I broke up with God
at our favorite eatery
in our favorite booth.

We settled into familiar creases
and asked for the usual.

My eyes lazily staring at fingers
stirring the straw around the ice cubes,
God cautiously spoke up:

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.” (Thinking about the dormant phone
concealing behind the lock screen
the open Facebook tab
lingering over the relationship status section.)

They silently mused over the laconic reply,
til the waitress showed up with the food.

“Thank you!” God blurted with agonizing alacrity.

I received the sustenance lifelessly
and aimlessly poked at the burgers and fries.

The waitress eyed me with vague inquisition,
popping a bubble in the gum between
big teeth, refilled my water
and pirouetted hastily.

We ate in ostensible harmony,
the silence gripping like a chokehold,
the visible anxiety and subdued resolve
settling like a stifling blanket
over the child waking
from a nightmare—

Til we couldn’t breathe,
and I ripped back the covers
and looked into the eyes
of my tormentor.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

God, taken aback by the curt statement,
dropped their burger with shaking hands,
silently begging with wetting eyes
a greater explanation.

So I elaborated:

“It’s not you, it’s me.

For your immaculate conception
was created by human hands,

your adages rendered obsolete
by human words,

your purpose and plan for us
distorted by human nature—

I cannot hate myself any longer.

I cannot pretend to know you at all.

Who my mother and father say you are
is not who my friends think you are,
nor my teachers, my pastor,
the president, Stephen Hawking,
Muhammed, the KKK, Buddha,
the Westboro Baptist Church,
Walt Whitman, Derek Zanetti,
******,
and Billy Graham.

I am told you care who I bring into bed (and when),
and what movies I watch,
and what music I listen to—

I have not heard what you say about
child soldiers, the use of mosquitos,
or the increased destruction of the earth
which you proudly proclaimed your creation,
or the poverty and disease and famine
which has ridden so many of your children—”

God interjected,
“But you’re chosen!”

I snorted,

“You say I’m chosen
to spend eternity with you—
why me?

Why’d you pick me among
thousands, millions, billions?

I’ve been told I’m ‘chosen’
since birth
by others like me—

those with fair complexion,
blue eyes,
blonde hair,
a firm overt ****** attraction towards women,
and a great big house
with immaculate white fences
delineating their Jericho.

I’ve already fabricated eternity
here among the other ‘chosen’
and there is a world of suffering
right outside the fence
and I see them
through the window of my bedroom
every day.

Am I chosen,
if I don’t vote Republican

Am I chosen
if I am Pro-Choice

Am I chosen
if I cohabitate with my girlfriend

Am I chosen
if I never have kids

Am I chosen
if I say ‘Happy Holidays’

Am I chosen
if I don’t want public prayer in schools

Am I chosen
if I don’t want a Christian nation

Am I chosen
if I don’t repost you on my wall
or retweet your adages?

I’m tired
being the ubermensch,
for it has not brought me
happiness
and I blame you.

I will not ignore
the cries of the suffering
believing it is I
who is destined to live
in bliss.

I will not buy
Joel Osteen’s autobiography(ies).

I will not tithe
you my money
for a megachurch
when another homeless shelter
closes down.

I will not tell a woman
what to do with her body,
or a man
that he is a man
if they say they are not.

I am neither Jew nor Gentile,
and I will stand with
my brothers and sisters
of Faith and Faithlessness,

Gay and Straight,
Black and White,

and apart from these extremes
free from absolutes
the ambiguous, amorphous
nature of Humankind
which I praise.

There is much pain and suffering
in this world,
potentially preventable,
but hardly can I believe
it’s part of your plan
to save
me.

I will not be saved
if we are not
all saved—

not one will burn
for my divinity.

The gates will be open to all—
and perhaps you believe that too,
but I’ve gotten you all wrong
and that cannot change,
as long as there is
mortality, and
corruption, and
power, and
lust, and
greed.”

God whined, growing bellicose,

“It is through me that you will find eternity,
I am the one true god!
I am the God of your fallen ancestors,
it is because you have fallen short
that you need me!”

I replied, growing in confidence,

“We have all fallen short,
yes,
but we are also magnificent.

We have evolved,
we have created,
we have adapted,
we have survived.

We have built empires,
and we have destroyed them.

We have cured diseases,
and we have created them.

We have done much in your name.
We’ve done good,
and we’ve done evil—

And unfortunately it’s all about
who you ask.

Your name is a burden on the oppressed
and a weapon of the oppressor.

You are abusive, God.

You tell me you are jealous.

You tell me apart from you I will suffer for an eternity.

I’m scared to die, yet want to die,
because of you.

You have made life a waiting room
that is now my purgatory. It is

Hell On Earth.

So you see,
it’s not you,
it’s me—
a mere mortal
who has tried to put a face
to eternity
and it has left me
empty.

And also,
it’s me,
for I have learned to love me,
as I have expelled your self-loathing imbibition,
and the deleterious zeal
I have proclaimed
through ceaseless
trepidation
and self-flagellation—

I have learned to love me
by realizing I am not inherently evil,
that my body is not evil,
that my mind is not evil,
and, ultimately, that
there is no good
and there is no evil.

My body is beautiful,
my mind is beautiful,
this world is beautiful,
and we are destroying it
waiting for you to claim
us.

I leave you
in hopes to see you
again one day,

and perhaps you will look
different than I have
perceived or imagined,

and in fact
I certainly hope so.”

Just then the waitress strolled back up
with a servile smile:
“Dessert?”

“No, thank you,”
I smiled politely.

And with that,
I paid the check,
and took a to-go box—

walked out into the evening rain
to my car,
put on a secular song
that meant something real to me
and drove off
into the night—

feeling for the first time
free
and alive.

