Xallan Oct 4
I've burned the night away before,
  In my own home, in my own sheets
But there's something to be said
  Of waking in a strange bed, strange
Sheets, freed to strange walls.
  Strange sounds.
Driving in new roads with an old map, wary
  Of changes.
Passing cars, fences, houses.
  Some houses with people, some
Without. Bushes, trees, and bald lawns.
  Silent commute to a fresh pillow
A rest to begin afresh, and lose some more time.
Xallan Oct 4
Don't bring me tulips.
Frost still contaminates the mornings.
It spreads like a fungus, over the mycelium.
I will still be making promises to myself
that won't be kept.

Don't bring me daisies.
I was never free to be happy.
Youth left me years ago, but innocence stayed.
I chose to impose these rules on myself
paid in mental stability.

Don't bring me lilies.
Hope is needed for commitment.
I abandoned my liabilities, and moved on.
A deathbed is a disappointing parade
without lots of balloons.

Don't bring me carnations.
I could wipe off the stripes with my tongue.
Sensitivity is mutual, yet time is the trigger.
The beauty I am searching for is withdrawn
even in ballroom dancing.

Don't bring me roses.
Romance will always be deceptive.
Even human emotion is academic, like a test.
I always ink in all the right bubbles
because I hacked the system.
Xallan Oct 1
Fixing his hair, presentation matters.
First impressions matter.
He wore bright clothes this morning
He shaved, and nicked himself
On eyebags too heavy, eyelashes too long.
He awaits.
Xallan Oct 1
My sister paints
a heart that is not hers
it is not anyone's
and because she is not a surgeon
and that is not her heart
it stains the canvas: pink
Xallan Oct 1
I don't see any poetry in death
The last exhalations
are not prose, nor hallelujahs
The rattling of limbs
are not conductions of orchestral tunes
The rolling of eyes is not in ecstasy.
Pain is never beautiful, unless it is your own-
twisted, life is.
Let me drown in my ink, a true poetic death.
Xallan Oct 1
Silly spirits, given a chance at life
We'll never be comfortable,  we'll
never find shoes that don't pinch.
Our skin is too tight:
around our eyes
inside our minds
within our mirrors.
What do we think we are? What lies
have we convinced ourselves of?
We leave our plastic crowns just lying around.
We died and stole a form, so of course
It doesn't fit.
We isn't me, I am not us, this isn't them.
This is nothing.
Xallan Oct 1
It's just a place to rest
-the heart of a singularity
--art is compacted with garbage
---orbited by a cycle, inevitable and predictable

It's just a place to breathe
-halfway down the freefall
--confidence torn away by wind
---holding tight to regrets about not learning to fly

It's just a place to live
-we come when we feel ready
--put our decomposition on display
---our parasites smile and wave to the crowd
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