A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.

Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.

To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.

What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.

I lied by the sea,
far away from the ebb-
uncared, untraceable,
a heap among the mounds.

You came to me first,
And then joined in she,
both squatted by me,
started the play with me.

Never can I forget,
the first caress-
I know not, yours or hers,
but it was like heaven.

Your juvenile dreams,
naive imaginations,
bestowed on my otiose self,
by your seasoned skills.

Grain upon grains,
both made me proud. 
Not conforming to a flaw,
meticulous maven masons.

When your hands tired,
she backed you up. 
While she was ******,
 you tended her to health.

Finally, I stood tall-
an Olympian castle. 
Both were beguiled, 
I would never be happier.  

And, then came the storm,
Satanic vibes infested the air.
I couldn’t fathom what befell,
you were furious, she was crying.

Raised voices, clenched fists,
intimate moments castaway,
I stood a meek witness,
while a relationship was severed.  

Came along the lunar surge,
I was wiped away without a trace.
Both stood distant from the other,
watching me fall, filled with remorse.

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,
  The tender blossom flutter down,
  Unloved, that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
  Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
  And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;

Unloved, by many a sandy bar,
  The brook shall babble down the plain,
  At noon or when the lesser wain
Is twisting round the polar star;

Uncared for, gird the windy grove,
  And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
  Or into silver arrows break
The sailing moon in creek and cove;

Till from the garden and the wild
  A fresh association blow,
  And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger's child;

As year by year the labourer tills
  His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
  And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.

