There is an ever growing forest within my chest, viridescent canopies endlessly reaching towards powder blue skies like hands extended upwards in prayer
Vividly mesmerizing flowers of imagination and life bloom in scattered unmarked paths for meandering souls
Sadness flows in endless fountains pouring forth rapidly rushing streams of velvet indigo and starlight
Crumbling riverbanks signal the beginnings of tentative doubts
I’ve become aware of the weight of heavy shackles curling around my wrists like thick vines and ivy twisting over old bricks
Nature reclaiming my insides, society disdaining and threatening to capture and drag me beneath the underbrush
I feel the unmistakable pang of hopelessness nesting its thorns just below my ribcage, etching itself into my skin like stonemasons carving their legacy into mountain faces
My body is sacred ground, a temple of an apathetic deity who’s staked ownership over the emotions that run deep like ocean currents in my veins
My heart pumps opalescent despair, washing up on the shores like waves on new sands of lands I’ve yet to see
My forest lays on an island within the bermuda triangle, unreachable by sea or sky
My emotions act as geomagnetic pulses and methane vents to  confuse your aeronautical and sea faring instruments,  causing your vessels to come crashing down and sinking into the vast expanse of rolling royal blue unknown
I exist for the sole purpose of straining inspiration and failing aspirations
Those inky black buds slowly unfurling in the core of my being, remnants giving way to wilting foliage, petals listless at my feet, eroding with the will of misery and time with vibrant colors burning to ashen corpses
With my lips I inspire hope, yet my own lack thereof hollows me out like rotting jack o lanterns
with light flickering despondently through gaping hole, my eyes, liquid light vaguely sauntering downwards, softly dripping into my hopeful reserves like torrential rain
Drumming like the thrumming of my rushing blood in my ears and the powerful thunder of waterfalls cascading in the distance, returning to earth from their perpetual perch atop towering mountains
A jungle of my own endless shame carves me like a sculpture, eroding me like oceans and cliff faces over thousands of years, with fear uncoiling like deep blue carpets of jagged glass running like rivers, squeezes the paralyzing uncertainty into my blood like an injection. Turmoil joins self loathing, they loom above like my own personal berlin wall, disappearing into the white clouds composed of nervousness and doubt, separation from all I long to aspire to on the other side

when i applied for edinburgh
i was thinking:
i have to get away from these people!
i could have applied
for Oxbridge without thinking,
i applied for Bristol - fair enough,
if some dean asked me to recite
Wordsworth i'd have recited
a recipe saying 'rustic ambiance, you
see, better a recipe off the top
of my head than a date in a chinese restaurant
citing woo 'rds' worth',
like today with leftover Moussaka -
is aubergine the national veg of greece?
anyway, the salad:
spring assortment of cow dung in reverse,
cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, basil,
spring onions, a drizzle of ****** olive oil
infused with chillies,
balsamic vinegar, and half a teaspoon of honey,
salt and paper to taste... wordsworth can ****
his magpie and lark's worth of recitation,
i rather recite a recipe, in line with his
rustic residence -
like me tonight, in no man's land between
shy-urban (suburbia) and the wild parts of
the land, three beers perched on a fence
looking into the dark void of a scaled down
forest - you don't get any crows in urban areas...
indeed Edinburgh was the prime gothic
resurrection, Frankenstein's monster could
have been my neighbour -
whereas some in the grizzly north
attack the sky with colours like the houses
in St. Petersburg (pink, azure,
chickpea), other's embrace the grey
with very mundane coloured architecture,
thus when a chance sunshine comes through
people tend to look up and watch with glee -
Edinburgh brown - stonemasons' slip
of the tongue.
a murky yellow moon, a sclerosis of the moon,
the shining part in reverse
where the night the x-rayed sclera
and the moon the pupil fully illuminated with
gossiping sun in want of a listen;
a murky sclerosis yellow moon - fine agreement
with the thinning clouds that
could never be used for Mickiewicz's castles
in perfect blue and perfect cotton cauliflower contrast
of the zenith by the perpetuated day in mirror-standstill.

So many plans have been ruined by wrenches
that we should rid the earth of them all:
wrest them from metal workers and stonemasons,
pile them up, burn them.
A crowd gathers in the firelight,
cheering the flames on, warmed by
dreams of perfection.