She is like a dandelion on the edge of a cliff
Next to the sea.
The wind-encouraged rapture brings her to her knees as she’s taken
From the rocks into the deadly blue sea.
(She is stronger than she thinks,
I know, that’s why she left me.)

Before the endpoint, the gusting breeze
Meets its end,
So the dandelion plummets into the sandy beach instead.
(No matter what brings her down, she shall always stand up.
It’s the way she is; the dandelion is tough.)

So comfortable now, her stem is stuck
In this thick warm surface,
The tide seems to be interested in this dandelion’s purpose.
(I tried to **** her into me with my love.
She didn’t give me a chance because
I wasn’t enough.)

The tide erupts upon the scene within the lively flower’s green,
And yanks it from the sand to bring her colors to the sea.
(He stole her from me,
she accepted his hand
There was no chance for me)
To the ocean, the flower seemed different from the others;
The dandelion seemed to be tougher.
She has always been strong, my little dandelion,
Even from day one,
(But like I said, I wasn’t good enough)
Nothing could destroy her pride, nothing could be done.
(She told me nothing of her
feelings and left my concerns in the dark)
She brought her roots down within the oceans depths,
And ****** the sea dry until there was nothing left.
And then came the rain.
(She left the door open on the way out,
I was so shattered,
I couldn’t even cry.)

Floating upon a never ending stream.
It guides me to a destination I could never dream.
Thoughts of change are woven into place.
Tied to nothing, not even a base.

Other streams criss-cross my path.
Streams of thoughts and dreams.
Streams of hate and love.
Streams of happiness and sorrow.
All flowing to their endpoints.

Could of. Would of. Should of.
Ridden the Stream of Dreams.
But change was what I needed.
When will it reach its endpoint, I don't know.
I'll ride until I reach that endpoint, that change.

leverage question
what will the day bring
life here this
steps into the unknown is throw
request is a dream
attractive like a face
get lost in the maelstrom
never can't understand

puts a hand endpoint

this is a poem
about Nothing

but in being about Nothing
it is about Something

this is a person
walking Nowhere

by walking Nowhere
their endpoint will be Somewhere

this is a child
with No One

once this child outgrows No One
they will find Someone

everyone in this world
gets caught up in the Now
in the Nothing

but what people need to see
is that if you look a little deeper
a little in the future
there will always be Something

Everything is running fast
you cannot match the speed

you think you have lost
circumstances make u believe

you are losing hope at last
cannot take a proper breath

your curiosity become last
negativity pull you behind

life is at the endpoint
no new hope has seen

Someone comes as a light
glow up your thought

pull you from the night
show you the new roads

lead you to the bright
you find yourself then

meet with your object
everything is cheerful

someone saw your pavement
put you on that path

someone is no one but thou
which enlighten after dark

Darkness always ends in light.
as it is temporary, not permanent.

the passage through time is quite uneasy
imbedded in concrete; consciousness dreamy
faces skewing, anemic monsters
intricate patterns, enhances, obscures
repetition, repetition, repetition, repetition,
incomprehension, incomprehension
i can't continue, can't vacate
i'm only human, my souls to take
i discovered what it means to be
when you can truly see
the epiphany of heavenly monstrosity
visions of a black hole theory
i've seen all of time in one moment
the future, the past, times of atonement
lucid and frightful
enlightening and grateful
heartbeat steadies
i think i'm ready
to explore the world from a different standpoint
and fully know this is not an endpoint
it's forever changing
and we're made for adapting
our primal nature's to live
i will never be held captive

Last night communing with the,
much more than anything,
but still not quite,
echoing in worlds beyond this one,
if it pierces,
empties out carefully
What is it that is never quite,
intact or playfully,
ask the sages to reconsider,
paths to the sun,

Wonderful it will be to reach,
apexed or transcedent,
finger tips dusty or removed,
which is the endpoint subtracted,
faces that are familiar,
but are no more,
bottle green,
they are everything but sad,
dowsed in caffeine again,
heart is drowning in,
stolen courage,
the day passes away,
lost and fragmented.