Through the years of transparent existence, a void of illusion becomes apparent and slowly becomes nothing more than a side-show. The dribbling glimpses of truth fade like the bones of old. No man can create such an indentation in the mold of space and time that the observers at the end of eternity will render their imprint upon the infinite gaian consciousness and body of universal proportions of any significance. Even the earth laughs at such ridiculousness. The ego is a strong bind - it can create maya and attachment to such fantasies easier than a bear can find it's ideal location for a winter hibernation. It's a world of craziness, where nobody knows whats going on.
The man woke up from his deep slumber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Squinting, he looked around, studying his surroundings and taking mental notes. His thoughts are ***** scribblings on a subway wall. His heart is beating, searching for a band to play in rhythm with. His soul is aching from loneliness and desire. His feet lifelessly surrender their position up on the couch and find the floor, shrieking from the cold of the linoleum. His presence is that of a bird with a broken wing still attempting to fly. He stands up and stares at the ceiling.
The room is small. Four walls of white, one window and one door. The window looks out over the grey city. The door leads into another room - the room most would call a kitchen. In the small room before the kitchen, there is only a couch and a blanket. No lamp. No television. No electricity. No electricity in the entire apartment. The kitchen holds no refrigerator, no oven, no toaster, no pantry. It's called a kitchen because that's what it would be if somebody else was living in the apartment. There are two bananas on the floor along with a box of wheat flake cereal. No milk, no bowl, no spoon. The bananas are almost entirely rotten. The box of cereal is on its side, leaking bits of wheat flake, resembling a dying soldier on a battlefield who's losing all his blood through the wound on his neck rather than a box of the West's favorite morning go-to breakfast.
The man is observing the cracks on the ceiling, along with various stains with no known origin to him. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to another to another to another and back to the first. Spiderwebs. Dust. Decay. A perfect example of life's ability to take care of itself. Biodecomposition. When no one is around to look after a house, over time, Nature will take over it. Vines will grow and overcome the walls. Rain will fall and wear away the roof and general structure. Winds will blow, taking blindshots at the weakened building, eventually cause it to fall. Nothing lasts forever. Everything goes back to where it came from.
The man now steps into the "kitchen", where he begins to study the stains on the ceiling in this room as well. His mind is electric, with no thoughts in the usual sense, but rather just a vague presence of void to help the ceiling stains feel important. He is the space through which everything around him can exist to their fullest potential. After a measureless amount of time, the man walks over to the sad bits of food on the far side of the small room. He picks up one of he bananas and studies it. He feels where it came from. The tropical skies and smells and earth of Costa Rica. There's a little sticker on the banana that says so. Each bit of fruit in the markets nowadays are individually stickered...for prosperity, one can only assume. Though it's best to never assume anything, and instead be open to everything - afterall, anything is possible, at any time. Likelihood and probability are also important factors in the universal constitution of existence. What was the likelihood that this man, when he was a little child, figured he'd be holding a rotten banana from Costa Rica in his hand inside of a kitchenless kitchen? Who knows? The man wouldn't be able to recall his thoughts from early childhood - he barely remembers waking up and experiencing the chilling sensation of early morning linoleum. In any case, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, for it wouldn't be if it wasn't meant to be.
He slowly peels open the banana peel to reveal this brown, soft mush of tropical fruit. Just the way he likes it - soft enough to chew with his toothless mouth. He takes his time consuming the fruit, savoring every particle. After a good bit of time, the fruit is gone and all the man is left with is the peel. He takes another good look at the peel, once again imagining where this particular banana came from. Then, in two swift bites, he devours the entire peel - sticker included. He figures the sticker came from Costa Rica as well, and thus must carry that Costa Rican tropical vibe of health and longevity. His eyes then focus on the wheat flake cereal lying next to the other rotting banana. He bends down and picks up the box. The box is upside down when he picks it up and so the cereal spills out all over the area of the "kitchen" floor that seems to be dedicated to eating food. The remaining banana is now covered in wheat cereal.
The man drops the box back onto the floor and takes a seat alongside of it. His fingers hold his face from drooping onto his knees. His knees are keeping his torso from melting onto the floor. He screams with no sound. The pains of existence seep through his hollow eyes and into the receptors of his soul. He screams with no sound. He’s as empty as the American Dream.
The cobwebs are spreading from the corners of the room and are aimed for the human form sitting in the “kitchen” screaming silence with all his might. The cobwebs grow. The commuters of the city highway are commuting. A thousand birthday celebrations are being had. A thousand people sexually uninhibited, joyously seizing the moment in disgusting miraculous unity of mortal physical desire. Junkies are roaming the street for their morning fix. Teaching are teaching their students absolute lies. Governments are stealing the lives of billions and counting. And the cobwebs are growing, encompassing entire walls. The the ceiling. Then the floor. Then they crawl up the lifeless legs of the man who sits screaming in silence and the spiders overtake his body. They stitch his mouth shut and close his eyes with their spun proteinaceous spider silk. The man withers into the wind of time and vanishes from the world without a single soul taking notice. Leaving nothing behind except an empty apartment, overdue rent, and a number in the system of Western Society. His spirit cries sorrowfully as it flees the clutches of molecular existence into the realm of eternity and space. Heaven. He made it. He looks down at the people of the world he just left and sings a pitiful song for them. He’ll see them again. Afterall, they are Him. And He is Them. His Heart, the Sun, burns as the world he left turns. The lessons He left are slowly being learned. One by one. But still, there’s a space between the atoms, between the cells. And that space can never disappear. Without it, there would be no point to the story. All would be one, as it is, and there’s be nothing to overcome. No triumph. Just an endless loop of bizarre beautiful experience and pattern.

i was a blooming flower - even you made fun of my naivety
questioning it, as if you didn't know i wasn't making it up
that i really was confused, that you were my first,
and it felt like a leap of faith that i took for you
and fell headfirst.
today i am a wilting one, my colors bland and muting
lifelessly, i pick myself up only to fall again
i can't find enough strength in me to make myself whole again
and you are nowhere in sight, and still here, not leaving my side
for worst.

Mom, you look so pretty today
as you lie there in sleep.
All dressed up in your best dress,
while I stand here and weep.

I knew this day would come,
but still, it’s hard to bear.
Seeing the mom I love so much
lifelessly lying there.

It was you who gave me birth
and taught me how to love.
For your life and great example,
I thank dear God above.

There’s never been another
in this world who could compare.
Rest well my angel mother.
I know you’re in God’s care.

She sits there,
frozen like a statue,
fingers apart,
typing on the running technology.

Glossy eyes beneath her ever clear glasses,
as I watched her I wonder,
have we been consumed by lifeless objects?
is this our future?

Sitting lifelessly on the other consumer of our life,
only moving to adjust her glasses,
the girl sits there,
eyes pierced into the ever quadrilateral brightness.

The feeling of regret,
it illuminated the vicinity from the sitting girl,
yet I am doing the same,
writing this poem.

Below the surfaceless
looking above
under the furls of wavering clouds
all you'd see is that untouched stare
an absence of warmth disclosed
elapsing over,
collapsing over
you

Shallows edges so elusive,
as obscure as a serpents nest
anonymous as the rest,
intrusive like these dated feelings

and yet those eyes like minds wander
wonder as if it's ever been to lie beyond
those gated passages to Edens flowers
a pocket of hours been laid before you,

Ghosts.

And the continuance to roam
inside of these channels
left empty and vacuous

so out of depth,
with filtering essence of memory
faltering lights of ambiguity,
letting the pieces drip upwards

you’re alone together with what ties are to be had
you speak as through the pith
of this insecurity,
the plight of this immaturity

a footstep in the waters
spilling from your tongue.