The rain beat the pavement as the man ran to a nearby bus shelter holding a newspaper over his ragged hair. The rain hitting the glass was nearly deafening, but there was comfort in the sound. A public transit bus comes and goes, recognizing the bleak figure immediately. This was, after all, his commonplace - the closest thing he had to a home in the past two years.
"Get a job", people would say, as if it were ever really that easy.
He had been diagnosed with depression after his wife’s passing nearly four years ago and suffered alone as he mourned and pushed through what most people see as a normal life. On the outside, it was unapparent how miserable he had become, unable to share the world with another as he had now for so many years. He came to his cubical on time each day, he worked until the late afternoon had came and went, and he left without a word. He was the unnoticed face in a crowd.
All at once, he lost his drive to live his life. He stopped showing up to work, he did not pay his bills, he didn’t answer the door or the phone. The clear print reading “EVICTION NOTICE” had meant nothing to him. He took only the essential things with him as he left behind an empty house behind. The last thing he put into his bag was a copy of the Odyssey, worn now after so many years of attentive reading.
The tattered copy sat open on his crossed legs, the moment passing by. The walls of the shelter sheild him from the wind and welcome him into their embrace. the adequecy of lighting was questionable as the sun descends and the world loses its colour. A streetlamp flickers to life and casts an ominous glow onto the street beneath it. He continues to read about the long journey of a man trying to find his way home, not unlike himself. What’s happening on the page is disconnected from thepart of the world that he is trapped on; he watches his secret world become a vivid painting beneath his hands and turns the page.
"Hello," said a man waiting for another bus to take him to a far off place.
He didn’t respond.
"I take it you like the book, judging by the condition…" The man tried again to grasp his attention. His dark figure loomed on the other side of the glass.
"I do", he said.
"What’s your name, son?"
He paused, turning to fully look at the man. “Its Tristan,” he said, contemplating the man as he stepped into the light. The man shuffled into the shelther gingerly, leaving behind the loud clack of his cane. His clothes chaffed against the skin on his legs, and he carried his fedora in his hand. He creased his face in pain as he sat beside Tristen.
"My name is Connor Wright", he breathed heavily, struggling to continue. "I have a spare copy of that book myself, laying around at home. No use to myself. Would you want to have it? I can bring it to you the same time next week"
"How do you know I will return it?"
"Perhaps I don’t want it back"
The silence stretched. “I would like that very much, sir” replied Tristan.
A dark blue bus pulled up to the stop without warning and stirred the stillness in the air. The headlights shone in their eyes and caught the edge of the mans thick-framed glasses. “I will see you next week then”
Each week came and passed as Mr. Wright began to bring Tristan books frequently, exchanging each new book for the last. “Why do you treat me with such kindness when I have nothing to give?” Tristan would ask him each week, never recieving an answer.
A year passed by in the presence of the silent agreement. Mr. Wright would often bring Tristan a warm container filled with soup, or a sandwhich left over from lunch to accompany his reading for the night.
On a cold night in april, Tristan waited at the bus stop for the greying man. He spotted him across the street as he waved to him. Tristan, flashing his increasingly more common smile, returned his vivid wave in the direction of Mr. Wright.
"Hello Tristan", he began as always with a bright smile. His distinct aroma filled the hollow bus shelter - a mix of burnt wood, but also new paper and musk, and apparent paradox. After a brief conversation, Tristan took the book out of Mr. Wright’s frail hands.
The bus arrived shortly thereafter and Mr. Wright borded the exhausted vehical, taking his time going up the short stoop of stairs.
This book was rather unlike the other books that Mr. Wright had given him in the past months. His books had usually been full of journeys abundant with creatures, or filled to the brim with a quaint scenery, embodying an allegory in a far off place. The book he held in his hands was called “Darkness Visible”. It was a self-help book for those in the winter of their lives, much as Tristan was, though he hated to admit it.
He opened the page of the book and the spine cracked as the smell of fresh ink and paper filled his senses. This book was new.
He read with curiousity at first, which later turned to deep interest, and later still, turned into inspiration. The following week, Tristan returned this book to Mr. Wright as he told him that he would not be returning to the bus stop with any more new books. “I wish to see you again in the future”, he said, handing Tristan a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it.
Many years passed by and the two men kept regular contact, discussing the endevours of Tristan and his success in his new life.
"Doctor Spense, you have a visitor" his secretary informed him in her usual airy tone.
"Send them in, please"
A man with strong lines creased into his face turned the door handle and entered his office at Kingston University. Commonalities were exchanged and the man fought back a solemn look as he took a seat across from Tristan. The armchair engulphed him.
"Doctor Spense, I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Connor Wright passed away this morning as he succumed to his long fight against cancer", he spoke as though he had said these words in practise. "I am here because you were included in his will and we need to speak about legalities".
Mr. Wright had left him his entire collection of books, including that first copy of the Odyssey that Tristan had cherised so many years earlier when he had had nothing else. As he opened the familliar book, an envelope fell to the ground.
He stooped to the ground to pick up the white sheet and put it in the pile of other loose pages when he saw in handwriting, “To Dr. Tristan Spense”.
He read the words and tears filled his eyes, prickling at the corners and pooling in the clear canvas of skin before his jaw.

"The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty…" - Mother Teresa
I treated you kindly holding the knowledge that you would have nothing to give in return because I saw something I once saw within myself during the darker days of my time. I helped you because I knew your soul would rot and perish in a sickly way should you go unnoticed. I helped you because I hate faith in you and knew you had the kind of illness that could be taken away with the love of a friend. I hope that I have been able to give you the medicide loneliness, desparity and hopelessness and that your cabinets are stocked full. Remember where you have come from, and remember that it is always darkest before dawn.
Your friend always,
Connor Wright

Don’t plant no seeds if you anit ready to garden yet, cause too many uncared for plants leaves the farm in debt, the “rotten”seeds always seem to harm the rest, we can point out the issue why we anit fix the problem yet? Cause anything healthy in nature always get harvested.

I need to
Express
My emotions
Somewhere

For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.

Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.

This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.

a community of wildflowers pretending to be roses.
befriending what we believe are better plants,
and covering themselves in lavender.
they dip their petals and spikes into ink,
and they pretend that they are feathers,
and with these feathers they pretend to be birds,
and being birds is the only way they feel free.
they are left uncared for and wilted down,
they are overlooked and thrown away,
they are called pests and flower killers.
but they are beautiful,
they are powerful and everpresent,
they are proof that no matter how much pulling them out,
cutting them down, and praying them away, wildflowers are here to stay.

