Chase away what I feel
The taste has remained so long
Unsteady are my hands
As the light brings another dawn

What were once picturesque colors
Seems shutter into a dismal display
As darkness wedges into the void
My own shadow lights my way

When an existential plague begins to ensue
So does my heartbreak as I return to you
For heart wrenching as it is quieting my mind
The drone of another day is that which I cannot survive

For breathless I become when pressed to my lips
Slowly the cold is traded for the warm abyss
And though try as I might I cannot gain control
Drawing ever nearer till it has taken hold

And while others shutter at the thought of what takes place
I only begin to rest my weary head upon its solitary state

The embrace of the stars. It leaks

And the lake where it leaks to,

See it simmer up and take control.

Giving depth to beautiful things
By desecrating the table of God.

This is all i can think about.

This is all i can write about.

Too many nights I lay awake,
staring at the marks upon my ceiling.
Seems these floor boards
have become headboards now
and I'm sleeping where I feel the most at home.

The victim screams again
trapped inside of these lines
everyone draws for her.
There is a box-
fit in it as much as you can
even if it's a tight squeeze.
We have no pity for you,
if it seems to be too small
just fit into it-
we all have to at some point.

This sympathy has become
a sinking ship to me
and ironically I've never seen the shore.
Drowning in the idea
salvation will reach my fingertips
and feel like grains of sand.

This sunshine I never seem to see
feels more like a dream,
a transfixed idea of melancholy
that is pressed against my hips
and I am feeling an ache in my spine.
Seems my backbone is being crushed too
I can't stand up even if I wanted to.
This box is locked and I am captive.
A prisoner of my own thoughts.

Jot this down-
remember yourself clearly
and all the scars painted upon yourself
every inch of bruising you have come across
a small reminder you have been here before.

These purple walls
have turned to a purple heart,
seems I've been drafted into war.
They drop these courtesy lies upon me
like they're bombs-
seems I am exploding again.
But if I do maybe I will get out of this box.
Maybe this ship will take me to the bottom
and I will feel the sand again.
Or maybe I'll see the sun-
when my back stands up straighter
and I can read my own words without cringing.
Maybe then I'll feel at home,
maybe then these bedsheets can replace floor boards
and the white of my ceiling won't be the only thing I see.


I tapped upon the transparency of myself
and seen a unrecognizable face staring back at me.
She nods her head and tells me it's okay
she is me, wrecked and scared-
with faith etch inside of her eyelids.
but why is she someone I don't know
an empty street corner of a place never been
wide eyed and painted on smile-
wish that I could know her.
Wish that I could be as good
at painting on this canvas
that is my body-
See I was never really good at art.

I imagine murals painted on this ceiling-
and my back hurts from laying here for so long
I hope to see the backs of my eyelids soon
because black would be better than nothing-
black would be better than transfixion
until delusion-
white canvas, white pills, white ceiling-
how can anyone love anything so void of color.

It happens sometimes
between winter and the sultry summer,
my words and visions refuse to mate,
no amount of alcohol urges them
to this universal transfixion
on a piece of a patient paper

I have no choice left,
I visit the dusted mirror
in my inhospitable washroom again
the vortex of time swallows me inherently,
as I fall through the voiceless oceans
and painstaking cheap bars
that are out of beer.

I walk through the autumnal rains
where the birds have learned to hide
and the leaves refuse to be touched.
The maidens are no longer beautiful,
Houses full of Japanese crockery
and European paintings
are half submerged in filthy ponds
to be admired by filthy fishes
with filthy brains.

The kids are running and laughing
on the roads but I can’t see their faces.
The dogs no longer bark, but they have
tears of joy and my hands have forgotten to
pet these loyal creatures. Their tails don’t wag now.
They refuse to acknowledge my existence.

I see my twin somewhere.
The only one who smiles back at me.
Contented but not happy,
his eyes are his stories,
his soft hands; devoid of typing
are his unwritten poems.
I have to **** him.

Before he swims out of this vortex.
Before he swims into me.
Before he falls in love with himself.

—we seek infinity, no—
infinity seeks us
traipsing through the mundane as a spectre of joy & fun
us unaware & innocent, unassuming
we are besieged by a sublime smiling child
& it loves us so much
how fervent & effortless this eternal friend endeavors for our happiness
even in the mud-gutters of desolation our friend swaddles us in heavy orange cloth
& we are instantly redeemed to boundless equanimity
all rude evil confounding us liquified— light only exists
everyone in unassuming moments—
a small-paced walk made everyday & our vision dilates in transfixion to infinity
our fervent friend constantly works for this
& we do not even ask
it is a gift
a gorgeous gift (:
ONLY JOY JOY JOY I SCREAM TO GOD!
HALLELUJAH

objects are the adjectives of ghosts--
always after common identification,
their cumulative presences.
an altogether unique eeriness,  
generating an intuition that stands for
what they outspan.
museums for ghosts--transfixion to the
extent of becoming that object, whose
power of attraction is equally mysterious.
so much so that the passed on, can pass on--
from unoccupiable time...light replacing a
period piece thought to be current.