I was born with a heart full of blood and stars.
I was born brave.

When they laid me on my mother’s chest
I stared into her eyes as if I’d known her always.
When she gave me to my father to hold,
he wouldn’t put me down. Just rocked me
through that hospital night of beeping
and chaos and latex gloves snapped
onto capable hands, staring at me
like I was something confusingly
wondrous.

My grandpa first met me after my mother and I
trudged off an airplane into the bustle
of thousands
and when he got a good look at me,
smiling hugely, he said
my god, she’s otherworldly.
No one can compare an infant to
the mystical
but I was round and rosy and
January and furrowed-brow and
decisive, determined, dauntless,
and I think I kind of believe him.

I was what they call a late-bloomer,
a warrior of the quiet kind
who picked tiny strawberries from the neighbor’s
yard and ate them on the driveway
amid battalions of rainbow chalk, who
wore her fairy wings and flower chains
long after other kids gave up make-believe
for video games.
I was an arrow of a child,
headed perpetually for rawness of spirit
and purity of truth,
and when circle after circle of friends
closed on me
my heart ran salty scarlet rivers through my chest.
When they said I was too sensitive, too odd,
I bawled into my mattress
with a richness of despair and yes,
I wished I was not who I was.
I was different, and that scared the other children.
I was kind.

So I grew up. Slowly.
My drawers filled with poems I fought to birth,
waiting in the darkness for them like an animal.
I did stupid things and I did lovely things. My bones
ached me to a new height.

They say the day you get your period is the day you
become a woman, but the day I became a woman
was in the middle of August on the living room couch
when my father stopped loving my mother and started
loving someone else.
I did bleed, but it wasn’t the right kind.
It wasn’t fertility or practicing walking around
with a pad between my legs, awkward,
awed at myself. It wasn’t that kind at all.

There are many ways to grow up. I grew up
because of my dad whistling on mornings after
*** with my best friends’ mom,
because of him showering
to go out and my mother retching into the bathroom sink,
because of the mutilation of family.
But I didn’t grow up dim.
I grew up steely and flagrant and voluminous,
unfolding in all directions
because I, runner in the woods,
I, poet,
I, last one picked for the team,
I, oddball,
I, exhalation of light,
I, otherworldly,
am not stem, nor stamen,
nor petal.

I am the blossom.
Blood and stars.
Brave.

I wrote you a letter that you will never see
I wrote how I feel about you and how you treat me
I talked about my love for you and all the wonderful things you do
I said how I feel apologized and told you I would deal
I talked about your smell, your voice and your face
I talked about how special it is you invited me to this place
I mentioned how you can be kind and warm.....eventually gettin' around to the part where I'm torn
I wrote about how you are blind and don't allow your heart to see
I put emphasis on how you confusingly treat me
Your silly *** likes them short, blonde and dumb so you and I are seen as chums
I'm the best thing you'll never want and the treasure you'll always ignore
I'm destined to watch you choose wrong and bed ***** after *****
It was the most truth I've ever written telling you how I'm in love and smitten
I'll never let you see it because its already torn up and destroyed
Soon I will be gone taking my feelings and burrying them in the void
I'd rather have you this way than no way at all
Thats why I have to leave this place so I won't continue to fall and fall
You certainly don't deserve me if you can't see me for who I am
God didn't make me to be a stupid girl who is rail thin
We could have it all but you don't like a girl with curves and bends
Even though you treat me like a wife, a lover and gem you will never let me be more than just a friend

You are you.
You care about the little things;
About money and status,
About love and power.
You care about right now.
And about nothing more
     But there is so much more to see.

Take a step back
Now you are human.
Your place in society is precious.
You, just as everyone else, are worth something .
You care about justice,
About the state of your world
And it hurts you
     But you know you suffer less than others.

Take another step back
You are a body.
Your presence is replaceable and unfelt.
Your days are spent seeking pleasure and pain.
You live only to feel alive
Knowing that you’ll soon be dust blowing in the wind
And it makes you feel temporary
     But you last longer than you know.

