"Someday death will take us to another star."
                 ~~Vincent Van Gogh

Painter paint star-spattered-pathways--purple passion patterns;
Grant me glimpses of immortality in indigo inspirations,
Guide me through galaxies glued inside translucent eyelids
With pulsating ivory globes.

Ascending into your astral aspirations,
Fractured atoms crumble into cerulean strings--
Unimpeded by crawling speed of light,
Suspended, momentarily held by moon's golden blood.

Hurtling throughout cobalt cosmic chaos,
Catapulted into vermillion vortex,
Realms rescinding into realms,
Macrocosms into macrocosms--malleable meldings.

Absorbing ancient ancestral dust,
Ten times ten thousand particles emblazened;
Universal union--super-nova soul's rebirth.....
Adrift within a Van Gogh sky.

Coming home--wet and cold
With sore feet.
My insides match my outward appearance.
Peeling off my layers,
And collapsing into bed.
It hugs around so perfectly--(the bed)...
I embrace the sinking sensation.    Sink,   Sink,
                                     Morph,   Morph,
                             Decompose.
                                                    P­eacefully.
  It's no longer about me, and my separation from the rest of the world.
I don't have to feel the separateness
                                                    ever again.
     It feels great
to feel insignificant.
     Nothing unusual or confusing...
             And nothing to be criticized.
                 Just the meldings of the world and who "I" am.
                               Disappearing and becoming re-birthed
                 Into a place of different feeling. A different kind of being.
                                                             . . .
              ...My insignificance is what makes me feel special sometimes.


                                                    ­        . . . .

                                            ~I want to be tucked away~
                                ~In everything that is quiet and kind.~

Meldings of feelings aren't to be
recognized by me anymore.
All such inclinations to do so have
caused me worry, anxiety, and a forlorn
sense of abandonment, so why continue
with such harmful dues?

They aren't for me anymore.
Maybe in the span of years they will be.
They may be ready to be picked up,
dusted off, and cleansed from the
pads of my fingers, but for now
they shall remain away from me,
a distant part of my memory and personality,
not conditioning themselves into my life.
These inclinations shall no longer
harbor the need for love, for
dependence, for the sweet disposition of
feeling whole.

These inclinations aren't there anymore,
they left me a while ago.

Kind, they told me I was kind.
Forgiving, they told me I was forgiving.
Understanding, they told me I was understanding.
I was.
Such statements I can't deny,
but how can one remain the same
when such character traits only
harm them in the end?
How can I remain the same, how can
I remain kind when it is never
given in return?

Second chances have been spent, and
I have none left to give.
I remained exhausted in the practice
of self loathing and misrepresentation.


I can't remain the same.
I won't remain the same.