there are a hundred things that i could say --
tell me that love is real.
we are alone. it is dark. it will always be dark.
the sun lifts the shadows for a moment
and then the light falls away.

tower up into the night like a young tree-
fragile but wild.
uprooted, i forget
i forgive
burn out every piece that lingers
every word that isn't love
there's glass in my heart but i feel nothing
i can leave but have nowhere to go
a life lived too open
a half lie and i am bleeding again
i know you don't love me.
i know you don't love me.

butterknives lithe.
garbage disposal yoga.
oger cortisol dump.

i guess i'll jus eat my teeth now
and face me.

heartmaw
must

feed.

i have no reason
-or imagination-
anymore

to
stay

here.

not really..

----- pls feel all the feels for me.
this melo d is real,

i swear.

my torn tears tear
down this face
encased in rusty bladelace.

yours diaphanously,
mememe.

its so
*******
sad

The parrot, screeching, flew out into the darkness,
Circled three times above the upturned faces
With a great whir of brilliant outspread wings,
And then returned to stagger on her finger.
She bowed and smiled, eliciting applause. . .
The property man hated her ***** birds.
But it had taken years-yes, years-to train them,
To shoulder flags, strike bells by tweaking strings,
Or climb sedately little flights of stairs.
When they were stubborn, she tapped them with a wand,
And her eyes glittered a little under the eyebrows.
The red one flapped and flapped on a swinging wire;
The little white ones winked round yellow eyes.

Lucid dreaming is the doorway
        to the unconscious.
So dream.
Do not stay closed
        behind cement barricades
        blocking the moon
        from shining.
Live.
Each second is for you.
The tumbling of life
         does not promise
            anything.
In one breath
you can have
        a time table
        handed to you.
A distinct framework
        of how much
        longer you shall be.
Stay in illusion.
Keep in mind
that very little
is worthy of
being screamed about.
Politics
        and
people games
        are not
         the substance
        of existing.
Picture colourful images
         that flutter
          playfully
            across the
           mental horizon.
A traffic light
      will
       blink
red, yellow, green.
A noise
        will dominate
         the shading sky.
These mean nothing.
Moments of distraction
        soon
         gone away.
Focus on fantasy.
Allow yourself
the freedom to
         celebrate
        the essence
        of harmony.
When you die,
       it will be
         your dreams
         that are
          remembered.
Breathe.
It's just
      a bad day,
      not a bad life.

Though he is small
He understands the empty house.
Running to his room
He hides,
Inside the duvet
Re-reading the hungry caterpillar.
Wanting to emerge from his cocoon
Into a world
Where wilted flowers grow

sometime it is
in the act of writing
that we create the sense
of what we want to say

as if the process of articulation
    when we are fishing for the proper words
is generating meaning
inventing itself in its own genesis

leaving the poet amazed

sometimes even the readers

if only
your misty rose glowfist
were to be my heart -

glinting
all the feels
with

bright felt fingerings
expressing
so. much.

then, maybe, i
could
feel

real,
again.