On your last step back
You are a soul.
You feel no pain nor pity- nothing at all
You live in sickly silent peace
As you float aimlessly through time.
You are a piece of the universe
Hoping that the clocks will stop some day
And you will be called to rest
     But your piece in this universe will never die.

You are so much more than your shell.
You are the past, the present and the future
Embodied in a distracted human being.
You are every fibre of the universe that has created you.
You are eternal yet temporary
And it’s confusingly simple
     But you won’t realize your worth unless you *step back.

Surprised that I distrust myself,
You don't even trust me!
Just living the way I'm raised,
But is that the way to be?

Do not like my different ways,
Say it's okay to be unique!

Your sayings alarm me
Your paradox knocks me,
Your words confuse me,
Your words are, you act so
Confusingly contradictory.

Preferred  are those conversations accompanied by cigarettes and splifs and misfits sitting where they knew they always should.

There comes a time when cleared minds realize conversations of personal problems and unified disfunction's exposed feels right. As though your ideas of crazy themes and wandering dreams are unified.

Listening to the good die young by billy Joel blasts as slow motions and hand gestures toss stories and emotions like cracking the binding of a books once judged by unpredictable covers.

I connect with people who's skin has sunken ink that tell stories people think need to stay forever by vibrating needles. Piercings on questionable parts like on noses that drip from other kinds of recreationals. that give bad impressions to those cliche stereotyped people. But if we're all the same species then how do you begin to distribute labels?

I believe there are certain people that smoke cigarettes. That need a release knowing risk that with each pack your buying death. But living larger then safe is easily the option that's best.

To fly free through roads just watching others live lives and in  split seconds build their story lines. Like that feeling of peoples first expressions when first meetings happen and the only conversations are those of eyes that frigidly glance back. When you realize everyone is there for same reason. But curiosity is the catalyst for judgement and we have all done that.

I believe there are layers to the soul. Not like designated  pieces and parts but one giant relation that we all hold. It's that common beating of trapped souls kept in that bone cage our chest mold. Each chest holds humanities most sacred vessel so how come so many people turn out damaged and evil when born starting with the same soul?

I'd like that think that our common bind is that we have the ability to breathe. And even when things get crazy and life gets messy and that ability to breathe starts to feel more like your starting to choke at least it's sign your still apart of this earth as a whole and not already six feet deep...

There's something beautiful in the fact your mind makes you who you are.. Or do you make up your mind? Are we all strung up like puppets being pulled on premeditated strings? Or are we morally free willed  where fate is created based off every individuals caged vessels desires and whatever subjective shoulders conscious ends up deciding.

It's funny to me that people have angelic and demonic whispers on opposite shoulders because I believe that they are one in the same. That in reality our conscious is one unified subjective subconscious who has free will to take a ride with the devil but if they chose to live a live of angelic routine the heart gets hurt and your heads to blame.

Because the heart wants what it does but the mind always knows what's best. But what if together they worked the same and the explanation for decisions being made, are based purely on happiness with consequential benefits determined by what's locked inside that bone cage.

When does choosing between what's right and what's easy ever stop giving beatings to the beating vessel a rest.

Because I have never seen them coincide for most instances there's always that contradicting choice. The one you know you've already chosen but if you want everyone to win you will have to personally sacrifice happinesses of the real meanings of life.

The ones that hurt the most but are so addictive they are mentally deadly to any head that's got a heart full of selfish wishes that claw to fulfilled within me.  

Regret is a funny concept because it can always be avoided, that intuition is real and if any instance of doubt or denial is present during, before, or after these ordeals,
you know your accepting the warm rush of blood make it's way home and suddenly your head turns numb and cold. And the only thing to do is uncage that spirit and let it go.

And these constant battles of war and peace have never in history coincided it seems. But what makes you the winner or the losing team? In reality it all doesn't matter in seems, because things happen and If you chose regret and if that's true happiness should anyone put there's souls intentions to rest?

