Porcelain tears piercing through
Clouded, profounded, steps taken further
Identity ******
Worse that could happen
Trap doors, sealed exits
Complexity overdue
Overtaken
Shaken in his boots
Roots go back, untrackable
Black is the shade she liked
Black is what tore them apart.

Heart shaped bandages, branded by her lips
Tulips in the winter printed midsummer
Split ends, defendant in position
Opposed, proposed, handful of roses
Not the flowers
Not in his power.

Bland taste
Another weekend has been wasted
Every bar in the corner, his mind is sober
Stays unbreakable, stays to be let down
Piloting the journey from passenger seat
Observing, not really knowing what's in front of him
Needs a trim to take control
But can't get a hold
Can't find his soul nor the calling to try any harder.

A barber doesn't cut it
Storms are blowing, unfolding the nature that's him
Undeserving of the kind
Blind to others who share the same set of fate
And when they call out a name
She says it's him who's to blame
Hence the pain, waves of migraine
Keeping her up for days
Because regardless of his actions
He's who she fell for
He's who she secretly keeps under her pillow
To never forget that she's a widow.

The purpose of your life is often forgotten
and at times it doesn't even matter.
You toil hard to recollect it, reconsider it and somehow
Reconstruct it.

For a while, you take pride in seeing what you have rebuilt from scratch, from broken bones.

But that moment of self-appraisal is so ephemeral that you fail to capture it like you have done all your life for tons of other moments, you thought were vital.
But they were lost in the mist of
Procrastination and complacency, your only two bullets in your barrel.

So you are done recreating your purpose, one more night went by
without your eyes getting what they have craved for years, sleep.

Your brain exhausted and demolished inch by inch in the futile iterations, but you don't give up. And yet those red cracked up
dry eyeballs don't fail to do What they do best, see through the cracks lines of your glued pieces.

They exactly know how and when they will fall apart again for they have seen the same now for untrackable times.
Your head doesn't even try to comprehend what you are
forcing it to understand. For it has accurately anticipated the outcome.

After all, past experiences do save a lot of time effort and energy. Once again you have ruined your night, and perhaps the day to come and years to go.

All your determination spent in useless resolutions that are destined to doom tomorrow first thing in the morning.

Coz you have used freshly brewed Willpower to exhilarate a soul that seeks rest and solitude and blankness, a speck of nothingness if possible only for a second.

How pathetic is your cognition, failing to apprehend your own mind while you live your life in vanity claiming to understand others?
For once in your life, surrender.Raise both your hands and say "**** this ****". Go far far away from the things, people and places you are remotely familiar with.

Give your thoughts a ventilation and your head a passage for clearance. Pour every drop of them into a pit and cover it with rich humid assimilation.Don't worry if they will germinate.Just leave them there on their own.

Move away to the edge of nothingness, clearing the shelves, dusting off all phony ideas, dreams, and whatnots, you have accumulated during those insipid nights which you thought were your companions, your shed of solitude for you were a fool.

For once,  surprise yourself, love yourself like you have done to everyone else in your life but you.

For once, don't bother thinking before doing something.

For once, taste the mystical taste of consequences no matter how grave they may be.

For once, just do it and let time and another side of your brain handle the rest. It has been there for a while now doing nothing but watching the other half thinking, compiling junks for years.

This is nothing but bathing your soul, your conscience, your perspective in the spring of voidness.

The protagonist is Hope,
Mesmerizing,
Could it ever give up?
Takes the scarf and then the keys,
The two different socks are still an issue,
But Hope promises to stop.

Hope goes out the door,
Shuts it loudly,
Wakes me up,
I rise without it.

It goes to work with all the folk,
It checks in proper,
In and out,
Like the wheels of intercities,
Reading seams of rails aloud.

They're conveniently placed,
Right below my bedroom window front.
The train that Hope has boarded trails on
With scraping screeches
Through said bedroom like a joke.

Like the Triplets of Belleville,
I am the dog,
I bark right at it,
Hit the beat at which the wheels
Shift through the rails
As they charge into a whistle,
And also hope’s inside there,
Nestled,
Sitting proudly by the window
Headed into the city.
You can’t hear the sounds from inside of the rail jet
they are muffled,
almost pleasant.

Hope goes unhidden,
Always present,
Steady, stuck,
Like scorpions in resin.
So Hope travels on,
Into the city,
Travels lightly,
No possessions,
As it works
And drinks its coffee,
Jittered slightly,
Stamps letters into word processors,
Gets a sandwich at the Prêt.

The work is good,
All good
And well
And good
And well
And good again!
It’s all so good,
Why should it not be?
The answer's predetermined, set.

Hope comes home with something edible
Wrapped in cellophane
And surely meant to **** me
As I douse it in some Heinz
Hope usually comes home at different,
untraceable, untrackable times.

When it finally comes back,
When the day draws to a close,
When Hope is folding its attire,
Its business casual clothes,
I burst alight with laughter,
Panicked,
I ask again if all’s ok.
Hope turns and says, "Don’t worry 'bout it."
I scream,
Jump up,
Lunge at it,
Punch the space right where it stood,
And hear another train horn fizzle as it whistles through my room.