Where splendor divest itself in color emotion and tranquility the trade wind unleashes the atmospheric
Tropics boundless seamless the perpetual island teases the slipping away inspirational living dreams are
Evoked the night campfire is filled with haunts replete with the initial beginning of Polynesia and her
Island dance the rhythm of sea and land in unison plays wonderfully and perfectly in the soul perfect
Found its total awareness on this moon drenched coral atoll with softest breath it wooed the palms
Swayed the mist rose its crowning silver garland rose to the heights the nights became the embodiment
Of delight peace was the living feast it swelled with richest thickness you passed among the
Unquestionable effects of such joy a weighted grandeur was exposed it triggered melodious meters
The slow purposeful intoned music had the unparalleled sweetness that beat steady and slow
The deep nature of man was matched it played its own time and space interlude that moment
The sea nymph arose and spoke these words in these pure waters truth will prevail all who
Come and are tangled and wrought with trouble love seems to be in a log jam of one sort or
Another but here nature will reign a strong hold that will beckon like no other place and
Romance will respond hurts and scars and mistake will immerse in healing from the waves the
Sand will pulsate invisible vibrations will soothe and dislodge hard feelings that will flow
Outward to the sea a vacuum will be left and love will rush to fill the empty space the creatures
Of the sea will endow their harmony it will be powerful and free flowing the crusted and
Brittleness of man’s nature will breakup tenderness will express itself through the kindest look
The touch will be sensuous and perform admiral feats that will give way to understanding the
Other’s need selfishly they will gratify the deep longing of their beloved relationships that
Formally floundered now you will know stability found on trust and mutual caring for the others
Needs cures will stretch to impossible needs tears of thankfulness will be the standard bearer
Giving the richest freedom to know expression will be the hallmark of sensitivity a rootedness
Will flourish and grow deep this will mandate such a state of well being an aura
Will surround and envelop you the enabling life will be finally truly and fully yours it’s just a few
Heartbeats away off the beaten path in a coconut cove search and you will find it this is promised to all
Who will put others first

Nothing is permanent.

Trees lose their vitality; their green leaves turn orange, crumpling into hard brittleness. Eventually they lose their grip and fall from what they've always clung to for life. They hit the ground, vigor and greenery gone from their veins. Soon a little girl who loves the sound of cackling autumn leaves beneath her feet will trample them into nonexistence, turning them into little more than indiscernible pieces that comprise the mosaic of a forest floor.

People are the same. Youth makes fools out of all of us, but with that folly comes the beauty of innocence and naivety. Youth makes the world around us blur, sharpening only the lines of the loveliness we see in the midst of ugliness. But in youth we don't notice those displeasing to the eye.  Vitality, vigor thrums in your veins the moment you realize you've climbed so high up the tree you can see above the gates that surround the only world you knew. It doesn't come to your attention that you might fall, that your fragile little bones might break into so many pieces you forget childish joy. But you don't think about this, because you can see beyond your boundaries. You can see the sunset as its reddish glow sinks seemingly into the earth, bathing your whole world for an instant, in glorious light. You want to climb higher, to see more, to feel taller than everyone else. It doesn't occur to you that this increases danger, that it will be all the more painful for you. Because in this moment you don't know pain. You don't know danger. You don't know fear.

But that's what parents are for. Because they've seen it all, done it all, and they know pain, they know danger, they know fear, and they know that the sun doesn't actually set. They've witnessed the beauty of dawn and dusk you gaze at with so much wonder so many times that they began to see it only as part of time.

They know that some day you will change. You will grow up, and that your eyes will lose their innocence. You will know pain, the kind that doesn't only refer to the little cuts and bruises you get from stumbling and falling. The kind that feels like a black hole has suddenly sprung to life inside you, eating your heart from the inside. You will know danger, the kind that doesn't only mean risk of getting bruised. The kind where you know the full implications of what you are doing, that there is a possibility that you might lose a part of you or the whole of you. You will know fear, the kind that turns your blood into ice, that freezes your heart into eternal immobility; the kind that makes you break into a sweat, that makes every instinct of yours scream for you to run, run as fast as you can.

As you change, as you grow up, you will realize that not everything people say should be taken literally.

And like the trees there will come a time when you will lose your vitality, when you shrivel up and crumple into hard brittleness, full of bitterness and wistfulness. One day you will look at the sunset and tell yourself, "I wish I could be a kid again." Eventually you will lose your grip and fall from what you've always clung to for life. You will fall, vigor and suppleness gone from your veins. Soon your children, their children, their grandchildren, will stand over a coffin-sized hole as they lay you down for your final rest. Soon the earth you've walked on for such a long, long time, will trample you into nonexistence. Decades later, you will be nothing more than indiscernible pieces that comprise the richness of the earth.