Because hurting are those who believe they would  rather  let everyone else win because being themselves would ultimately hurt others.. And its conclusions like these, they say, you just cannot win. But I grew up when I realized life was really about how your pawn is played. And let's be honest,  Humans have always been the most dangerous game. And ultimately everyone wants to win in a way, but their victory prevents others from reaching their souls restless place.

So this circle of life is that of our species chosen shape. Which makes a lot of sense in minds bigger state.

And I guess that's cool because anyone could say, that we do live condensed on a circle floating in an infinite space, where its never ending and confusingly contradicting , kind of common to that comparison about humanity's constant levitation around mixed messages that mind and heart keep sending.

But in the end were all just spinning. Rotating on sanities axis and gravitationally pulled one way, because that's the way the stars aligned. And that seems quite similar to humanities battle of premeditated fate. So free wills just another excuse for regret shunned away?

But after your feet get planted back in the ground and your mind doesn't feel like it's spinning, that's when you know your true conscious is winning. And even if I there's regret as minds price to pay, let your heart benefit from not caring what decisions it's made.

And for once don't settle by locking it back away in its cage.

See ribs have have rows of entrapment like cell doors and windows but don't they say if god doesn't open up the door he will a window? I think your heart needs to only be able to see through what it can handle. And your mind only cages that soul of questioned decisions away, because it's the one that hurts in longevity and gets damaged with mental repercussions in your head that will always stay. And hearts vessels only know what they've seen through the cage. It will be bruised but like clockwork healing starts and familiar tempting feelings once again become craved.

And anxiety of memories are sent to the brain when the heart wants to start over and relies on its mind to be brave. And sometimes that deceivingly beautifully ****** devil, on your shoulder distributes desired deadly sins your mind is banned from letting it's sweet heart discover.

Which is when it knows it's time to come back down from that beautiful risky heart thumping heaven and evaluate  the damage you have done. And so now I see why hearts and minds don't get along. They desire each others abilities of their methods to stay strong...

The true virtue's chaos.
Chaos is a fascinating state,
Even better, as a state, chaos is everything.
A glimpse of hope that human solves the chaos,
but then it's gone...

You can't control and it feels exhausting.
Feeling of losing control, humanity tries to solve chaos,
Create an order.
Obviously not possible, it leaves a negative feeling.
Inner squeezing as if you got pulled by a strange hand into a
dark abyss.
It shackles ,your spirit, squashes everything out of your
pinches your bones till you hate it but then.

The only notion, admit. The only alternative, love the chaos.
Humanity tries to make and keep everything in boundaries.
These are fruits. These are vegetables.
Gas ***** up in the sky are stars.
They are students and the audult people
on the right side are teacher.
In the the end they are citizen,
human, animal, creature,
energy maybe an assemblage of molecules, atoms.
But when a new thing comes that does not fit in,
A new boundary will be created and more and more...
Humanity can't control that anymore, too many.
An apple is a fruit, honey is an artisan good, not for me...

The counteracts against chaos creates even greater chaos!
I love, but sometimes my darling makes people drive made,
Humanity is not ready to face the chaos in another way.
Chaos creates disorientation and orientation.
My inner me donned to a shackle, slowly squeezed, and
sag confusingly in nothing but everything.
A vessel made out of clay with a rough surface and a crumbling facade.
A powerful stream of happiness embraces every servant of chaos.

I’ve found that my indefinable truths are hard to hide.
I can’t hold on to what I don’t fully understand,
it escapes from me unhindered by the label I've yet to stick on it.
Then how easily the world captures what I can’t even find words for,
how quickly it encircles what I perceive boundless,
for my truth must belong in this box or that box and
when it’s all wrapped up and labeled accordingly,
the world delivers my truth back to me, and tells me
I can accept and acknowledge or reject and deny this gift of a definition.
So generous, to give me options, yet
somehow I suspect that I have no choice, for
because I cannot define what I hold unswervingly and confusingly true,
the world and its definition will always appear more credible than me.

