it
i dont want your name to be it
i dont want to read it
i dont want to open your voice message
i dont want to believe it
i dont want to think it
i dont want to dream it
i dont want to watch your name flash by
i dont ever want my path to cross between it;
fifty five years of seeing your name cross out mine
is enough for me to finally delete it.

-a father's hand reaching out,
means nothing once its reaching
has been to pull and tear, and rip apart;
the pain is the only lasting feeling.
We Are Stories Mar 2020
it’s not the warm heart
that causes pollination  
from the honey bee

it’s just the static-
the spark between the partners-
rubbing off on them

both getting their way,
the bee and the new flower-
the wet dew glistens-

then they fly away,
maybe visiting someday-
moving on and out.

will they remember
the day they spent together-
i guess life moves on.
We Are Stories Feb 2020
give me my way-
my deep down
my “prayed for” today
yesterday
every day,
the needs that never seem to find a way
to be met-
give me my way-
let my hands
grip firmly
to the waist line
squirming
and let me do what I do best
what I obsess
to posses
and undress-
give me my way!
because I have given way
long enough to have earned the right to say
that it’s my turn
my earned
my deserved
time and day,
so don’t delay
because I’ve waited a long time to have this moment
where I can be selfish and take
instead of give
and feel how living really is-

-what a mistake-
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