Bones in the ashless fire
bright
from the growth of vitalic hands
from surpassing echo
of careless ground
letting all of the roads just
go
into the charging and dug-out
roads
as we walk in one body  
and the uncared for birds ate
with the cared for birds
lifting their heads up and down
in agreement
of shadow suns - sun’s shadow
the knuckled cocoons open
in the hemisphere’s grace  
that are not held back
by the dams that were fathers
to you
and the mothers eating their jammed crowns
of animalised peace
along with the ****
ha!
even they are cheered also, the hunters
of the field, arrows obliterating through eternity,
your heels creating, it
that song that tempers the cities reflection
returning mine
and season less unions inside,
desert storm, and warmed ice breathes
in toasts across seas
force open the laughing cage-

And the farm machine says:

“We will take more animals-
from you
tonight
we will
make you pay by the long tongue
of submissive crawl
and your livers
and liver brought
hum
by the hand-made knife
by the half-made, gesture

the horizons will laugh with boredom, at you  
pummelling dry, the mountains  
if you do not-

light!
LIGHT!
light...

(...//light.)”
...

throw ****** grunts like burping darts directly at the puddled lipped sky

run by, and through
the days of collapsing flesh
raining

Juggernauting mist!///

be unable to find sound

or sand hold

where the lights incept fog

and give it form,

be the crows in saliva
with no threat
as they fly by
between knife and bread
spewing cello grips
along the graffetied walls
of music
and moss burning teeth
in lines of paint  
into the secret wars
and charities
that nothing can touch
and the face at the end of that
brick’s
mind

is a welcome,
face

we walk by//////
sweeps that cannot
smell, themselves
at 5
a.m
fish shattering
by the entry
of our dive
into synapse blue - gulls bound to moon
the waves and the salt and ourselves
moments of dance
in conversation away from the roar
after the vermin
has roared
it’s last spittle
and has dispersed into low
figments
and the juice of that spittle
drapes over our shoulders
in curtainous glowing rocks

Come now junkerd star, trembling
gloats drooling with Cerberus' tears, through space
encountering unwashed books, and curving onyx lips
down hallow of easy river, of moor walk and gait
hares thump the ground of the fields, exchanging
the wilderness for sustenant flight, across it
up flow the silence as it reacts upon your gut
and sends sleep near lass and lad, back by a thousand hands of stars
into sewer skies of rats and eager swans,
growing from the dust of your gone fear,
the penultimate circles that cascade in the sleeplessness
of cigarette sounds and our waltzing vice
Hear Bound the stimulus! Of new sinewed blood
be the one trembling as the dwarf stars explode
into you, and our grips calm, sends them back
and are normal nights of coffeed jokes
sculpted from the clay of time
cascading outer vehicles driving along, the mocking hands glance,
and the hands of menace
ate artichokes
pealing plumes
and handing
one –
to you
the feet of your veins

pouring growth
of root
near mine
stopping only when

the roof top
is ripped clean//////////////

dry from every car, so that it settles
across naked architecture, giants in our hemoglobin
smile, the silhouettes, the wall, and the agonyless
streets, see our shadows standing to attention
devouring the suns toll-in the departure of our being

in the unwavering strikes of our dark hands upon the earth
that bring light to our iris, soaring,
It is this fortune that the soul gets to spend, only,
returning to the work, of life.

Poor little thing unwanted
Uncared for by knowledge
Wondered at how it could be
Such cruelty allowed to be
To be given out to victims
Nothing ever improved
Since time began.

Only a few years of vision
After the 2nd World War
Claimed by a selfish
Generation of smartphones.