Today I've learned why
some stories have open endings
and how grotesque paintings
cost millions.

Like when I secretly
peeped through the glass
portion of the door
when she was nearing
the end of her routine.

She spun perfectly balanced
with the tip of her toe, eventually
settling in a form
of a bow rose hunter.

It was confusingly stunning.

I couldn't understand
half of what transpired but
I guess that's the whole point.

I get to dream
while she keeps her privacy.

Dearest,

       You wrote me a letter once and the last line said

       "I choose you."

       The words were musical to me, but they felt more like they were
       meant for you. I think that is what made them special, that they
       were the words you needed to hear whispered in your ear and so
       your heart opened and whispered them into mine, because just
       maybe I needed them too.
  
       Well I've written some poems for other people before in days
       gone by and I've poured words meant for me into the open hearts
       of other people just to find that their jar was already full, or
       perhaps it wasn't opened in the first place.

       And now I know you're scared because what if their veins hadn't
       been full of predetermined sweet nothings given to them
       unnecessarily by others in this confusingly backwards way? What
       if their jars had been open and accepted my insecurities just to
       sing reassurances into my ear?

       I'll entertain Fate on my doorstep for long enough to tell her
       that I am glad, for if she had allowed this to happen I would
       have been unhappy. Fate crafted the individuals before you
       with a fatal flaw because she knew that I would have
       ultimately been disenchanted, downtrodden, disturbed. And so
       with a gleam in her eye she led me to you.

       And perhaps you'll theorize that this, then, was no choice. Fate
       did it for me, yes? My response is as follows:

       I chose you long before Fate threw her hat into the ring. Or
       perhaps she had thrown it into the ring and blew the wind just
       so on that first summer day when I saw your face, red-cheeked
       and blue eyed, brown-haired and loud-laughing. Even if she
       had, she still let me choose. For Fate only modifies the
       environment, but the heart is a complex, wild thing that is not
       to be tampered with. So when a million fireworks rattled my
       ribcage the second I saw you, Fate smiled. Her plan had
       worked. I did not decide that I would feel a small earthquake
       inside of my body every time I laid eyes on you. But my heart
       chose you. Unashamedly. Instantly.

       Perhaps it once chose the others, too. But upon seeing that they
       were not for me, it paused. It took a while, but it moved on.  
       Then there was you. It was afraid at first, but Fate took it by the
       hand and showed me that your jar was not empty. And then
       you showed me that it contained everything I needed to hear
       within it.  So I did not move on. I chose you. I choose you, still.
       Forever. Until your jar is full and Fate tells me that it is time to
       close the curtains, draw the shutters, lock the front doors and,
       someday, leave the house.

       But something tells me that I will begin to send postcards to my
       former address. And perhaps I'll stumble upon the threshold,
       years later, and find a jar.

       And I'll choose you.

The love songs playing on the radio, and
the poems from one sweetheart to another
Make me increasingly aware that I am alone.
It's not all bad.
I'm just more aware.
Aware of my singularity.
Emily and Lover
Is now just
Emily-
"Take this time to work on you," my well-meaning friends order.
But what does that mean?
I'm a person, not a machine.
I can't install a new heart because the one I have now is faulty.
I can't make my brain
Stop-
Thinking thoughts of him.
I don't get to turn myself off for awhile
Or press the reset button.
So I immerse myself in new things,
Things he knows nothing of
So he has less of a chance of creeping into my fragile mind.
I refer to him as "he"
Instead of "you"
Because this poem can't be for him.
I look for ways to distance myself from situations where I'm
vulnerable
Because I'm still reeling at the fact that I can feel this much pain.
Even though it hits me less often,
Those fleeting intervals leave me gasping for air.
Just like he left me on that doorstep those many months ago.
I still cry sometimes.
Though I tell everyone I'm fine
Because although they don't admit it, they are as tired of hearing about him
As I am of crying over him.
Nobody should make me feel this way.
I am a strong person
Made confusingly weak by this boy who doesn't even understand what love is.
While I loved,
He said words he thought I wanted to hear.
He lusted and mistook it for romance.
The sweet, caring gestures missing from the relationship I romanticized
Because I didn't want to argue
I made excuses over and over
For this kid who just didn't get it.
I'm feeling so much pain.
Not because he hurt me, but because I put him on a
pedestal.
In my mind I erased his flaws.
I pretended his words didn't hurt
And that his keeping me hidden didn't matter.
So now that he's gone it's like I'm living all that pain
For the first time.
I'm only now letting myself admit that I wasn't the only
flawed one in the relationship.
And it's okay that I'm not over him,
Those things take time.
As long as I realize that I wasn't the only one in the wrong,
That's progress.