Venture from the beginning
a start to finish
as though time bounded in ripples
your tinted sight lines
undesigned and impalpable
even through strategy

under the palms, your hands,
the happens mind of another kind,
settling not in stones but
in sands
a habitual mess of ingraining
always draining and seeping

never enclosing,
fostered only by a feint solace
in the flooded catacombs of yours.

A participance of midnights moons
in these swimming conversations,
cycled discussions
the rising tides of snake eyes
with one onerous touch
submerging your voice

into a fragmented drowse

burning notes left from pictures
choking out all that swirls
the delirious magnetism of weight that pulls to you
creating an astringent terrain,
as your blood is spilling down

a pipeless drain.

A manifestation of ego's brain bubbling down
under the masque of self-worth and integrity
into a thick mud
painted with entitlement

across a dotted line

the deeds of your fascinations
possessions to another
inclinations unbeknownst to you,
against the black skies
opposing truths of deflection

you find yourself with silkless ink
writing what you think it to be
beyond your skin

and the closer the pen drips
the tighter the bolts become
on the grips over your perception
a darker rainstorm

straining out
lifelessly.

Pressure slowly eased
into soothful washing
though cliffs eroded from memory

cresting the hall
that remains beneath

as a little boy
with glassless eyes
and a mouth full
of rose thorns,

Greeting you

To the welcomes of goodbyes,
until the shrill whispers
of the sirens of deception call you

once more

threading over your faces
elapsing the rims of reality,
overgrowing its garden
into a shipwrecked valley

warped by tainted reveries.

the cupboard held many things.
the large cabinet sat to the right of drawers full of mystery, climbing the left side and bottom, just big enough to hold small things like paper and office supplies. but it did not hold what most people deemed regular.
the knobs were made of something out of a dream. candy like almost- no,
candy glass. and they paired very well with the midnight brown wood of the cupboard sat in front of them.
the top left drawer held small things. coins and sewing string. the wonderful jingle of coins and the comforting touch of silky yarn drew in the curious searcher. nothing much else sat in this drawer.
the middle one was more unusual than the previous. holding small trophies and metals, why, there were so many! how did they all fit in the shallow drawer? all of them for different things: sports, pie eating, spelling bees, you name it. but the names on the awards were all scratched out. who would do such a thing?
the bottom drawer was sure to hold more promising items. squaring down they open the drawer to find a puzzle. a puzzle with a few pieces missing, but a puzzle none the less. it looked like it was put together right in the drawer, years ago, as the jigsaw was covered in dust. as they try to wipe away the dust, it appears they cannot. the puzzle has no picture, it is merely a grey puzzle, completely grey. how boring! and not even completed! they shut the drawer in confusion and move on.
finally it was time. time for the cabinet. once more the glassy knobs call to them as they open it to see what treasure awaited them. a look of wonder smiles back at them as they open the cabinet, then it drops. a mirror. they were looking at their own reflection! out of all the things it could have been! they turn away from the cupboard, betrayed and upset, and when they turn to look back at it, the
mirror. what was wrong with the mirror? they weren't putting on that face were they? it smiled too wide, and a look of mania shook through the eyes of their reflection. a knife. where? oh wait, no! the smile only grew as the reflection drove a knife into its own neck, velvet blood flowing out as their eyes turned to black, but it felt like staring into the sun. quickly, they slam the door, horrified of what they've seen: their own body mutilated. it felt like something was dying in their chest. but only because it was. a hole sat in their chest where their heart used to sit. it hurt. not much, but it felt like something was leaking out of them. and as they look to find their heart, the realize that it's gone.
quickly and desperately they scour the drawers.
the bottom drawer was first. maybe it was sat on top of the puzzle or the puzzle would give a clue. it didn't matter the reasoning, the drawer was already open and nearly empty except for the missing pieces from before. just as dreadfully grey as the rest of the puzzle. suddenly, the memory leaks out of them. confusion rains down on them as they try to remember where they are, what they're doing, why their chest hurts. the puzzle pieces are no longer grey, but red from the blood pouring out of their chest. why are they bleeding? what are these jigsaw pieces doing here? as they lift it up the red and grey mix, becoming a flesh color, the same as their skin. the pieces fly up and clamp against the hole in their chest, trying to crawl inside. then it clicks, their heart! they kick the drawer shut and the pieces scour across the floor with the deep red of blood, lifelessly. they needed to keep searching! what was the next drawer? ah yes, the middle one!
they always hesitate on the middle drawer. and they hesitate, because they forget what is sat in it. but they think it can't be worse than the last one, right? how foolish they were. they look down and open the drawer and as they see the faux gold and stiff red ribbon they remember. awards. they forgot the awards. suddenly metals of all kind, old and new, bronze and gold, spring up and latch around the throats of their unsuspecting victims. weighing them down as they're choked endlessly. they fall the their knees and the cupboard seems to grow a hundred feet. oh if only they could reach the drawer to shut it! panic runs through their body and the floor sways beneath them, the achievements of others dragging them closer to death and failure, when suddenly the drawer shuts. the metals around their neck (now dented and *****) limply release their grip on their neck as they realize, it was their hand that shut the drawer. it still sat their, burning with grief as they realize, they shut down someone else's achievements. they rub their hands to try to shake off the regret, lingering in their mouth and hands. or was that the metallic taste of blood? when did they start bleeding? then, they get an urge. it pushes them up, up to where the top left drawer is. everything inside them says no, but the regret and pain in their finger tips needs to know what's in the last drawer, needs to feel more pain to replace the guilt. more pain than was already emitting from the hole in their chest and their bleeding hands. more.
as they desperately reach inside the top left drawer again for anything lovely at all, they're left with nothing but pain. as the sewing needles ***** at their fingertips so too does the feeling of greed. the feeling to need money. the elegant cupboard seemed to whisper, "money is everything, you are nothing without money. money is everything, you are nothing without money." over and over again. and in horrifying agony they close the last drawer, the last of they wonder that once filled their body: drained. they step back from the cupboard and it's viscous ways. and glance at the handles again. the very knobs that lured them in.
then, they realized the knobs were not candy like, but more similar to the glazed eye of a man found dead, or of an abusive father, drunk again. they were cold to the touch like the abuse of a mother and spat acid that burned like the tears falling down their face as they realized, the tears were real.
they close the drawers and release their hands in horror as they vow to never touch those nightmarish handles again, running away in fear to realize, they never found their heart. their run turns into a stumble until the suddenly slump over against a wall. the only thing they can think about is the pain, the tears, the cupboard, the drawers, the cabinet, their reflection. and just like that, they're gone.

This has become more important.
Lost in my dreams, lost in my mind.
Blame onto me, I know the fault.