It's surface is darkest as it shrinks into an endpoint
with no recess but the last fold.

See, I've no way to confirm that which you see,
and you may say the same about my acoustics of memory.

I've already embarked into my curvilinear home, perhaps
hoping to find there a material of permanent memory,
gone to sleep within a Fibonaccian trace.

Always preferring to follow the pink of a surface
till it's impossible to see.
You might not think it a good thing,
but I quietly must disagree.

Begin by touch: smallness is all
For the world is hungry passively,
wanting so bad to oxidize
the interior of us.

My thoughts are all jumbled and my head remains spinning
Another round is over with neither side winning
It always seems to come from the blind side without warning
And causes an uneasy silence until later the next morning.

Two people who years ago gave life to me
Watch as I regress to a toddler when we disagree
Never physically or intentionally, let me quickly point out
But my voice and pitch grows exponentially as I begin to shout.

They have been there in times of sadness and will continue without fail
No matter how choppy the water gets as I try to set my own sail
I was raised to be independent; to decide what’s right for me
But sometimes it’s hard to tell; is it the chair or me they see?

Independence is what they say like it’s the endpoint on a map
But sometimes I feel stuck, like a golfer’s ball in a sand trap
Decades of difference affect our worldview
They think I am too negative, and yes that might be true.

Oftentimes when these different ideas are spoken aloud
It feels like my perspective is lost and never truly found
Close friends and others understand how my feelings rise
But exclaiming them in every instance really isn’t wise.

In fairness to them, I haven’t made things a snap
My time under their roof really should be at a wrap
These are supposed to be empty nest years
Not for overreacting to everything that I hear.

And in most ways things are good; better than they have ever been
Aides come and assist me; the situation is win-win
We celebrate each other’s success, laugh and joke when we can
Each continuously vowing not to let the whirlpool start again.

Inside all of us there lies something to be discovered
and I think the spark you put at the bottom of my lungs might be enough
to remember mine
you are a fire and I am ash
brand new, I feel sorry for eventually suffocating you
I hate cities
I hate people
but I love persons
I would get on a train right now just to watch
people spill like water into the underground
seemingly searching for something within the tunnels
some simply a way out
others a way in
some just to sleep
I saw a man with an airport under his skin once
and a woman next to him with clouds brushing lips with her fingers
they were holding hands
and I swear I heard the boarding call faintly as they exited
I hope he remembers to breathe
sometimes it rains on the subway
and sometimes you can't keep the sun out
people are always rushing to some
unknown endpoint
I'll sit in the corner and ride the blue line until they kick me off
far enough away so they can't touch me
but I can touch them
sometimes I'll close my eyes
imagine that this train is taking me home
imagine going down a snowy hill at 80
looking next to me, there you are
so I put on the brakes
"I only want to **** myself, I don't want to **** you"
I'll open my eyes
and see the life around me

maybe
I can
stay just a little longer

Everything must come to an end
Rain, happiness, peace and even life
There are no exceptions

Every story has its ending
Every birth has its death
And every road has an endpoint

Forever does exist
Yet it doesn't happen
And it will never be

So no matter how hard we run
No matter how far we go
Every race has its finish line

BUCKLEY BOY


Caressing half-sounds
Stumbling your stories
Under star-snake glories
Round the flickered embers


Did silence shake you
And tear you apart
As desperate loss
Tracked endless plains?


Dying in your dreams
When the cord tightens
Did your execution
Proceed as seemed it must?


How many atrocities
Were buried in the sand
And laid aside
Then brought to hand?


Years without kindred
Did you lose control
Find communion dead
And cease expression


Traversing the empty spaces
In dark companion?
Did you long for traces
Of what was told?



In the waste and fever
Did regret ride high
Chaffing the leaver
Chiding the loser why


So many roads were tried
Through trackless wastes
Where stream beds lied
And haste led back?


Walking on the edge
Of no escape
Left on hillsides
By your last mistake


When the dark broke in
Was an icy flaw
The token endpoint
Holding a wider line?

Everyone searches
never everyone finds
Everyone fights
never everyone survives
This was not never ending
Cause we're both too young
To give into forever
Trying to fit a larger than life figure.