There's a gap in my brain
and it's terminal
even though i'm going to live till i'm ninety nine
this hole in my thinking
will bring me only the chronic whistling
of life billowing through it
at alarming speeds that i can neither perceive
or keep up with

just this whistling
through the gap in my brain
paining my waking thoughts
by always having a hole in my thinking
sinking in my own sand
before i realize what has happened.

if you've ever gazed into a black hole
you would know everything is both faster and slower
in all the most inconvenient ways

and it only grows!
till you're enveloped
and then life is over
and you have nothing to say for it

voila!
my persistent plague
my black hole
sapping the luster out of my words
and letting the thoughts spiral
confusingly
into dark oblivion
sigh

i dislike chasing my thoughts into the abyss

when you find them

you really can't remove them
or understand them
you just receive the perpetual annoyance of knowing something once occupied a space
and it repeats:

It isnt fair

that you should end up sleeping with the boy who boldly but secretly, confusingly just needed access to your bed
that the vague notion of your missing friends is actually a blatant  chastisement about your social misdemeanor
That you should feel the urge to withdraw from any and all recreational opportunities because you can already tangibly feel the distressing friction between every differing fiber between both your brain and theirs
It isnt fair that you should be so clever, and resourceful but exposure of such elaborate operations will only occur outside all traditional institutions in the privacy of an empty audience
It isnt fair that you have unknowingly began a retreat from life and dinner with your family to find some solstice from a muddling indigent existence that requires you to obsess over trivial details just so you dont miss the rare gratifying hints of a walking compliment
It isnt fair that you'll say yes to anything you haven't learned from life experience to not want
and it isnt fair that one disadvantage should create others by consequence and default
It isnt fair that my adult facade should restrict my child appropriate responses and its public unrest
or for my simple unique characteristics to ooze the paint for which they'll use to commit my image to memory for the entire school.
I'll have to learn to put up with the eggshells that grind into the soft ***** of my feet when I blindly interact with other expressionless but feeling, thoughtless but intellectualizing people
and it isnt fair for my mortified laugh to be chastised

She's just a reflection of pain.
Shattered images cast illusions of a broken woman.
Riddled clues screens those who are genuinely intrigue.
The grand inquisitor acts as a gardener
Sorting out the weeds.
It's so confusingly puzzling to me.
I can't put together how I could expected loyalty, from someone who lies to them self. Unfortunately it's just reality.

Under the lustre  Moon
gazes are barbed,
do I really know you now?
At times your trumpet
plays for the days forlorn.
Yet  your ruinous music
is  confusingly staccato,
others piodiums always knew more,
my confession nonetheless
the adverbial cow will land  
somewhere close I  hope
to feel your clasp chancre

it usually happens like this, the moment you expand and exfoliate in vocab gymnastics worthy of poetry, and cannot fathom the mundane lumberjack constraints of writing fiction, were the use of a thesaurus is in plain sight... people start calling your sentence construct a "psychiatric" symptom of making salads... too bad these critics have such a limited vocab bank account, that they still have to use the thesaurus, in order to "spice things up"! i tried and i tried, but i can't make language rigid, systematic; i tried being the bricklayer of language with paragraph rooms: but i just end ******* it up, like a picasso.