Faulty lines, different views. I miss you.
We are better apart, but only you know.
It beats on, it beats on.

Staring up, steaming, and breathing.
No tears, it’s not you.
It’s what you made me realize.

Realize that I am not human.
Shying away from what’s good, what’s right.
Cowering lifelessly, withholding, complacent.

Jellyfish, no brain. No soul.
I’m a star, bright and spectacular.
Only you, nocturnal and beautiful, stayed to see me.

Once the sunlight broke, I was gone.
Those nights, my brightness.
Now I simmer alone.

The soft whirling hum of a fan works its way from one corner of the room to the next. I succumb, defeated, deflated, shoulders slouched over, to passing wafts of air that briefly foam over the drooped skin of my emotionless face. Its touch invigorates the senses, momentarily reminding me to take in a breath of the foul and arid air that lingers lifelessly in this second story bedroom. As a sliver of light makes its way slowly up my chest and falls back to its original place, a muffled sound of pain boils over slowly softly searing through my torpid ears. Meanwhile, transparent tendrilous hands of memories begin to curl through my mind appearing and quickly vanishing like steam before I can grasp the true gravity of their presence.
        It must be ninety seven degrees in here. A drop falls from my face onto the back of my clenched hand and for a moment the fan is at it again pulling my head with it from side to side. Oscillating, it dictates a hypnotic lullaby, an ***** riddled rhythm sanding away at my rigid thoughts. Another drop falls toward my wrists driving me away from the blissful moment. Then losing its grip a metallic clang reverberates throughout the room as the object leaves my hand and finds the old wooden floor. Looking back at my hand I see where the two drops had fallen, now glistening in the dimly lit room. Were those tears? When I direct my sight down to meet with whatever had fallen a rush of blinding pain jaggedly inhibits my vision with a flaming wall of white instinctively calling my eyelashes into the backs of my eyelids painfully. My voice cracks and I hear the same singe of grief from earlier reflect ballistically throughout the room and into the hallway where ghosts gargle back an echo of my anguished voice. Am I hurt?
        Afraid now of what I may have done,I cautiously work my foot away from the chair and navigate it across the floor until it hits the handle of something sending it spinning around. Reaching down, the once trance like hum of the fan falls deaf and gives way to a steady beat of drips that are accompanied by an ever increasing tightening of my chest. When I reunite with the object I had dropped the image of blood and steel mesh a murderous hue onto my fingers as I fumble to recover it. Realizing what has happened my mind fizzles and pops with panic and I begin to beg for respite, for a chance to revisit the moment before I had slit open both wrists. Cold anguish flushes the heat from the room and out into the hall as the dam of reality breaks and in with it a torrent of emotions and images of the blood peppered hardwood floor that now seeps dauntingly with the new life it is drinking. In desperation my eyes fire off in every direction, finding an open journal perched on a coffee table. The pages are in a fretful fury revealing pages dotted with smudges and smears of bloodied ink and teary paragraphs. Confused, I begin to search the room again and there beneath the window blinds lies the woman I have loved for eleven years lifeless in a pool of blood. Lorraine.
        My head lashes violently backward as if to howl toward the moon of time in an attempt to beckon the falling grains of sand to return to me what had once been mine. A sobering clarity strikes me and I begin to recall the events that led up to this moment. Beginning with a distressed phone call from Lorraine. I came,I told you I would come. And then I recall the strange feeling that scaled through my body slithering down my arm until it coiled its nervous grip around my fingertips as they bit into the **** of our bedroom door. As it creaked open, I had thought, I'm here baby, but you were already gone. Lorraine. It took what felt like hours to reach the part of the journal where you had confessed your infidelity that resulted from the tangles of promises I never kept, from the things I hadn't done, and should have said. Oh Lorraine why didn't you tell me. I would have changed, would have done anything for you. I'm so sorry,I forgot, I hadn't noticed. After seven years I thought you knew, but I will show you now. I will give you my life as you had given yours. I would have forgiven you ******, they were only kisses that meant nothing. Lorraine...and then nothingness.
        A grey shadow in a once enraged Congo of colors and emotions in an otherwise empty room now fill my eyes until I'm choking on its thick smoke and drowning in tears. When one of those tears fall, this time on my bloodied wrists I'm called back to the present moment. Once more the fan catches my sight directing me toward your lifeless body, and then a warm hand from the deepest recesses of my mind begins to cradle my shoulder. Lorraine. My eyes flutter open and find you placing a kiss on my forehead as you say something sweetly into the soft embrace of night. The scent of your hair bristles around my cheek and ears while you caress the short hairs along the ridges of my neck. All I can manage in the moment is to pull you in closer as I whisper "I'm sorry Lorraine. I love you. I can show you." A tear catches a lock of your hair as you kiss my lips and with your love I am drawn back into our bed and out away into sleep.

Floating lifelessly in his head, silent as the moonless night before him. As he was laying in the bed he asked himself "what is going on?"

He couldn't move, even though his arms and legs weren't bound in any sort of term. He tried opening his eyes, but that didn't seem to work. He tried calling for help but that didn't work either. He wanted to ask someone where he was. After an hour of laying lifelessly in his head wondering where he was or why he couldn't move, he began to drift to sleep. He dreamed of lights and loud sounds. He dreamt of pain, like someone had stabbed him repeatedly with metal shards. He was having a nightmare. The next morning he awoke, still stuck with the same problem the night before. Unable to move, talk, anything. His nose and ears still worked as he smelled some weird smells around him and he heard people walking that morning. He could also feel as he felt the bed beneath him. Or so he assumed he was in bed. it felt like he was on a long, cotton sheet, and his head rested on what felt like a pillow.

After a while, he heard what he thought was a door opening as he heard the pitter pat of shoes tapping along the floor. He heard something else scrape along the floor, unaware to him that someone was moving a chair. Whoever was there grabbed his hand softly. Then a voice spoke to him. Well half spoke, as the person seemed to be crying. "I miss you so much ***." Ah it was his 42 year old wife, Evelyn. This was a voice he gladly welcomed into his head, but why does she miss him?

He was laying right there. In front of her. Though he saw why as he could not talk. Though that nerve wrecking fact lay in his head, he eased a bit at the fact his loving wife was with him.

Hate was the darkness
tied in thick frayed ropes
smothered in kerosene
swung over the biggest branch
and wrapped around my throat
while strangers pulled and tightened it.

It was the match lit that **** fire.
Their rage burned my skin
while choking me out
like a sadistic wrestler.

It was branding
and dismemberment.
All those children remember it.
It was little trinkets of remembrance,
bits of flesh, and teeth
Any part they could take of me
before and after
I hung lifelessly
from the most convenient tree.

