there are two ways to breathe.

one is through the splinters.
the carved out,
thickly bleeding
respiratory tract
receding.

a futile attempt to enjoy the air
blown over like
a house with
no foundation.

the other is to
close your eyes.
and hope
that the hurricane
does not
cut off oxygen.

because
nirvana
is not a choice.

it is an island
somewhere deep in the ocean
waiting to be discovered.

black ties
don't absorb sunlight
like their counterparts.
There are
instead
bullet holes.
and a man that can't breathe.

But this isn't simply
business casual.
It's a boost in morale
for hollow hearts
and the whipped counterparts.

My hands are free, my hands are free
Keep open eyes and remember me
And rage against this machine
that makes me seem
like I'm everything
they want me to be.

Apathy
is not
pathetic.

Apathetic
is
nothing less than pandemic.
But
nothing less common
than soles wearing out
between hot, molten asphalt
and the swellling skin.

you've been begging to just cave in.

But I can't live and not care.
Fiction is nothing to compare-
except all of the scenery that matters.

A horizon is subjective.
So the billboards
and the spider chords
have still taught me nothing.

I am opening my eyes to the green.
I am shaking like a lantern unseen.
I am a seed
planted on top of a building
waiting for sunlight.

I don't seem to belong.
To the beating hearts, the
worn out, dirt-stained,
wry,
perpetually filthy
bluejeans.
I just am.
And how can that be enough?
I am a sheep in a flock
without such a heart.
For if wool covered potential,
any of my skin would be detrimental.
How can such a beast feel
stuck between an
immovable slab of concrete
and what is actually real.

Listen to life unapologetically.
For if there is no response,
remorse may go unmuted,
but unheard.
The only problem
worth deeming absurd
is that I was given this
flesh-filled, ruddy red *****
with a broken bridge
leading a trite path
to spoken word.

I'm not too inclined to write.
Because my roots lie deep in soil
unmended
and highly offended by such
apathetic precipitation. Approximating that
any hint of hope
was barren.

So a love life-
one, call her wife.
She austerely abided by permanency
despite omnipresent strife.
There was simply no life.
Nothing.
Not an attempt to stick it out
past
imaginary doubt.
All when you were
all my life was about?

Days of
ferris wheels
and
tickled squeals
bring on such sweet strength.
But I can't say anything
blunted the light
more than your shadow.

I digress.

It's always been a battle
My blind past,
they say,
shows only decay.

If green is still visible,
on a day chemically dismal
remember
that still
I'm not inclined to write.

and the sun
will only be seen in dreams

there's no light under trees,
but my eyelids have been pinned open
by a selfish seamstress
and scarce serotonin.

My arm first seen on shoulder
Kevin and Jason,
colored suitcases,
and two leaves
visible on a broken clover.

A molten cluster of
grotesque villains
inside the head
of the woman
who claimed to breathe in mountains,
but lived in photo albums instead.

She's always arbitrarily weeping.
Maybe that's why I'm never sleeping.

It's when the eyes of the world are closed
when the tornadoes of altriusm emerge.
While conscious kindness does exist,
its appreciation sounds more like a dirge.

A soul tirelessly torn to pieces
will erase widespread fear
and bring the dormant soul
alive and aware
of every changing season.

the sun
only exists in dreams

but the stars
will illuminate
everything your eyes will ever see.

There are
daisies in fields
and
two lips
that won't align.

As honeybees,
how can we predict the right fit?
Pollination
is so much more
than a one-night stand.

There are supernovas in indecision.
There are apathetic nights awake.
that end
muddy
and wrapped around telephone poles.

The hand that will pick,
nurse
and water
will be
a hand slaughtered.