What do you do when finally you realize what death is? You have so much planned for the future, but never know what your fate is.
You finally realize how people would feel if you actually did it. But you're so sad and buried ssooo deep into your problems you don't give a ****. You don't care what they would say, how they would feel. It's all just a mess waiting to unpeel. You can't dig yourself out, you feel it's the only way. Cloud of judgement, jumbles of depression planted in your brain, you can't get out. Its deeper than being able to just shout. You think maybe its a disease? Maybe it's a dream? But it's real life and it all hurts more than a feen.
You start to wonder who matters and who doesn't. Put them in a list. But no one's on the list.. It doesn't make sense, you can't comprehend, so oh, go along, it's your mind after all. You follow along because you think it's normal. You suppose everyone goes through this, it's just a phase. It could be more horrible.
Cloud of judgement, memories erase, jumbles controlling your mind. You lost your chance to get out, there's no more time. You worry, stress, fight, deny. But that does nothing but fills up more jumbles in your mind.
You start to think too much, you cry inside. The thought of it all is too intertwined. You stand up and try to chop the walls down, but here comes ANOTHER thing, and turns it all around. You search for ideas, look deep in the mug. But all you can think of, are new types of drugs. You resist as long as you can, but eventually flip open that illegal ban.
You mess it up more, JUMBLES GALORE..
Suddenly...you become empty. You get so confused, all of the jumbles have finally fused. You start to feel nothing, it all becomes numb. You want nothing, than to just be done.
So you plan, plot, think, think, and think. That's all you ever do, it's what it's come down to. You're so sad, you don't have a clue. And that's all it ever is, you're just depressed, so lost in the mess.

Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.

Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.

Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.

Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto's red rune.

Tall towers and pyramids ivy'd and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the ****-cumber'd streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o'er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick horde retreats.

Belfries that buckle against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac'd,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the wastes.

How do you decide?
Decide what to do,
What the future holds for you?
I don’t understand, one goal,
One goal that somehow
Supersedes them all.

How do you choose?
When passion flows through you,
For not just one, nor two,
But many life paths, careers,
It all means something to you?

I feel lost, thinking of the future.
I’m floating by, trying to find,
Something that could spark
More than mere interest,
Something that could captivate,
Hypnotize me for long enough.

Because you see, I flit from one
Passion to the next, one minute
I am drawing, the next sewing,
The next it’s animals I love,
Or how about teaching children?

And I sit here empty, not sure
Which path to take, which goal
To make, to work towards,
Because right now, I’m in
The inbetween, no job,
Not in school, what do I do?

But the reality is, I’m trying to find
That one magic passion,
That somehow works with my
Disable body, since almost everything,
I find it all exhausting.
And my mind is spinning circles,
A dog chasing its tail.

Why can’t I do it all?
Why can’t I just enjoy life, enjoy
All of the things it brings,
And take my time, because I’m
So tired, of trying to figure it all out.
Tired of planning, I’ve never been
Too good at planning, when there’s
So many things occupying my mind,
So many things that I desire.

But even then, even then, if I could find
A goal to work towards, a dream job
For right now, well that takes work
And it takes time, because it
Turns out it’s all a ladder that
We all have to climb and being disabled,
Well I feel left behind, not sure
How to move forward when
I also have to go up, and going
Up has always been so draining.

I must work now, to somehow
Get somewhere I would rather be,
But what do you do when most jobs
Require me to be on my feet,
With my level of experience,
And education, limiting me?
It’s like I have to hurt myself
In order to hopefully some day,
Live a better life, I guess that’s why
So many say, ‘suffer now, and
You’ll get your reward later’

I tried university, tried college,
But you see, being disabled,
Has made them  difficult for me.
At least, in the ways that I was pursuing.
And now I’m stuck, trying to find my way,
How to get out of this rut, this mess,
All around me while being limited
By my own body, when I’m so used
To trying so hard to keep up
With the rest of them, charging
At how much money they can earn.