Nothing is permanent, but we are all here to create something that is.

I couldn’t sleep. I was lying in bed watching the patterns reflected moonlight made on my ceiling when I heard the faint beep of the kitchen microwave. I smelled popcorn.

I decided to fill up my water bottle and see who was up. I slipped on a thick, terrycloth robe I’d gotten from Lisa last Christmas. It must weigh 15 pounds and it’s so warm and heavy I seldom wear it.

I silently glided into the main room. Leong was standing at one of our two large picture windows staring out at the night. Her left arm cradling a bowl of ultimate-butter popcorn. Anna told me last night that Leong and her long-time boyfriend, who’s back in China, had broken up. They’d been together forever and had been expected to marry.

A bright half-moon was hanging high over campus, an electric ornament on a velvet background, its moonlight glint painted the world, like ice on mountaintops.

“I heard about your breakup,” I said, “what does it mean?” In Leong’s world, who you dated was of family interest. That person had to be approved, their bona fides proven - they had to fit into some long term plan.

“It means I can’t be tamed,” she said, with soft bravado. After a moment, she spoke again, more seriously. “It’s better this way - for now - someday..,” she trailed off.

I understood. All of our hopes are resting on someday, like so many wagers at a casino. I imagined some gambler, stepping up to a betting window, in an old black-and-white movie, saying, ”Gimmie 5 bucks on Someday to win.”

Something in her voice, a brittleness, precluded further questions. I looked at the clock, it read 3:47. I gave her a hug and yawning, filled up my water bottle from the refrigerator's filtered tap.

“See ya.” I whispered and headed off, back to bed. With any luck I could squeeze another hour's sleep out of the morning.

I won't lie, it's easy enough to replace you.
You were a replacement yourself. I bought
you at office depot, and your predecessor
was given to me by a friend. Mechanical
pencil lead is cheap. The only difference
between you and the lead I've owned
before is that you broke every other
word I tried to write. It didn't matter
how much weight I put onto the paper.
You snapped into pieces that dropped
every time I tried to pick them up.
Because of your brittleness, you
stood out, and unlike the lead
that kept itself together, you
won't be so readily forgotten.

when you’ve traced
every corner of my body
and have felt
the brittleness of my bones
—and when you’ve brushed
your fingers
through every inch
of my skin,
promise me
you won’t break me

when you’ve bit my lips
and find it bleeding
know that I’m vulnerable to your lies

and when you’ve kissed my tears
and find my eyes lost
know that I’m fragile to your touch

“I Have Been Tamed”

I have been tamed.
By the white wings and scents of springtime,
A set of shoulders sprinkled with gold,
I’d rest my head and think of silk eyebrows wrinkled together,
Looking out of a window, nestled upon a pair of brown eyes and blonde hair.

I have been tamed.
My joy: my dear, sweet, pure angel.
I love her with unending love.
As long as the rivers wrap around together and surround again on the globe,
As long as there can be love and peace, hope, happiness, and joy.

I have been tamed.
Her feet, tapping and smooth,
Perfect little rhythms, like stones skipping along a pond,
I’m so glad the Good Lord made them to skip and shift.

I have been tamed.
In gleeful wondering, an atollment hugging the thoughts,
Tracing my memories around her,
She left the outline of her hair blowing through the breeze,
Eyebrows lifted like bending fir trees over a pair of brown eyes, slightly smiling lips, and golden blonde hair.




Hair that fights with its surroundings like rolling tigresses, paws drumming over one another through a cloud of sediments,
Sun-bursting hues and radiation, each strand kissing my eyes, an exclusive glow caressing and basking.
I cannot stand to look too long to her nor look away into some distant vision,
Out upon her flowing silks, I left so many thoughts and skills, that I pray to God not to take either of them away.

I wonder if my heart was not made to be tugged and pulled by a woman.
Love, do not forsake me;
It is more blessed by God to give than receive,
But to give love and not receive is painful to the brittleness of my bones.