a man might as well have said:
                      to have *shared an experience,
is to also have paid  a remissions for qualms
of having lived a life: mostly apart -

and is that not so?
this "shared" experience,
   is nothing but a reinvention
of the dionysian cult -
and by that i mean:
nothing more than the obliterate
target practice against
any mould, or "biased" glue
to fathom beyond the thought:
something good.

fool the man and folly another,
should he come from an age
of technological "investigations"
and replica interventions -
seems only the nomad,
the less civilised is the one:
who sought wisdom, and found it...
*****-strapped in diapers
and mosquito bites...
    truth to power!
i once had e lake, now aye av a bog,
my my: a fine wide ranging
toilet crouch moment:
but my my, wh'ah a woo!
  i mean view... neever took a ****
and felt so exasperated by the canvas,
than the ease of me giving birth to
a ****-worm...
  oi! armstrong! stretch!

have you noticed why stand-up comedy
is a wholly black vs. white affair?
these days us peeps can't say
anything profound, nothing biblical,
so, we resort to not being taken seriously
and, crack a joke...
    i mean... it doesn't matter that i don't
come from a non-colonial white group,
i still can't say anything profound...
i have to crack a joke, to be taken seriously...

problem is: i might actually crack a bad joke...
i actually might not be that much funny
as a dog chasing its own tail...

a man might as well have said:
to have shared an experience,
is to also have paid
a remissions for qualms
of having lived a life: mostly apart -

and that's true, in that,
a "shared" experience is never a lived
experience...
      the ****'s up with these shamanic
holidays?
   we know we end up on cruise ships
trying to celebrate "thinking",
while at the same time succumbing
to "being" bored...
          
         the only lived we ever had was
down the pub...
    and the "shared" we attempted to
capitalise on?
    bad acid trips, bad shroom trips,
post-scriptum of a white girl
  injecting concentrated ayahuasca...
yeah, really "lived" through it together...
the sharing is not the living,
the week doesn't concentrate with
a weekend, with friday binge, saturday binge,
sunday rest...

     the left? do the capitalist infiltrators
even know what the left stands for,
the left orthodoxy? jew.
you have too much time on your hands,
scrap the 0-hour contracts, and make people
work the mandatory 6, as it was done
in post world-war II "******" states...
less time to riot and chant ******* slogans...
maybe these people can learn
the orthodox way...
        
           people with 2 days off usually waste
one of these days on utopia, and the other
on the status quo...

     **** me, that's decent, i'm going to stutter:

           people with 2 days off usually waste
one of these days on utopia, and the other
on the status quo...

oh yeah, and make army conscription mandatory,
given that universities are obsolete,
just for the boys out there, save the "boys",
bring back mandatory conscription;
it'll be like ilford county high vs.
the ilford ursulines: secular segregation,
and the mosques can just *******;

you know, i this idea of being a social engineer...
it's titillating! like saying the word scone
or crumpet to a russian girlfriend!
**** gives me the giggles!

b.t.w.: shhh, don't tell anyone...
it might be the *** talking...

no, i don't believe in ******* mud sweat
soaking condoms and cheap beer glastenbury of
shared experience...
      i don't believe in "sharing" an experience,
i don't believe in group yoga, group detox,
group schmuck worth of l.s.d. or a dope get-together
to listen to some impromptu jazz and recite
poetry like those beatnik quacks of the 60s...
if it's not a lived experience,
   like preparing dinner, and sitting by the table...
well... nothing is worth sharing... n'est-ce pas?

you either experience a lived experience,
or you experience a mockery of life -
   this... thing, called "shared" experience,
3 days at a festival, and then?
off you go vermin! back into your cages!
chop chop!
            on the ******* treadmills, pronto!
most of these people can't even imitate autism,
or the child, or concentrate within the focus
of solipsism, given the theory, some *******
even claim that it's a mental "illness":
or as i like to call it: the proper state of affairs
of being an only child.