Money, it always comes back to money.
And money stresses me out,
Makes me more sick, gives me more
Pain that I would ever like to be in.
Well, apparently, money is
Supposed to be the solution.

Not so easy when the job market is crap,
I didn’t come from money, so I had to
Start off with nothing, and make my own way.
But where do you start, when
All your ‘now’ prospects seem
Rather lackluster and all you can do
Is prepare for a future.

Strange to think that we’re told to
Live each and every day like
It’s the last one we may ever live,
When we have to spend our beginnings
Stuck in preparing, deciding, and striving
For a future, so hard to make,
When all you started with was
A journal to write in.

I just want to live now,
I want to live everyday,
I want to spend more time
Cultivating all this passion inside
Of me, it’s bursting inside of me.

But there’s this rut, this anxiety,
This fear, of having to build a life,
No, a career. So that I can live
In the future, instead of now,
So that hopefully, we can get by,
Scrape by, by the skins of our teeth.

Tired of working crap jobs,
That I don’t really like, where we’re
Unappreciated, and paid to barely live.
Overworked, underpaid, I’m in so much pain.
My body, can’t stand in this pain,
But that’s all I can do is stand.
In pain, at a cash register,
Or making drinks, no consideration,
Of the struggle it is of being disabled.

Because we all have to able.
Able to stand, to push, to work
Your ***** off, until there’s nothing left,
You’ve given all you’ve got, and then
Some. Soul *******, career bent,
Work too hard, to fit in.
You got to be a workaholic to fit in.

Well I can’t keep up with that pace,
And I see it wearing people thin,
People that have more strength,
More drive than I ever did.
How are we supposed to live,
When you have to work to live,
And, in turn, live to work.
It’s extremely exhausting.

All of this jumbles inside me,
I can’t breathe, can’t decide,
How I’m supposed to live my life
When everything screams
On all sides, that I’m supposed to be
Running, supposed to be rushing,
And that all seems so wrong.

I just want to live a life that has meaning.
Something meaningful to me, that I can
Actually enjoy each moment as it passes
Us all by, I don’t want to rush life
Before it all ends, I’m so tired
Of trying to run in this ‘rat race’
It’s not a race, I need a slower pace.
I demand a slower place.
No more running, no more racing,
It’s time to live in the now,
No fear.

twinkle birds and tessellates, bends my mind to outer space. lands me in infinity of never ending affinity to the universe.
but sweetest ideas were shortly lived at reality slowly sifts away to repeated visions that turn loved faces into panic that glitches me into unbreakable circles of walk away, walk away.
no awareness of a before from this feel the abyss of this helplessness **** me into no ending so I seice to begin.
but as the panic subsides my mind starts to ride the energy that resides in my being from the kingfisher floor to the fish strewn ceiling.
sentient beings **** at the seams, my dream of weightlessness pull the windows to break towards the secrets of simple existence.
invisible water sends the strands of fur swelling and glowing into talk of the polar bear whose hair weaves into the atoms that feed my jumbled dreams.

hands rip through the plaster as the sounds grow louder and faster, helicopters shake the boiler from the pipes but I still feel great.
the tables tremble as I soak up the bass and the treble. sensual overload through my eyes the magic multiplies, angels can hear my sighs as the roof opens to tunnel towards the skies.
geometric patterns that I could never have imagines circle and sweep, creeping my further from sleep.
I have breached something new, an extreme that dares its self to be seen only my the few who ****** it. I grab these new senses and attach it to my masses of emotions, that have been formed my these chemicals. neutrons and protons that explore the breadth oh Pantones schemes, weaving into the atoms that feed my jumbles dreams.

release my mind from the confines of rinse and repeat, out of easy street and onto the sunrise that surrounds me. revelations that never siese to confound me.
destruction was peace pulling my beliefs, daring the world to touch me as the floor tips the cabinets from the walls. I am small. here in this perfect world. my hands make the plants grow as they show me all it takes to break the confines of the human condition is to expand your mind and reposition your nervous system to reach a different supposition.



