That feeling of being obligated.
Like a signal mom caring for a child that is not hers.

In the same way you came to me.
For whatever reason you adored me, like a child meeting their favorite superhero.

You admired my works like nobody else.

I admired the love you gave to me.
It was warm and unfamiliar.

So I stayed in bed a little longer.
The look that you gave me was passionate and ready…a burden on my back.

Something I could not repeat with my physicality.

I am a stranger to love and because of that I must vanish.

Leaving an oblivious note that you will read.

Never to be known,
a woman’s scorn,
how a man mourns.

Gone into the void,
Her being coy,
A boy becomes a man.

A pair,
to share despair,
from windows,
wiped clean,
from those,
who need to grow,
before they turn old,
and rot away,
bitter and cold.

A bird told a story,
On my windowsill,
Opened my eyes,
To those in the veil,
Past the horizon,
And now brought home
To my soul.

but hope too has a powerful current,
strong enough to move me towards things
I believed I was too weak for.

hope resects the doubt from my body,
and makes the lack of air in my lungs bearable,
until I reach the shore.

and hope, reminds me that there is more.
more to see,
more to experience,
more wonder than dread.

so I’ll do my best to surrender the doubt,
and adopt the hope instead.

This window is my calendar and every sunrise feels like a Monday,
Where every leaf dances to the wind, up and down, in a spiraling parade,
I've grown jealous of the coat on every squirrel and the feather of every bird,
Skittering and fluttering their designs, jumping and flying without any concern.

My one and only attire has a lot to be desired, by comparison to say the least,
And my arms and legs, as numb and limp as stone, just can't even compete,
Although I may be bald, the feeling of standing hair slithers through my skin,
And I can't help but shed tears of joy, despite all this envy I feel within.

I should be running more, over emerald fields of blades, tickling up a smile,
I want new clothes, tighter than mine, that hug like a mother to her child,
I need to get out of this room, far from all these imitation ice cream walls,
Where a sweet aroma actually lingers, like concessions at the mall.

I'm just so sick and tired of all these procedures in my life,
Unable to carve up courage, choosing a needle over a knife,
Never having the literal nerve to just get up and leave,
Drowning in a bed comprised of a salty, sweaty sea.

But Friday is near, nature is there and I am here, a daydreaming accident,
And soon I will be free from all my "brave" and "strong" commitments,
Friday is almost here and I've become so sick that I can barely breathe,
Just one more day of chemo and maybe, just maybe, I'll be free.

Cushioned in the cracks till the sliver meets eye,
I am a witness,
To the spider and the fly on the table,
Taking sip after sip of a heated debate over a purpose.

Eye twitching to the sides of the walls towards a painting,
Definition in the curves of the decay,
Still aesthetic from the lines to the dripping frame,
A figure crying with a smile at the dust and the webs,
Left by the painter.

We gander on at the ghosts of an empty room,
Before the creeks from the floor stopped existing,
Before the whites and the browns of the walls turned grey,
Where the fireplace whistles a fable,
Of a light it produced even brighter,
Than the beams cutting holes in the ceiling.

If not for the rain, I could've sworn I heard the songs of the tapping,
From the infants that stabbed at the windows,
Similar to the pitch of where the door used to be,
I used to scurry to the cleft of the kitchen,
To see the gods drink the sins of the passing week,
Where they would dance against the sides of the counter tops,
Before the moss conquered most of the tiles,
Before the corrosion ate away at the sink.

The rooms I used to venture to were worlds I thought never existed,
A land made of cotton and fabric,
Where the bodies would lie upon for hours,
Voices echoed from inside of a plastic box,
And showed a story of the lives within them,
I'd always watched till the frame within turned black,
I used to itch for the morrow and the after,
I used to crave for the revelation,

I still remember.

A Personality fostered so well.
Ever since that day you came to me.

Came to me and tutored— showing all your works to me, never displayed onto a wall but kept well in memory.

With trust there was no faltering, passionate as a phoenix—I thought.

Still your heart-ached.
With no other options,
you were compelled to do so.

What hurt was your departing.
Although you left,
your actions spoke to me.
With understanding I kept to myself.

1.

diversion from life          
     sit  in a darkened room  
watch the movie
like you view your own dreams
    maturing  into the night

2.

go outside and watch reality  with mistrust
meaning seems the daylight
tinkers with us all
our experiences differ in manner
we're individual as ingestors

3.

be invested in by fictional materials
     with the same manner  
you are viewed    by your dreams at night
experiences of your 'day life'
                                        turned in like reports

What is hunted for?
For who is searched for?
What is sought?

From nature: knowledge - compassion.

From the cosmos: companions - patience.

When one withholds their perspective,
This is the most sour grape.
That is like wine gone bad,
Caustic & acidic.
Destructive to the natural flow
Of the great amphoras.