these people do know that they're breeding really
******* patients, hiding behind the label
"mental illness", while at the same time not
calling islamic terrorists as also being mentally ill,
they know that, don't they?
   i mean, the media is breeding really angry people
with this dissociative-dissociation -
yes, i know, but this imminent tautological blunder
can't be metaphorical, akin to plain sighted
interaction of prefix-magnets...

        oh wait... associative-dissociation actually
does make more sense... d'uh: tautological prefixation
never works: the paradoxical blunder...

       oh ****, have a party,
   step it up with "tautological":
as i might also add: existentialism and the inverted
commas - the laziness regarding the aristotelian
genesis of proper nouns, and quick-hand-draw nouns;

and when you write so "confusingly" as to make
your reader distrust you, in that you have read
enough books, for them to not be able to make
identical references of a chronology of reading.

to be honest, given this western media punch-bag?
i'd rather be called a terrorist,
   than someone who's mentally ill...
  god's honest truth, since then i'd be dealing
with puritanical matters of conviction -
and as one theist said to another theist:
much easier contemplating a "non-existent"
being, than being stuck in an atheist's head
pretending to reinvent the wheel,
and the cave man, and return to mama chimp;
just saying... at least the idea of "god"
either brings the desire to procrastinate
by gesticulating the existence of: via prayer -
or being ****** by the void,
    of a non-existence of, the thing that consumes
thought - res edere cogitans;
still, much better than being cannibalised
at an atheist banquet;
i much prefer shoving my ego up his ***,
than into the mind of some atheist,
and then start nodding in approval like
some zombie carrier pigeon,
which scratches its delivery confirmation
with a hook of gangrene.

Thinking. Searching, asking for more.
But what, in my mind do I want to explore?
Define, dissolve, I don’t have a clue.
Not really knowing, what’s it I wanna do.

Looking, delving, confusingly so,
I stare into empty space, knowing not where to go.

What is it? I ask? What is it that I must?
A crossroad, a journey, or something from the past?
The answer I guess, is out there somehow,
I clasp my hands together, my head in a bow.

Hoping, believing, go on, and dig deeper,
Stay still, look out, be content and feel better;
All the answers will, in its time get their cue,
But now learn to wait and you’ll get them when they’re due.

i've always been told to love;
and that if i do,
i do it raw and passionately
but now as i sit here with
the girl i may love,
i am told i cannot

for her body looks too much
like my own, so i am to
love the body of a man
whose soul does not
match mine like hers does

i wish you knew how
confusingly destructive
that sounds-- i am to love
the body of a man over the
soul of a woman

Anyone z replaceable...
But not every one can be replaced.

Anyone z replaceable,
But no one can take anyone's place.
Life z really confusingly understandable.

in this busy concrete jungle
that i hunt and gather in
all the gray that's on display
bores deep into the skin

changing the pigmentation
from tones of flesh to pasty white
with the only light source being
that of florescent stars at night

as reflections in the windows
stare blankly into space
somehow have lost their purpose
in the running of the race

i look confusingly around me
at the rush just to fit in
thinking i need a different jungle
to hunt and gather in

an artist and a philosopher
a poet and a guide
time
for them is
both clear and confusing
confusingly clear
clearly confusing
what would it have been like if
they had been born in a different time?

It begins here,
Undecipherable death.

The dying of the light
With tearful glazed eyes.

Here the soul is at a pause
Waiting to be set free,
A hurried rush to Awaken.

- the body fights to last breaths

Drowning in the world
Drinking life's waters,
The soul swims free.

Far ahead,
A darkness in the light...

And the soul has eyes that see
All things all at once in the lives
Lived underrated and unfulfilled.

-the body wants to live

The shadow grows deep
As sky black becomes a fertile
Ground upon which the soul
Glides watching a piece of everything.