little lion
please read my other work if you like this one!
http://trivialitesofabusymind.blogspot.co.uk/

the nights you call lonely
are the nights i spend
reading and writing and drawing
and loving my own company
i enjoy dreaming of possibilities
and laying in complete silence
you see, my mind is so loud
louder than the party you're at tonight
and for me that is enough
i balance it out by being quiet,
by producing shambles of poetry
and endless jumbles of words
to try and understand
that it is okay to love the silence
and the mystery of who i am
you find yourself in bright lights
and loud music
i find myself in the dark
we have been afraid of our whole lives
it is the darkness and the silence
that make you so scared of us
but we are simply introverts
trying to fit into a world made for you
while you are dancing your heart out
ours are pounding in pride
as we proofread our writing for the 100th time
your open arms and our open minds
embrace in harmony
you see, i started writing us instead of me
because i know i am not alone
on these nights you call lonely
i call lovely

Wherein without a mouthful of air,
He spoke of materialism with
a judge’s
            Merciless verdict.
His eyes so glazed yet passionate,
            He threw his thoughts to the ceiling,
Like rocks in a plastic bag,
            To see if it could make a bang
And his speeches are so angelic
Amongst the ignorant giggles
            And the frayed songs of yawns,
You really had to give him credit. For, you
See, he stares out at a whole different cosmic
Sect in a wanton orchestra
            Filled with red wallows of
            Flags and pride.
Scared jumbles strewn like flowers across this dying opinion-land,
He’s seen it all despite his accent.
He’s strummed cold and excited to be here.
His life is a rusting metal scrap
Tossed to the side of the masterpiece from whence it came.

He thinks that everybody must have been a spy…

No, wait, two quirks tossed in to
Hear the Man talk. It’s all a
Meandering walk from where
The toads squat.

He describes it as a war for the value of academic standards,
Which are now expiring before his eyes, and how we’re all
A bunch of rotting worms dying as we speak. The hope is
That the people from your life will be defeated by you,
Right? That’s how it goes in the war of everybody
Against everybody.  He desires to make all of life
Into a dream… but that would result in economic
Impediments.

Give him the $1 million, also known as “the cool mill.”
Everybody must have been a spy.

You couldn’t look for this logic
Beneath a rock
Or stuck in your lover’s hair.

He’s depressed because he is not asleep – he’s acutely aware.
He speaks like rapturous nuns,
  throwing themselves on to the cross
And begging me to ready the nails.

Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
But I’ve got no rhythm tip toe around the precision of other writers  
I get lost easily in the waves of patterns and structure
Rupture my skin in the process
Destroying words and phrases in the mess of my skin and blood
Dragging myself through the mud I am a jumble of words that don’t even fit together in sentences
My types of fetish’s aren’t feet or latex, but poetry
Supposedly everyone can rhyme but
My fingers can find the time from the space between pen and paper
Maybe if i cover my room in wallpaper made from failed poems
I’ll finally get there
Rip out all my hair
I’ve never successfully written rhyme worth sharing
I’ve been in this despairing state for a while
Ran miles on my tongue  
Wrung myself dry from all my creativity
Found I have a bigotry towards everything I write

Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I ask for an example
Sample sounds on paper
Ending up with ample amounts of couplets
But its never enough, its always going to fall short
Someone needs to take me to court I’m copying the sound of other writers
Profound thoughts never said eloquently enough
It’s rough to be a writer that doesn’t know how to write
But I’ve never been the type to give up
Cover up all my failed attempts at rhyming with free-verse
Curse me, Or even worse
Coerce me into thinking I know what I’m doing
Because whats worse than blissful ignorance
Hand my a fistful of advice and set me free
But I’ll never be the girl who rhymes rhymes
My fingers will never find the time lost between pen and paper

Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
Sometimes they nearly get their wish
But all dreams parish in jumbles of words in phrases
Blaze through whole journals trying to write two poems
Crumbling my own thoughts in my too fast thought process

Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I still with pencil and paper
Set out on this caper
With a website that gives me words that rhyme
I’ve decided to let people get their fix
Try my hand at rhymes
Take my time
And slow down my too fast thought process
Soak up all my creativity
A rid my mind of every bigotry I ever had
Because the girl who rhymes
Will always be the girl who rhymes

I frequently read my old poems and
feel my glass heart splinter with impatience
and demand why my muse escapes
my passions, and my talent must
sleep cold and lonely within the shadowy crescent
where an oil-fire’s tongues dare not lick.

Then, when face with banal, bittersweet
mimicry week after week, therein
braces a bothered stirring of flavorful
jumbles as aimless as houseflies bouncing
against the window blinds.

And, once again, my poems,
with their phoenix lifestyles, breathe brave
gulps with scarlet-robin-******* puffed
with gung-** vigor.
Where the poet’s rhythm takes on equestrian
expression along the staggered verses,
bequeathing shine to syllabic shine
and stealing pop from pursed, pronouncing lips.

Each doting word may kiss and nuzzle the
splinters that recognize a cut so rare
that this world’s physical balance would overturn
with no presence of such wondrous oddity.

mumbles, jumbles, into the night
my baby phoenix stumbles into its plight
a better life was merely imagined
but my dove, my dear, bitterly determined

huddled witnesses
there! in the square
a drove of fireflies, watching
her rebirth in fire, laid bare.

her tuckered tail, dead-centered --
shaking off crimson pearls of lunar lunacy,
henceforth, bleeding on her own time, her own tenancy.

her talons look at us.
we look at fiery lips that lash and scorch her.
never more before his penetrating gaze,
as her wings form a column of blaze.

she soars, she screams:
but to nothing but scorn --
the square-goers think she is just forlorn.  

my dove, my dear, for your ****** death --
I pray it greets not a dragon's breath.

The best kind of relief
comes from the friends
who take the pain
without question
without doubt

I was in a car accident in September.
I suffered a severe concussion.
Though my body is rattled and
bruised, I believe will heal fine.
I am getting extensive therapy
and treatment.
My brain on the other hand is having
a bit more difficulty pulling it together.
Words don't line up, thoughts are
confused jumbles of messy patterns
that don't make sense sometimes.
This is very scary to me.
As I write everything on my tablet
or my android phone, looking at the
screen hurts my eyes and my brain.
I am very sad as of late. Have been
crying (more than usual). Head
hurts all the time. Getting lost a lot,
like when I drive etc etc etc. Writing
backwards. Everything written,
looks like it is at a slant (yuck).
And I have developed a Very significant,  
interesting stutter. Fascinating really...
All I want to do is sleep...
(which I have become very good at)
and to be held...
(just isn't in the mix right now).

I may try reposting some of my
old work at this time, until I'm better.
I will do my best to check in on the Dailies. 
I need to stay away from reading and
commenting. : ((  : ((  : ((   At least for now.
I am Sure, I Will Get Better!!!
☆●♡♢♡●☆

I need you all to know how much
I've come to Love and Appreciate my HP Family.
One of the best gifts I have given
Myself. Also, I am trying to join
Kalypso and Gang with Our collection
of Poems on Sound Cloud.
If I can ever figure it out
♡ Peace and Love ♡
▪○●☆♡♢♡☆●○▪
Christi~ MoonFlower~ Fluer de Luna

Why is there lies?
Trips my eyes and throat with his tongue,
Dislodges his word jumbles into my ears.
To amuse?
Not even a stutter breaks it.
I see no end for us.
Just false hope.