But if you think this is just
some case of dark skinned history
Then check the news
and you will see
they are still lynching me.

The first day was the longest
Mornings were for ambrosia
Nights were for castor oil
Lying through teeth and tempting through lenses
Purpose lost to the blind men
Who learn to sleep in seclusion
Visited rarely by saints and messiah fathers
Learn through pain, Oh sweet little pea

The second day was all too short
Kindred, but misunderstood
Sowing seeds and ripping up weeds
Parading around town with roaring sorrow royalty
Following scripts and playing parts
For judges, elders, and "renegade" symbols
Promises, popularity; it's all just a rusty mirage
This place isn't for you, Oh sweet little pea

The third day was spent in Dada
Purgatory for insanity
Whimsical, yes, but something was blatantly missing
This place was rich with new color and null
Vibrant, yet lifelessly powered by prescriptions
No real substance, only mist-forms
Bubbling broth in a surreal soup
Don't get digested, Oh sweet little pea

Not One Hours Rest, Moon Still Standing Nice and Tall

Stars Still Hanging on, You Ride Hazily and Lazily to The City Train Station

Seeing Faces, Seeing Slouched Shoulders, Seeing Tired Eyes all around you

Waiting and Thinking of Home, Observing Yet Constantly Yawning

In No Time You Are Propelled Forwards and Out Through the City Limits

Metal Container Rattling, No Snooze Alarm for the Rising Sun

The City Dissolves into the Back of Your Eyes as You Hit A Tunnel and Enter the Suburban Void

Suddenly Fantastic Splotches of Greenery Drift into Sight, Dabs of Golden Light Float Like Dandelion Spores in The Air

People Move Up and Down the Carriage Schizophrenically, Fidgeting, Never Considering Sitting Still, Not Even Once

Please Just Look Out the Window

Outside Battered Tree Trunks Lay Lifelessly in the Middle of Wondrous Sprawling Fields

Clouds Ripple Insanely Throughout the Horizon, Livestock Enjoying Themselves While They Still Can

What Follows This is a Series of Dilapidated Sheds and Abandoned Roads Leading Up into the Hills so Jagged They Must Have Been Cut by a One Single Colossal Breadknife

There was the usual exchange of foul words and light shoving around,
but then "Windy" rushed Billy and threw him down to the ground.
He sat on Billy's chest pinning his arms down to the floor.
He punched and smacked Billy's face. Each blow was more vicious than the one before.
Billy called upon all of his strength that he could possibly muster
and tried to work his 41 caliber out of his holster.
"That's enough Windy! You're killing the kid!" some concerned bar room patrons did roar.
A gunshot was heard. There wasn't a single spoken word
as Frank "Windy" Cahill rolled lifelessly to the floor.
Billy struggled to his feet. His bloodied face was so swollen he could barely see.
His smoking gun was still clenched in his shaking hand.
Congratulations Billy. Now look what you've done.
You've gone and killed your very first man.
Tales of this incident have been told far and wide from one extreme to the other,
such as the merciless killer kid who gunned down the helpless blacksmith
and then left the bar whistling without a care or bother,
but eye witnesses attest that the first version describes it best
and that the following quote seems most accurate and right.
"I never saw no killer. I saw a scared beat up boy run out of the cantina that night."

There is no safe place
No where to hide
No where that feels safe inside
There is no safe place
You can’t run away
When it’s your own mind that drives you insane
There is no safe place
When the panic penetrates your soul
When there is no where left to go
There is no safe place


They follow me everywhere, whatever they are. They whisper things in my ears; evil nasty things in the breathy voice that only belongs to dying men. They scare me; telling me to **** people for no reason, planting evil thoughts like that in my head, I hate them. They tell me to hurt myself badly; they tell me how much better the world would be without me. They told me once that I was insane. I questioned them, why would I be insane? You’re talking to the voices, they cackled at me. Only one thing came to mind in response to that, *******. Why do they have to be so evil, so scary? Are they the voices of the Devil? Is this like in a T.V. show when you have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other? If it is, then where’s the angel’s voice? Maybe the devil already owns my soul, Maybe I sold it to him in a past life. Or maybe I’m just insane. Yeah…they are right. I am insane. I should be locked in an insane asylum somewhere and never let out. But the government banned those years ago…Guess that puts a damper on that idea.
Did I mention? They aren’t just voices. Oh no, no, no. They have shapes. They are people. Evil, malicious people. I call them the devil’s people. They only find me at night, after all the voices of dying men have gone to sleep. That’s when the people come. They come every night, whether they stay for a moment or remain long enough to move towards me, bringing forth the suffocating smell of sulfur and death. Sometimes they’re small, harmless. They took on the form of a baby once. He was lying on the floor one second and was gone the next. He hasn’t come back since. There are a lot of them that come once and never return, but some come again and again. There’s a man, a rather large man. I have never seen his face, only the shining knife in his hand. Sometimes he’ll move from my open door to my bed where he’ll lean over me, knife in hand, whispering, you’ve been a bad boy. A very, very bad boy. The knife will rise up, pausing in the air for suspense and plummet down towards my heart. But it always disappears just as it grazes my sweat-drenched skin. I can’t help but fear for my life when I see him. If these people or spirits or whatever are real, then I can’t figure out why they haven’t harmed me yet. But then again, they’re probably just hallucinations. The voices speak truth, at least some times.
The man’s presence is definitely the most threatening, but it’s not the most frightening. The little girl is the only one who has disturbed me so badly that I had to flee from my room. There is something about her that is just not right. She always appears kneeling on the floor, face held in hands, and sobbing heavily. She wears a white dress that flows around her as she shakes and her undoubtedly once golden curls hang lifelessly behind her shoulders, appearing more gray than golden. She never does anything but sit there on the floor crying. She cries so much that I have at times feared that water will seep through my floor and drip into whoever’s apartment is beneath mine. Her tiny hands always clutch her face, I’ve no idea what she looks like, and I’ve never seen her face. On her pudgy arms there are numerous bruises, cuts and scars. I thought at first they were self inflicted, but they were too numerous and the wounds seemed far too severe for a young child to have done. Perhaps she was abused. That would make more sense, but why anyone would ever want to harm a girl that was once so beautiful. I’ll never understand.
When I see her kneeling on my floor, it’s almost as if she radiates the extreme pain that she is forced to carry for all eternity. She ***** the life out of you; she makes everything seem so pointless, like no matter what you will end up battered and bruised just as she is. The sorrow she brings upon you is enough to make you jump out the window even if your life was going just fine, no not just fine, if your life was perfect, she would still make you jump. Every time I see her, it feels as if she takes a little more of me away. The fear, the depression is so intense that the feeling will never leave you. It may hide in your subconscious mind, but it will never ******* leave!