Love Mary



Love Mary ***

I haven’t been invited for the C holiday of life. He definitely had fun without me. I didn’t have anything from him. I didn’t even have his shadow. I wanted to close Facebook site forever in order not to see the pictures of his lovers, I wanted to through away his letters but didn’t, I wanted to erase his words from my memory, but they were still in my ears. Without all doubts, C still was disturbing to me, intriguing and enigmatic. My love was like an obsession: strong and unfair, without any hope for “love in return”, any moral support or encouragement. There was no hope for me. C had just got rid of me. Got rid off me like of the uncared, unnecessary thing. He had just left me, and that’s it.

I dwell alone,--I dwell alone, alone,
Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
  Gilded with flashing boats
    That bring no friend to me:
O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
    O love-pangs, let me be.

Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
    And spices bear to sea:
Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
    Love-promising, entreating,--
    Ah! sweet, but fleeting,--
  Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
  Hush! the wind flags and fails,--
Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,--
  Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,--
  They cannot hear me moan.

  One latest, solitary swallow flies
    Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost,
    Poor bird, shall it be lost?
  Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
        With no kind eyes
        To watch it while it dies,
      Unguessed, uncared for, free:
        Set free at last,
        The short pang past,
In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.

Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
      Some rent by thunder-strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze:
      Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.

A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;
  He catches down and foolish painted flies,
      That spider wary and wise.
Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
  Betwixt boughs green with sap,
  So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
      I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.

It shakes,--my trees shake; for a wind is roused
      In cavern where it housed:
      Each white and quivering sail,
      Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
      Each maiden sings again,--
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm,
      Miles down my river to the sea
        They float and wane,
      Long miles away from me.
      Perhaps they say: "She grieves,
        Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower."
        Perhaps they say: "One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves."
        Perhaps they say: "One hour
          More, and we stand,
          Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"

        My trees are not in flower,
        I have no bower,
        And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.

Uncared for
Left unattended
Lying on the floor
Arms stretched out too far
Entering the darkness
Diving into my mind
Farther into the abyss I created
Trying to destroy the innocence that is left
Trap myself in this snare
Capture the remnants of a former self
Love.
Where did I lose track
Fallen into temptation
Grabbing at the edges, grasping onto sanity
Debating if it is worth it
To pull or let go
And fall

it's a draining process -
to constantly pour all of my love and devotion
into everyone
and see them turn their cheek

i'm the shiny nickel you saw on the sidewalk
that you didn't pick up
i'm the opportunity to skydive
that you declined
i'm the rays of the sun that glaze your skin on the beach
that you must protect yourself from

i'm the one that is liked but never loved
seen but never heard
cares but is uncared for
and is always the second choice

The heart where once
love resided fell too cold.

Now the flesh turns
an uneasy grey beneath
a thin layer of dusty frost.

When touched,
the fingertips stick and the cold bites.
Few dared to warm
the space with their hands
and now neglect has my heart forgot.

There's an uncared for path.
An overrun piece of forest
nearly hidden in the brush
that leads to a cave.

There's a cool breeze
that staves away my curiosity.

They push
They shove
They throw
Me away

They kick
They step over me
They slap
They stab me

I feel like a trash

Feeling unwanted
Unneeded
Unwelcome
Uninvited
Useless

They trample over my feelings
Like I don't have any feelings at all
But still I tiptoeing over theirs
Because I was taught to be nice
Plus, I don't learn how to hurt people's feelings
I don't even want to learn them!

They say be nice to people
They say "there's no use of taking care of other's feelings because we'll gain nothing"
I agreed politely
But at the same time
"Courtesy costs nothing" too

How can someone be so cruel to others?
With just one word can ****
You have no idea how they'll take your words
Say what you need to
Make sure you really mean it
Think before you talk

I feel friendless
uncared-for
unloved
I am hopeless
Powerless to overcome them

Why am I still here?
I am weakening
I am drowning in my tears
Yet, no one notices
Not even bother to catch
And save me from dying
With these unasked feelings
My feelings that nobody cares for.

As it is brought towards completion
the boat, through my interaction
with it,  out on the lake
will then make possible  the access
to fish that I,  up till now
have only dreamt of

The fish  are the fire..   descended
down  from the heavenlies--
made available  solely
through the fineries..   restored
back in to  wholeness  in part
through the value I first saw in it
when in its primitive, used and
unfairly treated and uncared for, form..