i dont really know what im interested in,
but right now my interest's in you.
right now the only ambition i have
is to hold boomboxes outside your window.
and that sentiment was cute when i was 15,
skipping gym class to spend
some more time as a friend,
but as of right now, i should have a drive
towards something more responsible,
than the feel of your cheek
against mine.

i have no clue what im capable of,
but how can any feat compare,
to the brilliant warmth that is
found in those eyes
when one of these jumbles of words
makes you smile?
or better yet, laugh?

these curls, these crunches, these chinos, these white strips,
these copies of The Economist and the New York Times,
are all in attempt to make sure that the glow
that emits from those pores remains visible.
health is a clever cover-up, without the motivation,
i'd listen to The Smiths for just the melodies,
and help myself to another portion (of bacon).

right now, the only reason i'm writing this down,
is i hear that chicks dig poetry,
they're constructed in this way to feign substance,
so that you might associate substance with me,
and when i go on stage to perform these words,
it's in hopes that you'd hear them,
or at least hear that i'm a "slam poet".

these moments of knowing and not-knowing,
make this life worthwhile
and honestly i feel like that's f*cked up,
but i'd rather the question be,
one where you're the answer,
than one where you're not a factor.

I.
i'm clingy.
you can't manage to love someone that always happens to stick onto you like fresh fallen snow on the bottom of your snowboots or pounding water that adheres to your skin in a shower. no one wants someone who they can't shake off and get away from a little. but with me, i will try my hardest not to let that happen. because i can't even fathom the thought of you walking out that door and never coming back.

II.
my brain is like spaghetti.
my thoughts are always messy and all over the place. it's extremely challenging to sort everything out so i don't even try anymore. everything just jumbles and mixes together and you can't really differentiate one strand from another. and my grandmother always told me that guys don't like messy girls.

III.
sometimes i'm just a really sad poem with feet.
i get into moods. moods where i think everything is wrong and that i'm useless. no one likes girls like that. boys like confidence, right?

IV.
i'll try to make a home out of you.
and you can't make homes out of people. but i don't think that'll ever get through my thick skull.

V.
you don't know how to love me.
no one does. no one has quite been able to figure it out.
and i think you're okay with that.

Trapped in your thoughts
And your brain jumbles when she near
After some time its just you and her
the sunset clashing with the stars
with the spark in the skies you both will lock eyes
and the dangerous game has begun
after a few months the bonds broke
you over think every situation
the trust is gone and your mind will cave in
now she’s gone with your mind re-wired
you try to drink away the pain but it adds to the fire
in-between your hands you feel the spaces
and you can’t get her back you will be replaced then
sitting in the bath tub with a bottle of ***
the stage of loneliness hits whille you stare and the celling
numb from the pain and losing all feelings
so just stare the sky and let your mind clear

A picture is worth a thousand words,
but not all of them are happy.
To see unhappy is to think unhappy
leading to a day of stress.

A stressful day
jumbles your mind
twists your stomach
and clenches your hands.
A stressful day
is how to create
a thousand problems.

There is no better way that i can think of
to dump of all the stress
than to rid of the problem
with a cigarette.

As it pulls from your lips
and slips from your fingers
and falls to the ground,
take a deep breath,
in and out,
to release the stress
and your problems.

Look at the stub
small, white, and burnt,
laying at your toes.

Now smile and
relax your hands.
A thousand words
and a thousand problems
have now been left
as a conflict to deal with
for the cigarette.

Monster,
making me your monster,
I know your games

I may be trapped
but I will
I will
find my way out,
**** you
life is beautiful,
I am ID
and ED
and GOD
and everything else that has mixed meanings
******* dichotomies
and word jumbles
and brains splattered,
right here. Turn away, go back to your pattern,
go back to your story and be ******* comfortable.

Not today, I said to the monster,
standing up,
you manifest as a bug
a cockroach, I hate those things,
and I squish you.