Upon the immensely empty darkness
The light surrounds it,
Suddenly the soul realizes the abyss
Is within, calling itself humanity.

- the flesh craves life

Like a forest of insomnia
Suddenly awakened by a fire,
The soul sees all its lives lived.

The life is dried up,
The river has no source
And the living waters are dried:

Vanish soul,
Awaken in the corridor of wombs,
Be born again and fill
The bottomless being,
   The pregnant life
Of a tired soul awaiting the depths
Of understanding, confusingly conflicting.

- the body wants to feel

This is the bottom
Where souls meet and find
That the darkness resides inside them,
A silence befalls all-

Become the ocean that fills itself,,
Contemplate the premature death
Of stars that we constellated to
Our hopes and dreams,
Piece together the eclipse of understanding
That had escaped you until
Now,
The spiral concludes,
Immortal soul that cannot find
The light,
Children of the Master,
Return and fill the void,
You will hear in every life
That you have filled one cup
At a time,
And when you realize that your
Ordinary was extraordinary
Then the void is filled
And we return to our celestial navigation.

-the body wants to live

The pause while passionate kissing is a painful one
Millimetres away from your tongue
Feeling your exhale on my lower lip
Our tongues meet again
Relief

I'm all empty smoke packs while he's chain smoking without offering me a drag

Nothing more than coffins
French kiss
Ignorance
Bliss

I told him I wanted to feel whole again
I asked him to set me free
Nothing louder than a whisper while he's fast asleep

All I feel is pain
No
All I feel is nothing

I'm left sitting in my room wondering who discovered attraction
Who first felt the need to touch their lips against another's
Who fumbled in the dark and discovered the power of naturally produced dopamine

Will I ever escape his grasp?
Will I ever feel whole without his lips no more than a millimetre away?
I sit and I wonder

This is a sickeness
This is an obsession

I've experimented with drugs but I've yet to find a rock that gets me this high nor has such confusingly addictive qualities

Like the day after Molly depression I feel the weight of your absence
Although I inhale it often
Both your skin and these pills
I will never be okay with the loneliness that I feel while away from both drugs and him

I often picture myself at your front door
Crying
Screaming
Begging for more

My last relationship was no more than use and abuse
And all I've ever wanted was calm and gentle touch
He understands
He understands so well
Accepts my tears, indecisiveness,  loud words and fear of physical contact while sober

I can't do this alone
I'm waiting in a line and I'm scared and I'm quiet
I'm waiting for the next time you'll decide you're lonely and breath me in
I'm waiting to hold your hand in public without fear of past lovers noticing

Six months without talking or eye contact only proves that I'll always ******* wait for you
I can't describe my love
I want to write it all down
But there is not any amount of words in Collins dictionary that could spell out my attraction to you

I know I'm not what you want
I know I'm what you need
I know you are tired
I feel the lack of love when you speak

Hold me
Set me free

I love kisses-
they arm warm, soft, sometimes kinda gross
they make you feel appreciated and wanted
sometimes you catch little bursts of other peoples' dreams in them
and little spurts of hope and desire
I love kisses because I use them to express my love
and that I simply have no better way to tell them
no words or hug is good enough, so I must take the next step
THIS is how much my affection is for you
but what is confusing is the line drawn- the hug
cannot be the epitome of love but you cannot kiss someone
without it being romantic- why must the epitome of love
be romantic? why must things change now
and why must it be not-the-same and confusingly
not how I meant it? kisses are beautiful things
and I would like to share them with as many people as I can
not to say 'quantity over quality' but rather
that I would like to spread as much love, warmth, softness, and
kind-of-grossness as I can until my time here is done.

I was at some party that is and was just like all the other totally forgettable parties
    And there she was the most unforgettable thing I have ever come across
     I mean she was so confusingly beautiful and it made me want to know what would happen if I got closer
      But I didn't know how to move my feet and I found myself at a loss for words to even begin to explain her beauty
     So I stood there and watched from a distance but watching her just made me infatuated with what I knew I could not have