But it was the deep love for that form
that helped give the vessel its access
back into the restoration  of its
own,  true glory..

And now,  all alone--  
out on the lake with it
it brings me access  in to
places and magical depths  until now
only thought of  and dreamt about
as that which exists  only, in heaven..

It is the vessel's motor,  now fully restored
that brings the boat and I  together
out on to the lake
but it is the boat's very  uniqueness
within it's own  natural state of beauty
that helps to give me access  into the magic
that lay currently undisturbed
deep in that glorious lake's depths

The boat has always carried within it
the rarest of gifts
and somewhere buried in my   deep
love for it..  those gifts, while out on
the lake  with it, will make themselves  known
to me  as we together find those fish
that so beautifully represent,  this..

the Holiest of all fires.

Those trophy fish are the magical moments
that up until now, lay dormant,
swimming far away from current distractions  
of the every day, mundane
accessible only  through the restorative process
and one's love of it's rare and magical beauty

It sometimes feels as if all of heaven is
waiting. (I know I am insane to talk this way..)

I truly do love that boat.

When I am out on the lake with it,
every difficult moment will be so very
worth it all to me. That is the joy I get
from the giving of myself into it's
much needed and fully deserved, restoration.

.  .  .  .

You will not sit out there,
  so all alone--
weathering, out there  somewhere
in the corner of the shipyard.  If that is
the case, and that is your current fear..
I know that you will find a way to
make yourself find-able by me. The
greatest tragedy of all would be for a
vessel of your unique and rare beauty,
to die off   all alone--

unloved..
scuttled, by the wind.


The energy that was meant for you  is
now,  going into the boat.
  
    --tho I can certainly do both.

It took me a decade of toil
years of experience and expertise
to learn that men are happy scoring
ecstatic when he bags and trashes
that short win he has not earned
Sometimes as women we steam
trimmed with seams of emotion
awaiting to open hearts unreserved
Yet he don’t want this vulnerability
he wants to be ignored and uncared for
denied and kept at the deepest ledge
for when you give yourself easily
he will devalue your inner-self
blocking and tantalising from afar
Men are still immature within
afraid of closeness,scared of love
afraid of the emotions,scared to trust
and when he chases,he is fast as a cheetah
preying closer and closer to his price
and when he lies, he sugar coats the facts
so that he creates an illusionary promise
Yet deep within he is like a baby
strained with automatic reflexes
unable to make an emotional dialogue
on how to make the woman really happy....

How dreadful to see
Those that I cannot read.
All over the latest feed.

Not poetry,
Like puppetry.
A repetition of words, numbers, and symbols that aren't clever in the least.
And users with names
In impossible tongues.
Their gibberish reeks!

Line after line,
All the same, it's uncared for.
They write marriage, black magic, and European countries.

It's daily infinity,
Thieving the spaces from more thoughtful writing.
Shall I fight just to see the absense of these;
And say hello only to real poetry.