She wears an old fashioned shawl
laced wool of camomile
flecked with seeds of apple pip brown.
Wading shin deep with stork length legs, though lacking all brittleness,
she hems the thirsty sand line of shore
that's forever sipping foam
and swishing froth from the sea's diaphragmatic shifting.
The drag of each stride breaking
v's in their wake
all too soon dissipates
only to be replaced
with every surge and **** and lull.
She recites a poem as she treads the shallows
Hardly a whisper above a whisper
Blending lullaby syllables with the rhythmic surety of the tide.
Every word a billowed sail
carrying the craft of verse upon ripples and surf
back to the memory of one long lost across the sea.

My capillaries believe that the frost is coming for them
-- my spine aching for the warmth
it has come accustomed to,
rather than the boreal brittleness underneath
that the cutlass attached to my feet
glided around in spheres.
It reminded me of the
moon’s orbit,
the shape of the planets
the ellipses of the galaxies
-- suddenly swirling,
breaking and reforming
the stars within them,
which I then noticed to be
the warmth of your
carpals and metacarpals
between mine,
filling up all the Thenar Space.

Unfrozen, surviving in miles of silent wasteland
Somehow risen from cold to my feet, but not breathing
Am I flawless that I drift so lightly with a Western wind?
Or so flawed that I don't admit I'm desperate for coming home
The final night with my elbows on the throne
Laughing over longing after end to the infinite.
Beheld well with the highest intention to flatter you
Maybe I'll die in laughter when you realize I invite you to bitterness,
brittleness to the shattering for which I'll want you close
Because with another's bloodstains I can live alone
Using what I've siphoned to make my ill-advised scratches on tablets on tabletops.

Inside the brightly painted hut
crinkle cut and candy flossed where old men dossed out of the rain and one more stain don't make no odds to Gods who '**** a deaf un',
sits Johnny Stone,
among the brittleness of skin and bone, he wears his worries and his cares away by sniffing grey hairs up his nose.
Posing every now and then for beachside surfers who,when they see this man survives amid the torture of the lies that haunt his face,move on to another place and forget they've ever seen and glad they've never known
Johnny Stone.
In this tinsel town one more Stone goes down and one more becomes the one that's trading places,revolving dreams on sunlit faces and a bigger pile of luggage cases for the dustbin men to take away
Stay at home,carve your dreams quite thinly off the bone, or you'll end up like Johnny Stone,
hungry
and all alone.

I) Departure*

Short ride

Blinked
And the
Conductor
Woke me up

Last stop he called
End of the line
The not so secret  
Graveyards of movement
Edge of where sleep can
       Carry one

Time unlike movement
Can vanish
Blink and a year has passed

Suddenly after a month in a new city
        Your parents are old
Or your children are grown
Either way the radio no longer plays
Music you can recognize

Yet the trains
Do not change much
Marking out time
One rocking lullaby at a time

II) Return

One train
To another,
To another,
To another,
Finally the long walk home.

Past the bar
Which I will end up grabbing a round in
Before heading across the street
And typing up this weekend’s poems

Hard decision figuring out that order

Either way
New York is almost welcoming
With downcast eyes
And screaming sirens
When compared to the growing limp
My father carries himself with

Seeing age claim those we love
        Is a broken promise  
Fractured while we were off
Spending days like easy dollars
Until one wakes to frost
On youths windows,

The sudden knowledge
That autumn, is over
Displayed in brittleness
Of your fathers bones

She was made of glass, I’m sure
Her beauty was her perfection; flawless,
Optically correct, one might say,
But she was hard with a sharp tongue,
And after a while the brittleness grew,
Her motives were transparent,
I should have been more careful, when I put her back,
But feeling dropped, she shattered
Razor shards and splinters flew, some cutting me
Oh, the pain of glass.

A distant light
flickered with the brittleness
  of life,
once seen, then gone,
then seen again.
The very air seemed callous
of its treatment
   of this wan, pathetic beacon
   in the void.
We felt no humanity now --
all traces scorned as weakness,
cast off as useless weight.
There was nothing but us,
and the vacuum of our souls.
No common ground
to share with any other thing --
we had gone beyond (at first by accident,
but then and then again by choice) --
we destroyed eveything
we might have turned back upon,
becoming "more than",
instead of "once was".
Our sanity cast off
with society's rules --
a tragic dream of a different
   mother's brood.
Death meant nothing,
for we drank blood
from a different golden chalice,
and cleaned our wounds
with someone else's salty tears.

Please look at me, and judge
If I am okay, not by my surface
But by peeling back my skin, and see
If my insides do not scare you.

When you are looking, please check not
Merely for darkness plaguing my heart
Seek also for brittleness in my bones
And poor circulation that makes havers cold

Please look at me, in the eyes
Deep enough to find what behind them lies
Is it fear, anger, violence, regret
A dare to challenge you, or an internal death?

