We are all pieces to this puzzle,
but there are more heartbeats
than there is audible space.

There is no mark on the skin of an outlier-
just a universal instinct to reach higher.

We'll all keep reaching for the right fit.
What happens when realizations
of isolated chairs
and echoless rooms
reach consciousness?

Will we stop reaching,
or blindly ignore truth?

Will we accept broken limbs,
or feign eternal youth?

To float or to sink-
is a truly blind way to think.

Arbitrarily,
there is universal fit
and there is
unison.

I fall,
and I am fleeting.

Here,
there is no escaping.

Clutches
of care and emotion.

I'm terrified of such a notion.

Brown-
there is brightness
in such darkness.

There are hymns
hopefully strung on tombstones.

There
is
light
where
there
is
nothing.

These words are nothing but
bits of string
arranged by
the level of warmth they provide.

Stagnant feelings may divide.
I will smile if she smiles,
and work tirelessly
all the while.

If there's a fight every day,
does any mind exist to stay?

I've been thinking of overgrown vines
and broken stone walls.

The air just doesn't
taste as green anymore

How can anyone deny that?

The urge to connect,
combine,
transform,
touch
and ascend
is not to ever ignore.

The only happiness I know
comes from memories
of vines and stone.

So-
here are my limbs.
And there is the moon.
My only request
is that you don't untangle
the overgrowth
that makes the bond possible.

I am dead.
Why does my heart insist on beating?

red lights
are not near sights.

I am told for color
shows meaning-
blue gleaming,
magenta
beaming
and a hue of orange
reminding me that existence is
okay.
For now.

How do you see color?
Is it that which stops you,
or that which sets you apart?

There are eyes that confront,
but there is no remorse.

Brown carries a negative connotation
and so the story carries on.
There will be eyes of this coloration,
but rarely a tale of happiness.

The theories behind formulas
don't take emotions into consideration.
It's kind of a misappropriation,
if you think about it,

We spend lives following
sequences, patterns, developments.
But we're only becoming dense
as we're hollowing.

I wish to love
as I wish to breathe.

I wish to love
as I want to believe.

This unreachable constellation
is a similar misappropriation.

I am a ball of yarn
hopelessly tangled
and
ignored.

You are a seamstress-
weaving optimism
and pragmatic emotion
for the forlorn.

I'm fueled by
cheap cold cuts
and cracked cans
of beans,
of beers,
and being below
the line of uneven
distribution//////

retribution.

There's a bit of execution
in the way a anti-institution
peels of its mask
and reveals revolution.

I don't know why the prism
is cracked
but
the shattered shards
glimmer & commentate
why we
can only see shades.

There's an anchor.
It's pulling me
closer
and
further away.