I am sixteen, ⁣
walking down winnie in the middle of summer⁣
heat waving thick fingers in the air, taunting ⁣
I am wearing sweatpants and a hoodie ⁣
all my layers of self and self defeating comfort eating are not enough to cover me ⁣
I have the hood pulled over my hair ⁣
*****, too short, uncared for⁣
⁣
I am carrying a novel, something cheap and badly written ⁣
a friend from school passes by me, waves, I turn away ⁣
pretend I don't see them ⁣
I stuff my hands in the soft pockets, grab a handful of hip meat, it feels like that scene in Lord of the Rings where juice runs down the chin of a false king⁣
⁣
⁣
I wear anxiety heavy around my face, I don't recognize myself without it⁣
but depression is not a word I can touch⁣
it doesn't fit me ⁣
it doesn't belong in my charismatic vocabulary ⁣
I don't know that I am drowning ⁣
⁣
wet mouth smacking and finger tapping make me feel like my mind is an experimental horror film ⁣
how are small sounds so loud? ⁣
how do they crawl into my ear canal like an animorph alien? ⁣
I was always so afraid of those books ⁣
and the sounds outside of our tent when my brother read them to me ⁣
I am so afraid of everything ⁣
⁣
I am sixteen ⁣
It's 98 degrees outside ⁣
and I am walking down the street in three layers of winter gear ⁣
and fear ⁣
and self hatred ⁣
and I cannot identify it ⁣
I don't know that I will be beautiful ⁣
I don't know that I already am ⁣
I don't know that my hands will pick wildflowers out of words ⁣
and that my life will be a practice of arranging bouquets for kitchen tables ⁣
I don't know that my hair will be long and easy to twirl around one finger, without thinking about the action ⁣
actions won't always feel like eyes watching me in and of themselves ⁣
⁣
I don't know that I will pull on jeans without thinking about the way they don't lay flat against me ⁣
I don't know that curves can be custard on the tip of a finger, sweet and nostalgic tapioca, ⁣
gritty and dimpled and perfect for sundays⁣
and mine and plenty ⁣
and pretty ⁣
⁣
I don't know that I will be beautiful ⁣
I don't know that I already am ⁣
⁣

You get those long cheek
Kisses from the girls.
Pats on the shoulder; it's nearly
Strange for them to see you
Alone.

Friends stating obvious things
You'll live through this too.
I will. Just a few stages to
Go through
First.
She's any other man's to
Have now.
I feel the love in her gone.
Her relief that she's out.
She'll never love me again.

~

There. She's gone.
It's in her eyes.

They look at me like
I'm always standing
In her way.

An annoying statue.
Badly carved and uncared for.

Art without
Art.

No one, no one here, no one there, ever.
Uncared for, it felt dark and misty.
All alone, aside seven billion souls.
Needed only when needed, a solitude.
Ring-fenced in an imaginary world of love.
No escape for me to my reality, it hurts.
Kept knocking on the walls, for affection.
Wisely I tethered on, purposely off,  living in a solstice of dream.

We live in a wasteland.

A place for uneasy souls,
Uncared-for thoughts,
And loneliness.

We live in a wasteland.

A place for wild unrest,
Frequent combat,
And total war.

We live in a wasteland.

A place for the rejects,
The wallflowers,
And the jocks.

We live in a wasteland.

A place of constant turmoil,
Between states and countries,
And people.

We live in a wasteland.

                                            We live in a wasteland.
                                                                              
                                                                                  We live in a wasteland.

We live.

The whole pain
Precipitated from the night sky
In the morning rain
Chiding me for love exposed
Now lying wasted in the drenched soil
Uncared and little

How I love?
A question that needs answer
Only to those who don't
And it etches like
A newly acquired scab
I just don’t know
How?

What I know
Is this feeling in me
Growing explosively silent by each space
You put in between
It brought me down on my knees
Feeling the greatness that was
To smallness that is
Now

Meanwhile the Rain
Continue lashing my car windows
Feels like high speed punishment cell
And
Love lashes within
Whipping up a storm

And I call you up
And say "how lovely is the weather
Around,
Wake Up"

The strewn stitches, still smiling,
Still attempting to bring joy, but no joy comes.
An unnoticed cog in the wheel.
Like a drug addict craving a fix, this one craving a hug,
His chest ripped open, his warm soul stolen.
His eyes, unblinking, look on,
Forever…
Forever searching for a friend.
As an apostle searches for their god.
Tattered cloth flesh, smudged and blackened with dust.
A saint in fur, thrown away,
Still, still, still forgotten,
Like a wrapper after the candy.
The rips, the tears, the holes still remain.
The constant reminders of being uncared for.
A Burn from a week under the heater,
A rip in his chest, a gift from the dog,
Mold from the box in the moist basement,
His prison for the last six years.
.The child grew up,
No need for a bear,
Real friends now
No need for a toy,
No need for the memories,
New ones to be made.
No need for a forgotten, soulless smile.