You could not see anything; all my insides are black
Infection from mankind's poisons attacked
The rest was once silver, shiny like gold
But tarnished from harshnesses as I grew old

I like you.
But realize the horrors I'd bring unto you
Is it worth it to risk such improbable strife?
Dependent on someone else's then-state of life

I fear it is not, as I'm sure you can see
The pitfalls associated with me
So farewell, my friend, I'm a half-empty cup
I hope you can forgive me for being messed up

sitting in the sunlight
the winter's brittleness penetrates;
pond's laminated shimmers whisper
frightening warnings of frost, and
for a moment,
My world is on hold.
brutal wind hits my face, the trees dance in
amusement,
the ducks gawk at my unfamiliarity,
I smile and shrug
because for a moment
My world is on hold.
this wooden bench is my freedom
an escape
from My troubling reality.
it is a shame
I had to write this vicariously
and only imagine,
putting My world on hold.

it feels like I've been walking on the same pavement riddled with the same fallen leaves spelling out regret and trap. it's lined with trees that look so barren that everything is starting to sound like the same kind of goodbye though I'm not really sure what they're saying goodbye to.
Reflective surfaces come in the form of my empty palms
and the crunch of leaves and the snapping of twigs just seem to whisper in my mind.
I've been walking on the same pavement and I'm not entirely sure why it is the same kind of brickwork. A little sloppy, if you ask me.
The signposts are broken and rotting and I haven't been able to make out the words that are haunting the seemingly endless bounds of my mind.
Have you seen the sun yet?
I can't seem to make sense of anything from the slight rain and the dense fog. There are stains on my sleeves and my shoulders are weighed down and sagged.
I've been trying to reason with myself that this is what I ought to be doing. I've been trying to reason with myself that this is the path I should be on to find whatever it is I've been looking for. I've been trying to reason with myself that I belong here, on this dark and cobbled pavement while my arms are riddled with horripilation and my chest is sputtering blood from the hollowness of it all.
I've found a weeping willow - it weeps like the heat from my neck and I haven't felt the coldness settle.
There's frost on my fingers but if it is any consolation, I have no idea how to love or deserve to be loved.
Where has the time gone? Can you tell me?
The rabbit holes are empty and there is a void where my heart ought to be. My lungs aren't burning but there's smoke escaping with every breath I let out.
It's been too long, it's been too solitary. I can almost feel the brittleness of the skeletal structure that keeps me collected.
And time has escaped me.
There are no sounds and my ears are deafened.
The cold is settling.
I can still see the pavement.
It's still empty.
Is there no life here?
Can anyone hear me?
I can feel my thoughts echoing.
Hello?

I'll turn it all to art,
Every little part,
Soul heart happenstance.
Cannot remain the same.
Cause swallowing it all,
Will fill me with delight,
Turning the spinning fear,
Into clothes I wear.
Witness how suave I am,
A grounded formal star,
Speaking beyond those all around,
The cracked brittleness of awareness.

his feet drag
too weak to lift
he shuffles to the alter

patiently waiting his turn
to receive the body
of Christ, his savor

head down
back arched like a cane
brittleness pronounced
in every step

his life, lived
he simply waits
for what is before him

when his turn approaches
he crosses his arms
above his frail chest
and bows his head
unworthy to receive

yet a blessing lands upon him
and fills his empty, humble spirit
with a restoring light of Truth.

Give a man some straw
to build a bridge,
and he will find a way
to mend brittleness for his
Family to cross.

But give a man cement
and the foundation will be lazy

You can twist the way a man sees the world.
Do you think that sounds ridiculous?
What if you did it over time with subtlety and diligence?

The audience is largely uneducated, so remind them of their impotence; tell them any other source of facts must be regarded with suspiciousness.

Whisper to them over breakfast and slowly introduce corrosive dissonance; outright lie to them at dinner,salting in some truth for spicy antithesis.

Those who run the country are up to something mischievous; their lives, their fine America, have been eroding with precipitance.

Remember empowered yesterdays with a sad and tearful wistfulness; twist the needs and rights of others with pernicious lies and maliciousness.

Invest their government with conspiracy and its policies with wickedness. Remind your audience that freedom was torn from kings by well-armed militias.

Introduce the savior as a shining instrument of religiousness; defend his faults as small and frivolous and his right to rule as unambiguous.