I'm a puzzle waiting to be solved. Complicated. That jumbles their minds. A puzzle with my broken pieces scattered all along the lanes and roads on the map of my dark dark life. They try to find my fragments and they fail. I'm built of shattered words of hope tripping on trails of self doubt.

And with strangled emotions ricocheting against the walls of my soul. The hollow echoes of those sweet lullabies that reverberates through my mind, making no definitions, leaving me empty.

And it's only numb pain rebounding within my veins. As they crack open my walls of security. All there eyes scruntinize me under their cruel disgusted gazes as I slump to ground and shiver, bleeding my wounds again and again.

I can't be who I am.

And after a million lost battles I surrender.

And accept its only darkness that defines me.

Letters get jumbled and mumbled words spill forth
a fifth of gin would help me begin
to sort these thoughts into a sensible order
but I can't afford a fifth and my sixth sense warns me
that alcohol will destroy me
so I set out blind
unable to find the sentiments in sentences or paragraphs
and,
someone laughs out loud.

Me,
I'm not so proud now
can't tell you whether or how I feel and though I want to be real with you
deal with you on an equal basis
my face is
lost in the jumbles
mouth that still mumbles
stomach that rumbles as the the acid builds
filled with some fear that if you try to come near
I won't and don't know what to say or do
and do you never stop and think
how much easier it is to write out words of love in ink?

I think a pen is a godsend to those who could not lend their mouths to their words
and in words I can write,
I can write us of night in the bed
pen it in red
pen it in blue
that's what I'll do,
Send to you my  love, written in lines and written of times when the mighty pen holds all the aces
even then my heart beats fast as I pace the floor real slow and the ink don't want to flow and I think there's something wrong with me
calamity.

I need some help to wander
then I need some more, to pen the words to make you soar
and will you marry me?
oh
the pen wants a wedding
shedding its ink into what I only think but have never said
penned in red.

If I used a marker
wore a parka
had a part time job as a fairground barker
would it be the same as any time I hear your name.

I freeze
and could you please unjumble me
unmumble the words I cannot say and let me be
a different pen and in the fountains where I spout
let me shout out everywhere
that you're my girl
but when?

This is Me.
The final part.
From one broken home,
to one broken heart.

Hidden behind the mask
of the old porcelain doll,
cracked and tortured.
I have seen it all.

Uncombed hair
and clothes that are rag,
Behold my feelings,
I am but sad.

No one would listen,
during my youth,
when I was a young man
or drinking my *****.

The alleys were dark
with walls caving in.
Hearing voices inside me,
that's where it begins.

Sitting alone,
by one candle light,
I saw pen and paper,
blown by surprise.

I started to talk,
with the pen in my hand,
writing muse on the pulp,
trying my hand.

I was confused,
my words were a mess.
To me, there just jumbles,
I must confess.

I read them back,
and started to sigh,
Because this is my sad story,
It made me  cry.

At the club
Dancing away
Smoke
In my lungs
Losing my mind
So many thoughts jumbles up in my head.
Why am I like this??
Oh yeah...
Cause your ****** up mind,
messed with mine

I sink in
I rest my knobby elbows on the hard glass
            my dark, fuzzy, pinpricked reflection stares up at me
I place my cold palms on my hot eyes.
These eyes, they've seen too much
            yet, nearly not enough
My chapped lips,
            stingingly soothed by minty beeswax
My clothes
            plaid polo flannel, red, green, tan, black, white, jumbles, like me
My cold feet stick out,
            they rest painfully on a wood bar long stripped of stain
An old soul trapped with the mind of a child in a teenager's body.
This be will interesting.

King kong!
You've heard of his rumble in the Jungle,
his mumbles and his jumbles,
his jabs and yabs
And the thriller in manila.
He was lord of the rings,
marabout of his bouts,
griot of his fights.
The master of the shuffle and the rope-a-dope
Was dope and made the dough.
I heard of his wits and his fist,
Of the ease of his wrist
And the gist of his float,
He fluttered with his feet
Then stung like a bee
His belt was his crown
In his robes he was king
None can contest
He was lord of the ring.