My apartment is a whole different world at night than it was during the day. During the day, all they could do was talk to me, make me go insane. (Even more so than I already am) But those are just voices. They can hurt sometimes, oh how they hurt you so bad sometimes. But pictures are worth a thousand words. The figures will scare the **** out of you. They could easily turn even the strongest of men into blithering idiots.
I was dreading whoever was coming to visit me tonight already as I splashed cold water onto my face. I could already tell that tonight was going to be hell. My day hadn’t gone well. The voices had been speaking to me constantly. They wouldn’t stop. They all spoke at once, yelling over each other, fighting for my attention. The one that was loudest was shrieking, Insanity! Insanity! You’re a mad man! Lock yourself in the closet before you ****…before you ****….My heart would take off at amazing speeds after those words, but I gave it no more consideration than the others received. That doesn’t mean it didn’t send chills down my spine though. It definitely did that.
Before you ****…The voice echoed once more in my mind as I wiped my face off with the towel. I immediately glanced at the mirror to see if maybe someone was standing behind me. I saw nothing but myself. I saw my grayish eyes staring right through me. I saw the heavy wrinkles and dark circles around my eyes. I haven’t slept a whole night through in years, no matter how many sleeping pills I take. They always come….No matter what.
No doubt about it, they would come soon. I climbed into my bed and wrapped the sheets around me. They smelled of freshly washed linen. They were soft on my skin and a comfort to my heart. It feels so much safer when you’re completely covered with pillows and blankets. Maybe if I fell asleep before they could get here I would be safe…Yeah then I’ll be safe. Just relax I told myself, relax and rest, the sun hasn’t even gone down yet. You’re safe. At least I am for now.

I woke up trembling from the cold. I was afraid I would be able to see my breath soon enough. I reached down towards my feet only to realize that all my sheets had fallen on the floor. That couldn’t be good. Goose bumps crept all over my body as I dared myself not to look down. But of course, curiosity got the better of me. That was when I saw her. She was kneeling on the floor cradling her head in her hands. I stared only long enough to see her shake violent and gasp for breath through her tears.
I couldn’t look any longer. I rolled over and faced the wall. My heart was going a mile a minute. I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples; I could hear it in my ears. I was shaking uncontrollably, not from the cold but from shear terror. If she would only just leave…Why does she have to torture me? Can I not sleep a single night in peace? Why me? Why me? Is there anywhere I’m safe? Anywhere I can sleep in peace? Undisturbed? That would be lovely. But I gotta be realistic here, it just isn’t gonna happen. Hasn’t happened since I was five years old.
Wait…? What exactly am I afraid of here? She’s simply a little girl. She’s sad but only a little girl. She probably just wants help right? She’s not gonna hurt me. She isn’t like that man. I took my eyes away from the wall and turned towards her once more. What I saw made my heart drop through the floor.
She was still sitting there. Sobbing into her hands. But this time I saw blood. It was on her dress. I realized that tears were streaming down my face, flowing like a river. I felt empty, like the depression had taken my mind over completely. I was simply a body, nothing more. All I could bring myself to do was stare at the heartbreaking sight. Whether it was the fear that wouldn’t let me move or the sadness of it all, I’ll never know. But I kept watching.
Her body stopped shaking so violently and her sobbing ceased for a moment. I was breathless. She had never stopped before. She sat there for a while and I stared, afraid to move, afraid to blink. A drop of blood fell from between her fingers and landed on her silky dress. I took a sharp breath in and whimpered like a frightened puppy. She was bleeding; I’d never noticed that before. She’d never stopped crying before. And here she was simply sitting there holding her face.
Until she heard me. She whipped her head in the direction of the sound like a hunting wolf would at the snap of a twig. I swear that on that moment whatever sanity was left in me completely vanished. I was drenched in sweat and my head throbbed with every frantic beat of my heart. I might as well have been holding a pistol to my temple in a game of Russian roulette.
Her face had undoubtedly been beautiful at one point. But now, I wouldn’t even recognize her as human. Her lips were the grey color of a rotting corpse and were chapped so badly I’m surprised the blood wasn’t leaking from them. There was plenty of blood but no from her mouth. It was dripping off both sides of her face, coming from her eyes. She was crying blood. But even more disturbing than that were the eyes themselves. They had rolled so far back into her head that you could only see the whites of her eyes and the blood vessels in them. She was not human. Maybe she had been but she no longer was.
Choking noises came from her throat as she gasped for breath. Her delicate chest heaving up and down with such effort. I could do nothing to help her, only stare in disbelief. She was dying. An innocent child dying before my eyes and there was nothing I could do about it. Dying? She’s already dead isn’t she? I couldn’t sort it out, was she really there dying or was she a ghost or even more disturbing was she just a hallucination that my own mind created? I couldn’t answer my questions, I could only stare.
I watched as her whole body began to shake uncontrollably as if she were having a seizure. Her eyes rolled even further back so that I could see the thick red veins creeping up her eyes like snakes. Tears were pouring down my face.  I couldn’t watch yet, I couldn’t not watch. I was compelled like a small child peeking through their fingers at the scariest part of the movie. For a moment she became still. My heart pounded against my ribs, threatening to burst through my chest. Her body fell to the floor like someone who was shot with a .38. Her body was limp and lifeless. But her eyes were not. They darted back and forth making the veins slither just like snakes. She began gasping for breath again as she mutter the words, “Help me.” Her neck was thrown violently back and the subtle crack of the bones rung over and over again in my ears. Her body was twisting itself in ways any human being could never dream of doing. Her limbs bent at awkward angles, her body was literally twisting around and her head dangling as if it were merely attached by a string. She lay there writhing on the floor like a dying beast. My heart was going at an unbelievable rate; I was almost to the point of suffering a heart attack. Less and less air cam into my lungs with every breath I took. The last thing I remember seeing was her face. Blood creeping out the corners of her eyes, the deep brown, almost black eyes filled with such fright and desperation. Those eyes I will never forget.

My head was throbbing. I was no longer on my bed, I was on something hard. I tried to move but could not. My wrist and ankles were tethered down. I opened my eyes but for a second and saw the bright light that was coming from above. Men were all around me. I knew not what they were doing. All I knew was that the Men in the White Coats had finally come for me. Come to lock me in the rubber room where I belong.

Somewhere stuck between the line bordering
faith and reality,
there is a girl.

A girl to whom
there is no such thing
as five thirty in the morning.
There are only beginnings,
fresh grass, and
mugs of hot chocolate.
She doesn’t seem to know
what it means to drag your feet
or to
lifelessly slide your toothbrush’s bristles
against the cracks and crevices of your teeth,
wishing you were already at the end of the day
when it had only just begun.