When shocking reality dares assert itself, denials must be vicious and officious.

A rescue mission must be launched and certainly they must be participants; banners from the gift shop will form a team identity and a certain moral equivalence.

The leader will whip the angry crowd, stoking resentment with fabricated incidents, swearing, “I will be with you on this great crusade and you will be my instruments”

As the mob storms off he will slink away; he was only there for stimulus.

Hear the old republic creak as the President flexes his insolence; he’s seen that no blame can touch him, so he’s filled with proud ambivalence.

What will it take to rein him in? What kind of obvious stimulant, with thousands already dying every day and our society marbled with brittleness?

there's a paradise in the way you say my name
   or she says my name or he says my name
syllables crashing like head on car collision or train wheels wrestling with the tracks
one time i brought back a starfish from the ocean
hiding it in my sweater pocket
it soaked all the way onto my pants into the upholstery of my father's old car and everyone pretended they didn't see
maybe it wasn't even there, maybe i wasn't there
sometimes ghosts would follow me i would end up breathing on the glass and leaving impressions as proof
of existing, of understanding what it meant to live with the living

getting home, unearthing my discovery in the bathtub
but there was only a thud, an ugly crash on the resin
the fiberglass making the death inhabitable
i wanted you so much you turned to stone
a hard shell of what i found so beautiful i could cry but there wasn't even a yell
ignore me and ill love you forever
i picked you up, cradled on both my palms but the keepsake was in the lesson
a memento of solitary moments waiting
shrivel up

my father found me or maybe it was my mother or maybe it was nobody and i picked myself up silent  
into the backyard where i dug until my fingers hurt, until my hands knew the brittleness of rhythm
i might have never stopped until i reached some kind of closure or maybe magma, a molten crust of hell i had missed before
my jeans dirt-stained and my face red from scratching bugs that weren't really there
maybe we met at the wrong time, maybe there's never a right time for anything
you reach certain points and then head back in the other direction
you bleed until it's time to reach for the band-aids in the medicine cabinet and call it healing
maybe i'll never know some things
never figure out questions that still tap on my windowsill demanding to be answered or asked in the first place
and i think i can fit comfortably in that, in this

I abscond from
the phone calls where her
voice reminds me of her.
She's mumbling of the brittleness
of the east Cascades;
memory can't but etch, line to line,
some sore straightliner, wheeled.

I'll still playback what you leave me,
and harbor beneath the arches of ourselves.
Penny for the poor: I never promised to pay
this sum.

Dilapidation sunk its teeth into you
Shearing off your softer side
Exposing your skeletal essence
Which had cut off calcium from cows
Long ago
Leaving it on the brink of brittleness
As if the blow from a kiss
Would deconstruct to dust
The bones that once bore the strength
To love without fear

Friends, this is an old poem of mine from ‘Poemhunter.com’, which has been re-written for my readers here. Hope you like it, - Raj.

IN THE  WINDMILL  OF MY  MIND
As in the poem ‘The Brook’, by the English
poet Rupert Brooke,
Our mind keeps chattering all the time,
Like the flowing chattering Brook!
As one thought flows into another right
till our bed time.
Even during sleep the chattering continues,
nor does it get left behind.
For dreams appear and disappear, even
though our body is at rest.
Only a sedative can truly put our mind, -
To a complete peaceful rest!

Now in the silent chattering of the mind,
many thoughts come and go.
Some get realized with time, while others
simply flow.
A few thoughts stagnate, and some thoughts
get lost.
But the chatter continues all the time, at any
cost.
What I know not, I know not, it should not
bother me at all.
Yet the quest for the unknown and unseen,
In some of us remain pretty strong.
As search for that philosophic truth, continues
all our life long!

The Autumn brings brittleness, with whitening
of my hair,
Yet I like to dream those dreams, and also to
dare!
As the withered leaves of Autumn, keep
dancing in the whirlpool of time.
My thoughts keep churning, in the windmill
of my mind!
                                    - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.