You surely are mistaken
You've never felt love
Let me tell you why
It's just a fantasy
You're running on empty
And empty is all you can give.

I never belonged in you
I'm just a chapter that's about to end
Or maybe not a chapter at all
Leaving the hurt behind
But you are a closed chapter
The book I could not complete.

Your invisible care left me cold
Closed to the universe around you
Begging to be seen through your eyes
Yet your eyes remained closed
As did your heart.

For I am nothing and so is my heart
Feeling the emptiness' burst
In almost every moment
Leaving me in broken peace
Shattered the master piece
Take my heart
For it was not mine anymore
Let me be just empty
Cold, dark, numb and closed.

It's a bad habit I've picked up,
that when I start getting confused
about life I panic, want to run.
You see, it just seems infinitely
easier to leave it all behind,
let the chaos remain while I go
                                                              ­           somewhere
unknown and begin anew.
I've seen it time and again,
bore witness to the pattern
as my mom loaded us up and fled.
As a child I hated being forced
to pick up my entire life to go
                                                                ­            along
for a ride I never wanted.
As an adult though, I understand,
more completely than I would ever
have thought possible. And now
is one of those pivotal times
I'm stuck contemplating
                                                                ­           the way
out of the mess I've created.
I know the routine all too well:
sell all, keep only what fits
in the back of the car. All else
is extraneous, replaceable.
Drive without purpose until
                                                                ­           I've lost
all semblance of an endpoint.
Where I end up is where I go.
Some try to tell me that this
method of coping is unhealthy,
but how can I fight its allure?
When my mind becomes madness
and I can't figure my life out,
what's a better solution than
running, flight over fight,
no one to complicate things, only
                                                                ­            myself.

There is a certain illusion
that arrivals and departures are different,
that ways are just obstacles that, in the end,
lead us to an endpoint.

They just lead us into new ways.

My ways feel the weight of my feet, my wheels,
of cars and buses and trucks and tanks;
they feel the weight of heavy conscience, of tears and of guilts.
And, in return, they lead us to who knows where.

We spend our entire lives building ways in forms of
bridges, roads, tunnels, trails and rails.
Leveling, tearing, drilling, exploding some ****** land
in order to get somewhere.

I walk through roads in neighborhoods
through books and program codes,
through notes in songs,
through colors in the sky,
through dreams and imaginations,
because life is the ultimate way:
from birth to death.

It would be unwise to believe that the way is not important

Be by my side,
In every changes of tide.
Come with me,
We could survive the night,
With laughs and tears,
Of our distinctive minds,
Sharing our thoughts,
Spreading the canvas out,
Professionally.
I like the words
In your poems,
As much as I like,
The thought of you in my mind.
Alright, alright,
Thankfully it is the endpoint,
And I'm sure volition and desirelessness will collide.

Always running it seems a race with no finish line, just stop at every checkpoint last minute desperate attempts for what I don't know, maybe just someone to call mine. A brief moment I'm caught in your eyes, you see me, a certain truth in this moment I can't disguise. In the morning it's over your gone it's all but truth only beautiful lies. The circle unending I reach such highs, only vain attempts to comfort the unbearable lows, a constant internal struggle the only resemblance in between that just I feel the blows. I need to fly the way you lift me up just one more time, to feel in bliss things about myself things unseen but oh so real with you when I feel your kiss. Only ever attracting the company I keep not my good friends, just broken demons that fester within me. I look in your eyes but I can't find you, your face always changing, the consistency is just in the end myself I'm left blaming. In a desperate attempt at feeling whole, to feel like I'm breathing, I lose more of myself every time I let you grab hold, for I know now nothing can ever stay if it's made of gold. May I never finish this race, for now in the endpoint, I'm afraid alone I'll only ever find my place. Until then again in the familiarity of strangers I'll weaken as I grasp tighter for my own reality I can't embrace. Right now I'm broken and it seems for some time this won't change hard to feel supported when your shadow doesn't even want to stay.