To her,
every printed word is spoken.
She can hear the pages breathe and her heart sings whenever
another character enters,
because for her it means
one more person
to love
which is something
she never seems to run out of.

It is why her eyes dance
and roses grow ‘round her face,
it is why gladness
pours out from her fingers as they
glide across ivory keys,
it is why she sprinkles her words with salt,
why she refuses to let her city on a hill grow dim,
why she believes that death
is a new beginning,
why her hope never wavers,
why she won’t stop giving and
giving and
giving.

Her faith shakes mountains, but sometimes,
only the mountains know it because she
gets frustrated, too.
I’m here to tell her that she
may not see it now,
but the seeds have been growing in places
she didn’t think possible.

So continue to plant them
with thrill and with wonder,
as you live each day like
it was the first.
Don’t stop the water’s flow,
and soon you will find yourself
laughing at Doubt’s face,
I don’t think you’ve ever seen
Doubt’s face.

You’ve been alive
for three hundred
and sixty five days more,
but if growing up means
losing the fireworks in your eyes
and the beautiful thoughts
that sprout from your mind
then,
I beg of you,

don’t.

I'm a player, I'm the best.
I've played you, her and the rest.
That's what you thought.
I proved you wrong when I opened my chest.
You saw me with depth, an open heart.
You gave me yours.
It was open from the start.
A heart hurt too many times.
You told me you can't take another.
A heart held together with vines.
This was the tricky part.
The first time in my life.
I saw a future of treasure.
A glimpse of this lady, my wife.
I felt safe like I was where I needed to be.
I promised my self I'd do you no harm.
To cause you pain would be to cut off my own limb.
I've been waiting all my life to find someone worthy to commit my life to.
So I committed myself to you and you threw me away.
You told me honestly what you wanted and needed.
I gave it to you and more.
But you were after what you had before.
Cling to him with guilt.
Cling to him till you rott.
Cling to him lifelessly.
Cling to him lovelessly.
Cling to him endlessly.
Until one day it all falls apart.
You've proven untrustworthy.
You've proven betrayal.
You've proven sly words.
You've used tears to get your way.
You've promoted falses so fake.
Gemini construct you might break.
You've cheated.
Me, him and your self from happiness.

Enjoying my evening stroll
I catch a glimpse of beauty.
Through a window and soft red light
Tonight may be a fulfillment
I detour through the yard
Excited, and rock hard
I peek into an open window
Moving the curtain I begin to climb
My heart is racing
I should turn around
Passed the table and up the stairs
I see her reflection in a mirror
slowly I creep to what I had peeped
Her scent wafted in the air
From the shower and her still wet hair
Another step
A creak
she spots me,
Startled, she screams
I run to her
Hand over her mouth
Her naked fighting body flailing
I slam my **** inside her
pain surges from her *****
violently I pound away
She stops her fighting and succumbs to my will
Her limp catatonic body bounces lifelessly
I release my self inside her
Oh ****
now what
Was it worth it
Oh yes
Standing over her I contrive a plan
To the kitchen I drag her
My other mind does concur
a butcher knife to slice her parts
...

I bit my tongue so hard that it bled,
but I never said a single word
and there's a heavy weight that's on my neck
it rolls lifelessly from the thoughts in my mind.
I carry the burden of my aching head,
full of thoughts that my mouth has not conquered
and I don't have anyone to check
to see if my mind is something they could find.
My lips stay sealed completely
locking my words in my own head,
and I think I may have thrown away the key,
for my words refuse to escape me.

i'm not scared of men with dark skin
creeping alleyways at night when they're vacant
i lose no sleep over masked liquor store strangers
or women we call ****** limping
lifelessly with red knees
feeling low and ever so shameful

you would feel the same way
your world would be rearranged

but you've never felt a ghost's haunts years later
yesterday is today, it still creeps your alleyways when you're vacant
and you've forgetten what sleep is yet somehow remember you need it
and it's the reason you and liquor stores never were strangers
they make it easy when you ***** around if only to convince yourself  
that women really just never were your thing

and that at least today you're limping
lifelessly with red knees feeling
low but never as shameful

- end

remember the days
when it all seemed so far away
and we could drift lifelessly
into a warm haze
of blissfully amenity
and pointless laughter.
sippin' on pink lemonade,
wearing bandanas and sandals,
and daydreaming about when our lives might begin.

Sometimes I wonder if there is any line between poetry and prose, or prose and story. Where is this line? What is the difference? Is it some kind of structural difference? The problem with this is it becomes difficult to define where the structural lines are drawn. Is it some difference in the use of language? Anyone who has read Burroughs knows there is very little difference between his language in poem and prose. It all comes down to that old bald thought experiment. If we were to remove hairs from a man’s head, one by one, at what point would he be bald? It must be the context. This is a poem because it is presented as such.  

The thing about it is I don’t really give a ****.

The thing about it is that I’m just looking for something that I do not know.
And I get a kick out of pretending
And sometime something something I’m a little bit high now folks
Because sometimes I need something too
/
all the time
And Some might say that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them
But at this day and age that’s becoming less and less clear for most folks
Including myself
And that’s pure Thompson
May the great decadent castle topple down!
And I, like a noble captain,
Will sink with her
I stand with hunched broken back
On the backs of millions
Pondering lifelessly

I smell something. I can’t really know what. It’s horrible. I do not know if it is me or someone around me. A woman in front of me has a dark line around the back of her neck. As if that crease her skin collected some errant dirt and she never washed it off. I don’t know but it may be her. Or I may be a ******* because she is pretty fat. And that’s empirical. And I know it’s not her fault, but I may have some sick bias against fat women brought on by repeated social direction. I remember when I thought of myself as undesirable. I did not wash. And I didn’t shower yesterday. And really I don’t know if this line here on her neck is really dirt, but ******* that smell. It’s killing me, and even distracting me from the gripping narrative of the American sedition laws during WW1. Honestly it is probably me, but why is it so persistent? Wouldn’t I fall victim to scent saturation blindness, or whatever that affect is called. The point is you can’t normally smell your own stink, and none of us even notice our own stink. I think there is something in that somewhere. I can’t smell my own stink, and so I blame this poor girl.

lifelessly living
drenched in the blood
of forgotten memories

you heartless bag of bones
i'm just another meal
on your diet of dying souls

this disgusting vessel
i'm piloting
will never find its place in love

A leaf swooped down from my overgrown mane
And embraced her lovely little frock-the hue of the rain.
Day after day she basked in my warmth, and I in hers.
The pages of a fairy tale flipped by tiny fingers.