Lust
is l(ove) (st)reet
without
you

Lust is
Lost
without
you

Lust is
life with
"I" (f)eeling (e)xcited

Lust is
flexible
but never
a sin
until
it is
with
(u)

Sometimes I try and step up to be brave
Then stuff comes in and jumbles in my brain
I try to ignore it but then I fall apart
I should have listened when they said it'd be hard
Walk down a path and try to look brave
Keep your head above water
Clean cut and then shave
Now I am here
A jumbled mess now in your view
Try to keep that distance
Maybe you'll see who I am soon
When I spill my drink all over you
Or trip down the stairs
and I hope you don't  puke
I wasn't made as a beautiful view
Because I wasn't made to be perfection at all
In fact I can tell you  I wasn't even planned at all
Try not to judge too much because I'll warn you
I'm going to fall or fail something soon

serenity encompassing the shy masks
masked marble stone with the sliver of gold
two slits and a mouth to taste
those withering syllables left decadently on shore

masks, masks drinking roaming with haste
jumbles of words unspoken and texts never sent
interiors slashed as desire gathered and clashed

how long can our masks endure to the last?

last sip of golden beams
quench the sunlight with aching feet
last time stepping out the auditorium door
I swear, you were a great actor amidst the despair
last time you'll lay your eyes into another
getting lost trying to comprehend the dots
the last stroke of fear eradicated the moment
the fastens are unclasped,

fall
     tumbling
                     flying
                               spinning
                                              exhilaration
                                                                ­   clarity
                                                         ­                     weightless
as the mask becomes of no more
something like vertigo,
sudden visions of peripheral miracles
and yearn to feel your own cheekbones

I want to write a poem.
But that's not how it works.
I want to show em.
But I cant defeat the oh so worthy smirks.
I want to win.
But I can't even decide if I want to go in.
My thoughts are in jumbles,
my stomach rumbles,
my heart aches
my body quakes.

I sit in front of my computer
Looking at the blank screen in front of me
Waiting for God to create something for me
And put it in my head

I don't put an ounce of thought
I don't take the careful precision
That is necessary to write a decent poem
I just sit down and write whatever comes to my mind

And when that creativity comes
I mix it in with a little bit of confusing
Jumbles
And
Mispalled words
To throw others off
And attempt to be more effective by adding a bit of italic and bold
As well as add symbolism like a donkey licking the outer rim of my ****

Then when others ask about what I mean
I give some stupid answer
Or if I really want to sound smart
Just say it means nothing at all

Then the people reading my poems praise me
And call my work a masterpiece
And then they wonder why the next few things I put out is ****

A long time ago, in this land, before people forgot my name.
I do not understand why they forgot, or what was forgotten.
It is only a thousand miles separating us
and the unity of space travels through the jolts of electric currents.
I am not alone—
neither are you, we are both buried deep inside ourselves
hidden behind the masks of personalities we have
taped over around our faces
two deep beings, burrowed beneath the thumping
jumbles of our thoughts, meditating in the core
and whispering quietly like wheat upon the land.

When someone asks you "How are you doing" and you respond saying "good". What is good really? Good is a defintion that disguises hurt and pain, laughters and smiles all at the sametime.
I can tell just by the way she carries herself. She is "good". She is trying to takeover both sides of the scale, trying to be "just right" at the sametime trying to be sarcastic and attractive.
They're miles apart and she jumbles all her feelings into words but why do she bother when its just going to make her look desparate for love. She's passed hurt and confused. He treated her like an old dusty coin he just happend to find under his bed and living this fairy tale life. She feels as though something was missing like a variable from an equation when she has sacrificed her life for him and in return he has nothing. Instead of saying this was a bad beginning but rather say a lessoned learned ending when she asks him the question he says that he is "good"