Close your eyes
count backwards from fifty
Asleep you shall fall
Surely, but swiftly

If that doesn't work
It's okay, don't despair
Count imaginary sheep
As they leap through the air

You need to catch some z's
Your body is tired
Ignore the mere fact
That your mind is so wired

Oxygenate your cells
Don't worry, just breathe
Feeling relaxed yet?
Soon you'll drift to the land of dream

What's that? You're still up?
Perhaps you're just parched
Grab a quick glass of water
Then back to bed you shall march

As long as you're up
Might as well make a snack
Digestion should wear you
As the food makes way through your tract

You've wasted enough time
Now back to your slumber
Collapse onto the mattress
Slide under the covers

Each day you face your demons
Though at times it feels you're not winning
Inhale, exhale slowly
Now let's start again from the beginning

Somewhere beneath the broad darkness
and the landslide, there’s a pocket
of nothingness, like the air bubbles
that oxygenate red wine. And somewhere
inside that, there I am,
mime-hands loving Stevie Smith
and all she stood for. A void
is just a void, and a poem
is just a poem, no matter how
you read it. You can bring this
into the church and line it up with the stained glass,
looking for a hidden meaning,
but I know this nothingness intimately,
like I know soft skin and the taste of *****,
and there is nothing to be found in there
that isn’t already inside you, except
maybe warmth and candlelight
and the idea that nothing is too far gone
to not be saved anymore. Sometimes,
I think people intentionally obscure what they mean,
like they’re not good enough for a line break,
and like it’ll be easier to rationalise being left behind
if they were limping from the start of the race
anyway. Anyway. Sorry about this;
sorry about all of this, I just really like how it looks
when you try to work any of this out.
Because it looks dismal. It looks like a pregnant
sundial churning out another day,
another day that might be Sunday,
but it also might not. It’s not like I know.
I think this stopped being a poem a few lines ago
and started being something to burn, instead,
but you can take the smallest of lighters
to the mightiest of Goliaths and they’ll scream
all the same. I heard that lobsters scream
if you put them in boiling water whilst they’re still alive.
I feel like that sometimes.
I don’t know if I’m the lobster or the water,
most days. I think I know now.
I think I know something, now,
at least.

Up and down
Listen to your heart
follow the joy and
Supplant negative with
memories of the good.
Tend towards the positive.
Plant that black tar
with flowers that
oxygenate, allow breath,
replenish.

White knuckles, clenched
ping-pinging on textured glass.
Unfazed, he turns his cheek,
followed closely by his deaf ear.
So I stay
stuck, hopeless,
tugging on some hem,
with a relentless, gut-twisting
hunger to be acknowledged,
to be comforted and cradled,
to be lulled and hushed—
pleading him
to poke some holes in the lid of this jar.

I used to oxygenate
my blood so beautifully—
flush my pale skin to pink, press it against yours,
and breathe.
When I had air, I used to inhale so deeply.
I used to live.
I used to conquer.
I would wake myself before the dawn,
if only
to brighten his dark corners.

I used to breathe before life in this jar.
I used to catch his glances and
celebrate as the reason for his smiles.
Before life in this jar, I could reach him,
and he would reach me.
He would pick me up in his smooth palm and
hold me in my place in the sun.
With warmed cheeks,
I’d kiss him softly on the forehead
and thank him in wide, grinning whispers
for the lift.

Before life in this jar
he would never find me
gasping for the strength to
make breathy apologies simply for existing.

He would never find me enjoying
such a slow motion asphyxiation
like I do
as I live life
in this jar.

Re-oxygenate my body
Push air throughout my lungs
Poison the rest of my body, let it soak in my vessels
Break my crumbling bones
Please, understand my needs
There is no cure for cyanide
Let my blood boil;
Allow me to sink into the floor
Let your breath be my last

i'll hold my conscience like a penny
and toss it in the well
because i don't want to know,
i could never know
let the pressure of decision
oxygenate with the copper
i want to swim in an Italy ocean
brighten the blue in their eyes
so i can see what was supposed to be
erase the lines we though't we'd trace
this painting was never ours to remake
melt that penny
i want the zinc
mold it to a chisel and
i'll hand it over
i'm still covered in dust
from that mine i worked in for years
shave my corners
soften my edges
unmake me
create me.