It is 7:30 in Appleton a Monday
wet with two straight days of rain,
of course it is 2012 but I can't quite get
on my feet when this blanket is so warm
and the 8:30 class is so cold but there
is usually a 8:20 urge and a 8:25 surge
and what do you know, it feels like fall

I have arrived at the crosswalk, this time
with grace and style but also with a thought
that I should one day run full sprint in
the wrong direction to see where I end up
but there are flashing yellow lights so
anyway its rather foggy and I will
have to cut across the frosty grass with
all its leaves because I need to ***
and there is a restroom next door
but hold it because my phone says
8:31 I am a whole minute late, run?

what’s a minute but a mint and a nut
Elevated into Evanescence by Elixir Endpoint,
because that class was quick plus I have
Philosophy today but I forgot to print my
essay so I walk to LANCE HALL and
walk up stairs to my door and there is my
Click-Click, with Song-Song and Look-Look
still on upon waking and I a few seconds
later close those and print but it is slow and
there is a spinning rainbow wheel with a
dreamscape reel and a time warp feel

but that happens so I go downstairs
and double-click twice and hear noise!
Fear strikes as TONER LOW appears
and a red light blinks for ATTENTION
however the pages come out and
I staple them with careful ordering of course
and after I place it in the mailbox it is
lunch time, or cool-down-mindful-now

I sit down with food ready and a PACKERS
victory staring at me enthusiastically from paper
I begin to eat with Time coming around
the corner in a tilbury rolling his wheels to
11:07 and my name is called by a friend
who comes and we talk and we talk
and we -

On our many pathways

We look for the endpoint

Which defines..we think

A lifting endearment

In itself our worthy wish..

But no..satisfaction fades

To a new endpoint which

Seems the new real thing..

Until..the endpoint is

Revealed as..yet one more

Corpse...



See Gospel of Thomas

(56) Jesus says:

“Whoever has come to know the world has found a corpse.

And whoever has found (this) corpse, of him the world is not worthy.”

To you, I was a butterfly
To me, you were a prince
The one who I could count on to show up in armor shining bright

Oh, so bright
Bright, unlike your eyes
That had darkened with pain

Pain that you passed on to me
Passed like a torch to carry for miles
A torch with no endpoint but its next victim

A butterfly can only carry itself so far with the weight of a torch
A torch, thrown into a heart
A heart with paper walls and gasoline veins

Because of that
Because of what
Because of that chat
Because somewhat
Because I fell a lot
Because I just sat
Because that was at
some joint
some disappoint
some just make an endpoint

xo

There are an abundance types of people
Starting from simple and ending with complex
Some people have a gift to see a Rigel
And we all have a different rival

There is a contrast between our perspectives.
We dissimilar, a quiet, reflective
We define words, in many different settings.
And for all of us, there is a unlike ending

Besides. What connects us?
This is a question of the day!
The question that trembles me every day.
What are the things that link 7 billion people?


Chapter 1: Time.
Time is one of the most valuable piece in our life
It’s limited and it never waits for you.
Time, Never waits when you finish Arguing.
Time, Never waits when you are sitting aimlessly.
      We must spend time graciously.

What are the things that link 7 billion people?


Chapter 2: Fear
Only fear destroys our inner-world.
It grabs our souls in a nefarious way
And it thrusts us every day
The feeling of fear, drags and draws us, to the darkest point
And swallow us, leading us to the endpoint

What are the things that link 7 billion people?


Chapter 3: Death
In our story, we will touch so many precious things and we will recall memorable moments in our life’s.
As the time will pass, we won’t notice how we will thrive.
However...
Life doesn't guarantee us anything, except death.
There will be a time when we will have our last breath.

These are the things that link 7 billion people.

the metaphysics of a morning

wound can not be dressed,

the pain is sharp because it is dull.

as if nose to nose with a flamboyant endpoint.

boldface, as with confidences surrounding

its gaping matter.

the not quite of it, the slanting deck of a ship--

with the horizon waving stupidly as

you slide backward.

sea legs, land legs--and the obsessive stickler

that sorts detail to come of a haphazard nature.

by one intrepid discoverer panoramically queasy--

disconsolate and setting.