I have dived
Into the depths of my life
And found discontentment there

The fatigue of driven efforts
Weighs on my dizzy head
Like sandbags

And I can only hope to find a new route
To re-surface

The fragility
Of this life
Reverberates around my skull

And I carry out my motions
Of pure survival

In the end
I have to open
And let go
Of all former experiences

For I have challenged head on
My very fragility and brittleness

My glass encasements shimmer
And crackle as I strive to hold
My head aloft
And locate my mission

My mission
Not the one
Others would choose for me

I am like a wax man
Whose heart burns brightly with flame
But whose body wilts
Beneath the strain

Tomorrow sometimes looms
Sometimes beckons

But the adventure
Is
A wonder

The stars and the moon
hang from above
any time now
the sun
The ground beneath
hard and dry
we pray
we cry
for the rains that passed us by
a return trip
relieve us now
this grip
of brittleness
Relieve us
please
the fatigue
of this earth
and give us back
it's worth

Down hills, sounds of wagon treading through the harsh road from departure;
it echoes amidst a quiet noon.
Above the warm and mellow sky, speckles of whites flutters, leaving behind gray-silver feathers.
The birds, once again, spreading their wings;
Leaving behind their home and travel east with leisure.
Seeking food and laying eggs for the next generation.

Commoner watches the brittleness of life fading away;
Preparing for winter as the leaves shed gray;
Paving the path for newly sprouted leaves when spring returns.

Chill, gentle mellow, soft blanket of hues embrace the living, and dead.
The children would be sent as errand-boy;
Helping their parents stock up supplies for the cold winter to come.
All year round of hardship, amount to little as they faced the imminent harsh season.

Not long, the street was emptied with none in sight.
On withered willow branches, a birch chirp, signifying that autumn has begun.

Gazing at the empty street, the window shut from the outside.
The quietness of autumn, strangely soothes one’s mind.
Not a voice nor sound was heard, as if heavens has lowered the curtain wide;
Deafening the land.

Living up north, the chill winds easily subdue one’s will.
Looking into a home, a wife was preparing a meal;
The husband would tend the fire, and take over heavy-duty tasks.
Their gaze wavered as they soon yearn for the coming of spring.

Faraway, a crisp, orange willow flew from its branches;
Landing on the ground below.
With a breath, gentle breeze embrace the willow with grace;
Carrying it thousands of miles away.

Facing hardship, the misfortune are bound to perish;
The lucky individuals are to be rewarded.
Such, is the bitterness of life as ones cherish;
For the four seasons are ever-changing.

Opposed inter courses with crashed images suffer
Bags brittleness stash secretly a million mumbles
Opinionated receiving-ly I'd proclamations
Laugh isf despise becclure unfamiliar faces
Gave my decency add to my atrocity
Gotta kick in my colonoscopy

Don't don't don't release the cap
Cap threatened with triviality
Blame the dog next to you
Free of decisions and confidence--the face that is
Sitting on the chair made of medals
Traumatic in the sense of reflecting the mirror on the wrong shadow of the lamppost
Weighing the child's drawings and ancestors
Which one is more equal?
The brittleness of the smell
Keep sniffing to keep on lingering
You really know how life support works
Put it on them after you show your ***** harpoons
And then got cold, left them behind on overdose
That will catch on to dust

How to understand respect between?
Factually, no man is an island
Are we that imperfect?
We never realised perfection is the only value in your equation
Perfection is the only key to these rusted locks
Perfection is it...?
The thing is...you are not the only one who, at the core, is made up of an ant colony's bites
We all are!
Piling and sorting the nostalgia and blasting it on a broken vinyl

With all that, the island might be sweet and savory
A few touches here and there and will be fine
It is an option since you are an ever-growing wetlands
Must be good to emulate your manipulate?

Is your war even civil?
No, because you only remember THAT part of the history wrapped as a legend for you to chug on
Stripping Bible verses will not help you
Constructive criticism and hatred is different
You throw grenades
That is your only personality
Then say, "I never meant something ill."
Trillion times
Stitch it. If you keep screaming it, your throat will not be the only thing that is absent in the jacket.

Will the party on the 88th floor stop for a minute?!
When will all these floors crash down since that might be the only way out of this stable building?
We can handle this handlebar of a person
DO NOT COPY THE CARBON COPIES FROM #16788003 AEDEN BOX.
What are them?
It does not matter whose garden  it is
You will keep picking the flowers
It is not mowing anyone's
You just think it is. You are not even on the grass.

Worry is the distance of the hectares and tomorrowland of your ancestors'
Burden is the fire that burnt it all down
Can it still be resurrected?
Arson is affront, but it will just spread again
Is there some bouquet spray to wander around with?
Time is multiplicity
The fire must be imaginary or dying inside with you.

The hypocrisy is not functional anymore
Vulnerability is not an aesthetic
You nod but why everything falling out is off?
Yeah, it is our fault that your medals are just counted
WE ARE JUST GONNA ACCEPT IT.
Punching the windows will forever be our therapy center
As long as you enter