His head expelled rancid muck
onto the river bank moss
while I stood there peeking
behind buildings wondering
if the sun has risen.
I’m cursing the wind yet again
but this time its coupled
with sheer rocks that work
to extract blood from my
yellow calluses.
Downstream the fluids combine.
The ripples oxygenate them and
work them like arthropods
billowing towards their first meaning.
With him still face down
I wallow over his body.
Picture his last twitch.
Ponder neurons and
relations to souls.
We’ve only developed thus
far and I want to be
sure this relies solely
on an impacted min
instead of mystical authority.
I don’t want to be invaded.

Inspiration I found you
hiding in my old drawings
of stick figures

fighting each other until they became disfigured

See I figured if I could draw enough of them I could create movie scenes

Tales of epic battles, wars of brutality unlike a beauty queen

An escapist at heart, imagination captivated by these moving parts

A pencil in hand would create everything I couldn't see
but only imagined inside of dreams

These daydreams would then change things in the motions of my grand scheme

My grand scheme is of art
expression from the heart

No *******, no judgment
******* if you judge this

I do it! No, I do it well
Read my past works
Your eyes will swell

I promise, If my words don't alter your brain cells

Then let me oxygenate fumes inside of my main valve

To only release steam
my seams are of mage spells,magical potions, words scattered in slow-motion

Motion-Picture this
drawing in class was a little kid
mechanical pencil was his choice of instrument
rehearsals were illustrated
diabolical foes, dramas fueled with energy, enemies killed flows,

Of static electricity, I'd draw till my fingers lacked elasticity.

now my imagination is as stiff as can be.  

I'm constantly drafting, drawing & dissecting a piece

Whether it is a visual or audio wave
I just rinse and repeat

Reconstruct from a core, let that core have seeds

From those seeds sprout plants and  
the idea of trees.

one breath to oxygenate
a hearts beat for love

one silent song
running through your mind

one moments fullness
to live and explore

one more time stringing words
a poets heart on show.

At night I lie with my head pressed against a pillow and my ear folded under listening to myself. I am fetaled. Not the loose sitting-position adult fetal. The legs tucked up into my chest arms wrapped around them fetus fetal. I listen to myself. To the blood flowing through my arterioles, rushing up to oxygenate my brain and fuel my Night Thoughts. Ba-thump goes my heart like that of my mother’s when she and I were one- my worries none. Ba-thump. I listen to myself and replay the day’s theatrics. But I am smarter, and funnier, and less awkward of a person. My jokes have the right timing and are well received and I am benevolent towards all and I am admired. Or... my mistakes are amplified. Everyone thinks poorly of me and I can’t believe you said that you ******* idiot. I talk to myself in a way that would be unacceptable if I were speaking to anyone else. For a time. At least until I am quelled by the heartbeat my mother gave me and I gain solace with my ear pressed against the pillow listening to it. Sometimes I listen to my life, count the beats like stars in the sky and wonder at that cosmic origin that created Mother Earth that created my mother that created me listening to my own heartbeat and likening it to the stars in the sky using the synapses that outnumber the stars themselves. I have a lot of time to think while I listen to myself. At night I am a psychonaut exploring the constellations of my own mind. I’ve named them Fear and Love and Hope. Ba-thump, ba-thump.

On this day
May 3rd 2016
I will stand stronger than ever

I will not capitulate
To obstacles that are placed in front of me

I will no longer endure
Insidious patterns of abuse
That I have accepted in my life

Instead I will listen
To the inner voice of justice
The voice that champions
The human rights of all people

I will not accept the petty taunts
And stealthy disregard of peoples
No matter what or where their background

I will be a person who is part
Of a movement of change

I will not be afraid of fear
I will hold it close
Recognising that within fear
Lies the possibility of change

I will bring
Repressed feelings to light
And oxygenate the infections
That are buried deep.

I will not fear
The shouting voices of blame

I will be the person
I was meant to be

From this day
I accept responsibility
And will take
One courageous step
After another