A leaf swooped down from my plentiful mane
And embraced her long lustrous locks in vain.
As they danced, she blushed; the wind began to hum.
Prettier than my flowers young love did blossom.

A leaf swooped down from my sparse mane
And embraced their picnic spread- artistically lain.
With adoration-filled eyes, she beamed at her kin.
Twin infants danced around me; laughter and din.

No leaves prevailed on my naked frame.
Summer, spring, fall- were all now the same.
Branches that once swayed and loved her like their own,
Lay lifelessly still as they beheld her lonely gravestone.

In a winding, twisted fate,
The Brothel, I’ve tried to Escape,
The sickening sounds of lips being ******,
The horrid sounds of those being ******,
The slaps of flesh o’er again,
My mind, I cannot now defend,
I hate every minute, every tick,
This endless clock makes me sick,
I dream of sleep that won’t ever come,
I dream of the day I can run,
Escape, Escape, Escape,
I’ll carve it in myself, it should be my name,
I’ve been mislead, indeed, I’ve been stolen,
But these shallow romances so repulsively sodden,
Have left thoughts so in mind forsaken,
Of each *** and race, lifelessly forbidden
The thought of leaving,
This **** hotel is quite deceiving,
I think of how it became
Synonymous in its name,
With “love" and a quenched thirst
Of our lust and ****** rebirth,
For this menagerie of psychopathy
Is the disease among society,
Eyes that I no longer look into as I speak
Gaze into mine as they endeavor to seek
My soul, laughable, they will not find,
To their credit, it’s long since died,
This wretched place holds me with no interest,
And of how I came about, to be honest
I’ve no recollection.
No recognition
Of anything here, nothing is alive,
All that come, just for pleasure strive,
Empty inside and dying within,
I must Escape this place of boundless ruin.

something about
the way you held me so loosely
like a hesitant father holds his abortion wished baby
arms dangling lifelessly around my inflating ribcage
{that little bright balloon i harbored so safely.}

yes,
i nestled it close to your unsheathed knife
waiting for the burst, an exclamation, a curse.

but that sound, it never rang out-
it bellyflop, backfired and hush hush hushed its way out of an entity.

something about you-
makes me want to-
litter i love you's like
lipstick stained cigarette butts
from the thrift store wardrobe to the over gesturing hands
you unraveled me like it was all a part of the plan.

i watch you through intermittent exhales and yearning eyes
nervously fumbling fingers through greasy hair.
placing my fingertip as gently as i can
on the single, strange spiral of ****** hair on your jaw
staring out at you across rippling sheets,
"this reminds me of starry night."
you nodded, said you knew-
but what could you possibly know about a masterpiece,
when you won't even bother to pick up your brush?

something about-
taking your contacts out,
our inability to communicate,
how you only come over after a few drinks
and never before sundown.
asking politely to kiss me, when your intentions blatantly
ask otherwise. and how thoughtlessly-
you walk through a room,
the vanishing unannounced cigarette act,
how quickly you use laughing to express, (or repress) yourself.

something about the anonymous demeanor of the stray hairs
you shed unintentionally in my bed.
feigning disgust, i flicked at them hard and carelessly when you were watching-
but when you're not. and it's late.
i pluck them slowly and sweetly and let them drift gracefully to the floor beneath.

forcing symbolism into everything
will very effortlessly destroy you.

I'm chasing your memory in my dreams only to discover I overslept.
Fantasies far from fake kisses
Causing cardiac arrest as I'm reluctantly reaching for a sense of reality that has simply wandered away willfully.
Desperately dreaming of days spent running to no end.
What a life..
Inconceivable love flowing from my fingertips only because I would rather show you how much I love you than speak it a million,
Times I spent beautifully shaming myself for the restless nights praying for your call creating nocturnal patterns all for a taste of your kiss,
Me one more time so I can prove this theory in my head is more than a theory; that it is true.
Lifelessly lusting your love throughout the night causing me to delightfully dance in your arms, only to wake up to find your love has evaporated.

behind the shadow
he follows
the thief girl
she didn't notice
—of course
she was afraid of dark
—at first


and the day came;
the tanks were everywhere,
airplanes high in the air,
people were running,
and she was hidding;
in the shadow,
where there's no light

it was the time they finally met
so he asked her  
how was out there beyond the light
she answered
it was bad

he shakes his head
that's not the answer-
describe it with your own words,
describe it like it is your eyes who speaks.
—he asked for the second time
his eyes are full of curiousity
her mind wonder to the event she saw just then


the flash was everywhere—
—she begin
dark water covered the ground—
—she continues
it was all chaotic and awful—
—then she told him all the stories


soon the loud sound intruded them
her eyes turns so dull
she fell lifelessly
he then saw the red flash on the ground
—so he run
he was no longer bound to the shadow,
he doesn't even know how
and soon he realise there's no more place to hide,
neither in the light nor in the dark
there's no more safe place
and he run;
now he's the guy with no shadow

a deep abyss awaits,
with hues of blue and red above,
as the horizon devours the sun,
amidst the salt and sand,

a fisherman
melts into the stupor,
of this serenity toxified,
by smell of the exuberant waves

while the red sun,
slits the blue skies throat,
the fisherman dreams of drowning,
of kissing the waiting abyss,

of floating lifelessly,
in the ocean full of life,
he dreams to return to his friend,
to his father, to his deities,

just to be reborn again,
as a wave,
as a kraken,
as a breeze,
that never dies.

Don't let them take the life flowing through your stalk
Your leaves have curled in desperation for life
Your once sunny petals, stripped of their radiant glow
Replaced with a shriveled, barren, dangling corpse
Your branch is drooping lifelessly by the edge of the vase
I am told that you have become an eyesore
A bore, a chore
Because you no longer possess that charm you used to have
The life, that ran through your veins and sprung you into a beauty,
was no longer there

And it pains me to say this but,
you are no longer beautiful, my little sunflower
You have let time and the harsh ways of the universe
divest your once enchanting and enticing glimmer

You are still alive
But you are already dead

Lost in words,
Lost myself,
Lost everything.

Still striving,
Lifelessly surviving,
Living by the hour.

Gone in 60 seconds,
Had to learn my lessons,
But it's far to late to turn back.

Metal bracelets,
Free car ride,
A bed, a blanket, breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Burned a bridge,
Tried to swim,
Drowned....

I am a holder of cargo,
I am a keeper of lives.
Life of one hundred years
keeps me adrift, to be tossed
lifelessly by the moving soul
of the earth.
I am adventure. I carried
your fathers. They loved me
as a mother, and I bore my
children in my dark, wooden womb.
I am the plague, I brought the
vermin and death.
I am the world, you can see
it in my sails, flowing with the wind
of one hundred thousand souls,
some home, some still here.