Dark, moonless nights,
No stars, no light.
Sleepless for a fortnight,
Constantly losing the fight.
Only shadows in sight,
Nothing shines bright.

"It will go away soon"
That's what they always say too.
But tell me do they ever lay strewn,
Out of Gods to pray to?
Do they ever feel consumed
By demons that chase doom?

Tired lungs and broken ribs,
Breathing all the past right in.
The devil holding on so grim,
Regurgitating memories within.
Detached heart strings,
Too used to the sting.

Crevasses and milestones,
Every crater- an achieved goal.
Lonely and alone,
Another youngster torn.
Placing the headstone,
Uncared for, forlorn.

broke, scared, high, uncared - ******.
too in love with love to let him go.
hands ripping skin around fingernails to shreds.
contemplating the existence of religion and of ambition,
(remember they say work is worship,
your purpose you cannot shun).
fingernails scraping the desperate bones between which a beating heart once bled.
in the shadows of the darkness you see the past -
another second passed, time flying so fast, one cannot last.
treading tip-toe across a tightrope
stretched thin between your rising expectations
and his fla(il)ling patience.
nature’s infinite scream tearing through dimensions, leaving you haunted.
there’s a lot you hoped you’d never be in your twenties.

slow, shallow, low, hollow - stop.
diaphanous landscapes leaking into memory’s slippery crevasses.
no longer aware of the here and now.
battling desperately against reality’s sting.
questioning the bitter metallic aftertaste that punctuates
every seemingly-cheerful conversation.
self-worth slashed into strings of cynicism
hanging around a sorry neck.
inhaling air thick with the dregs of a life
suspended between conflicting timelines.
the past and present collide angrily to disfigure the future.
the past and present, two words that cease to exist in the future.
glassy eyes staring proudly at shattered crutches scattered around cut feet.
there's a lot you never thought you'd be in your twenties.

bold, bitter, brave, better - ready.
ready for the solitary walk,
a lifelong talk with only the voices in your head for company.
ready to dance to the vibrations that distort carefully laid plans.
ready to survive stormy seas on stormy nights
with no lighthouse waiting to shine on.
ready for what's incredible, what's impossible, what's magical;
only not for what's mechanical.
ready to face more no's and less yes's
no heroes and angry villains  
but carry on anyway.
ready to say yes when your ego says no,
ready to say yes when your brain says no;
never ready to say yes when the heart says no.
**there's a lot we've become in our twenties.

heartbreak is a feeling I don't ever want to feel again.
heartbreak is abandoned, betrayal, uncared for, forgotten, misunderstood,  depression, physically and mentally hurt
all at the same time
it's like someone stabbing your heart multiple times
someone ripping out your lungs and you won't be able to breathe
getting your ribs opened and broken
every part of you won't be able to move
your hands shaking
your legs trembling and forgetting how to walk
your body is numbed
your brain only has thoughts of hopelessness
your heart, your precious and fragile heart
is shattered into pieces that will take a long time to reform to its old self again
heartbreak is a mixture of breakdowns and wanting to sleep for eternity
it's when even in your dreams you find yourself crying
cause the pain is just too real and too much to handle
and when someone is asking you if you're alright, you can't even speak for it seems like he took all your words away from you, even the words "I'm fine" he took that too and you can't lie or hide away your feelings from anyone anymore cause they see right through you
I made myself feel all these emotions for a boy and then the next thing is I got my heartbroken
it all happened so fast and I still don't know how it went downhill
but if I could and trust me I would absolutely trade that heartbreak in a millisecond with no hesitation
after a few weeks I've started to express my feelings to a few people
and of course at that time I still felt so much sadness in me
I remember saying "it's the remembering, the memories, all these little things you know about them will be in your thoughts even if you try so hard to hide them away there will be times where something will remind you of that person..." trying to not to feel the depth of what I said back then, I couldn't and I promised myself I wouldn't get that low ever again
I think about it now that heartbreak helped me grow as a person and truly made me realize my worth
I guess you have to go through the lows to enjoy the high.