I will not be afraid of heights
Any more

i think maybe
its because i care too much
wear my heart on my sleeve
casted over in sheet metal
maybe ive just foolishly lead myself in a circle
like a dog chasing its tail
until it gets tired and falls over in a heap of confused exhaustion
i go out of my way, take time out of my day
for the wants and needs of others
and im left constantly looking for some sort of reciprocation
some sort of gratitude to make me feel accomplished with what ive done, who i am
i live on "hey thank you's" and "you did a good job" like paycheck to paycheck
only my wallet grows thinner and so does my patience as time ticks on
right now
im sitting here with my head in my hands wondering how ive lost so much to the hands of weak people with weak minds stealing my time and sanity that ive so blindly offered
i gave each and every one of them my heart when i saw they didn't have enough of their own  
opened up every doorway for them that i had closed for myself
i don't blame them though, ive always tried to never point fingers
how can i blame human nature? we are biologically designed to be selfish but for some emotionally based logical reason in my head
life is different
and the people are nice and always warm even if they are cold  
and the sun shines bright and children laugh and we don't smoke cigarettes.
im a woman of science, but  
ive always liked magic even as a kid
i was fascinated by
optical illusions and i fall for the same trick of the hand every time
because im almost nineteen and still stuck dwelling on what ifs
just a fly caught in a web trying to squiggle my way out of this mess i brought upon myself
i don't understand
give me enough time and i will though
kinda slow, i work at my own pace
but stamina wins the race
in the end
maybe,
i can crack it down to a science
if i have enough time
but i never have enough time
time beats in my chest and rots away like ash
my lungs are like molded swiss cheese
and oxygen whistles throughout the empty spaces between each of my ribs
as my lungs try there very best to oxygenate themselves
while im coughing down cigarette after cigarette
im trying to look inward
but all i see is the outward world of the faces of the people i love
and self destructive things to occupy my time with
maybe its time to stop making excuses
maybe its time to stop running

She breathes in catastrophic air, but smiles at all who are seeing.
She doesn’t want others to know that she’s internally screaming.
How does one smile as she’s falling apart? It all begins with the beat in ones heart.
Oh, there you are, with hesitation, she says hello.
Who are you? She truly must know.
She holds on to every little word, to know that you see who she is, to oxygenate her world.
Fresh air she feels deep in her lungs, with the decadent nectar sliding from your tongue.
Beaming, brilliant eyes, and a wicked candied grin.
She asks why her, why let her in?
So you quickly withdraw all the things that you said.
There they come, the tears that shed.
She’s here again, gasping for air, all she wants is for someone to unequivocally care.
-elb

It starts from the nose,
To oxygenate the brain.
The dilation of the lungs, hopeful, yet not at potential.

I am trying.

The exhale
Reminds me I have to start again soon.
Once again,
At the nose.

The simplest things are sometimes the hardest.

(Prelude)

Conflicted notion:
Best bottle of unopened wine you own,
drink this new year's eve and disown,
or preserve for just one more forever,
a reservation made and unmade.
satisfaction of sustaining the unrealized,
a pleasured dream,
a middle class myth maintained,
that perfume lasts forever.

When allowing the earth's atmosphere to oxygenate
his best, his words lying dormant,
thus initializing the fulfilling of potential,
simultaneously sipping from the now ever diminishing reservoir
of future verbal, poetic spawn of discombobulation,
the finality of phoenix birth and destruction,
a poem created, is it not, but its
obituary notated?

This epic conflict has lain muddled,

Just Money

warming, chilling, for years,
just neath a man's breast,
for forty eight fears,
in the first sub-basement of the mind,
stimulated by the ******* receipt
of a first teenage paycheck,
compressed by the dim recalling of
youngest child's blurry memory,
someone arguing about,
just money.

This title, pro and pre scribed long time ago,
daily challenging the man like black phylacteries,
wrapping/rapping round, in and on
a man's head, arm piece pointed
at the heart, stabbing,
morning probing, what is it,
mourning daily over the spirit questioning,
where does honor and self actualization come from,
is it
just money?

This title,

Just Money

asking to be written,
asking for a rain delay,
a mockingbird, with every login,
was/is waiting, in the poets Notes icon,
wine aging for decades,
asking to let it be fully formed
in order to die,
after all, it is
just money.

This story, dark and macerated,
needed to dissolve in solution,
letting the pieces separate,
be distinguished, or be extinguished,
be inscribed, or let evaporate
incomplete even when completed.

Never-sure if/when it will be drinkable,
never-sure, all the muddled sediment,
will fully fall to the bottom.
liquid and stolid,
compositional elements of the
unity of self, destructing.

the question begs on the street,
drink, serve, or preserve,
answer the question,
is it just money deserved and earned or
Just Money?

Chances are this story will never
complete, sore-tempted to rinse, repeat,
then delete these words for after all,
it is just money. hah.
just and money
Two words that combine differently and tell me
It's a poem you need to write, completely.

Just Money