These past few days,
i have felt nothing.
Nothing,
as if the darkness abyss has cave in through,
as if i have fell into an endless void,
do not know where the end is.
I’m about to crash,
do not know when will i hit the bottom
Somewhere in the moment between flying and falling,
i’m floating,
burden has been taken away, i thought
but in the same second, it also drags me down
Down
and
down
and
down
and
i still haven’t landed yet,
i am still floating,
i couldn’t wait to get there,
the bottom of the endless pit,
maybe it is okay to get crushed, at least it’ll be over
Ironic i say, there is no end to this

It Hurts

it hurts , it hurts
when your gaze scan to search for her sight
not mine
it hurts

it hurts, it hurts
when all the melody that you sang
was for her,
it hurts

it hurts, it hurts
when the night came and those sleepless night haunt you,
in your thoughts was her,
her ear to ear smile
her full lips
her soft yet shiny black hair
her angelic voice that soothes you through the days,
it hurts

it hurts, it hurts
when you spend hours and hours with her, and yet
you never feel that it was enough,
all you wanted to do was to be with her,
by her side,
everyday
it hurts

it hurts, it hurts
when your heart skips a beat every time she looks at you,
even when she did it absent-mindedly

It hurts,it hurts
When i know you would never know this kind of
subtle torture,
A silent scream,
An invisible pain,
You will never know,
And it hurts.

& the Capuchin dances on a grand piano
Lit by a candle
I'm gonna catch that ****** someday
But he is good at hiding and bringing me
Baskets of dead flies
With a smirk that says he knows
Exactly how sick he is
Unbathed and starved.

Sheathed in stolen jewelry
the Capuchin
Mocks Salvador Dali hung up beside us
I attempt to strangle him but he knows better and wraps a necklace around my throat
& tightens in a boiling silence

Meanwhile the kettle is unattended
And hot and I can't breath!

I suppose I deserved this with how much I hated and dreamt of escaping this monkey..

But sometimes karma simply comes back around and
Shows you who the real fool is

The piano is terrified of losing me

The hysteria of doubtful intoxication
Three times I love you
The crooked man howls from the chamber of sleep

Mouthing the sharade of footsteps
Wicked in a large flannel crib and Autumn thyme pavement you look like a golden dream/
and I'm slowly drying up with sorrow
Because you do not see me like I do you
I'm screaming for your heart to listen to me !

Darling sways her legs on some brittle branch,
A barbaric stag whistles the end of time
To you in a vision his eyes say something terrible
And you're convinced of the violent October wind I promise it isnt true!

Some glasswork magic
Persona of a modern man
i cannot sympathise!
Rocks do fall onto the sidewalk and I ignore them as they cut my ankles like an insomnia or dentist

Looking up with wild alert at the headlights reminding one of
Death and that you're not paying attention to anything other than your poetry eating you alive

The occasional raindrop like the sweat coalescing under ur pillow/ A damp nightmare

As you **** that cross eyed stranger I lay in the grass
Feeling empathetic with my lamp as it welcomes me from the rain more than your hungry heart ever could!

I become shielded here
And sorry for myself
Ashamed of myself
And the lonesome mattress of years
Dictated by you and your lavender skin
As it exists in the idealism of the wardrobe of conciousness I suppose it doesn't mean anything real anyways pfft

Do not armor yourself against my arms
They envelope themselves desperate against the fog of a witching hour
You do not see a
Single figure arrowed with your alpine eyes

(run you cloud creature)

And a sudden mother who's sobbing into my shoulder regarding her inadequacy I told her be the best example of good for her CHILDREN and she continued crying and ran towards the pornographic hotel that stole her car keys
(she may have been murdered then I will never know and that thought deeply unsettles me)

We are all a little sad & could be doing better
And more than 65 made beds are in love

Your mind enlivened with roman flowers

The circus of a moment specified
With a pigeoncoop ****** humiliation
And the sewer rid of its own proud disgust

Here you wait on the grass
Watching the attic become swallowed in it's own blackness
& the windows betray your expectations
Of a good wedding

In suspended cotton glow,

My ****** architecture wondrously

waits permeated with the hollowness

  that comes with mind's dissolve in love.

(Even the birds read ***** politics and would rather hold wings to a drastic shift in light as appeared thru the nest and branches so connected with foggy earth
&
Even the jesters who's knees ache with
Lost children resolve to speaking Poems to the Forest who have not forgotten June's princely fever
& Even the cynical italian officer
Who's briefcase molds behind his arched
Brittle spine can relate to the fullness of
His daydream
& Town Hall accounts for each passing hour
& Taxicab antlers offering welcome thru its veiled windows do keep the radio of India praying)

I am finding more and more used condoms on the carpet of anonymous rooms/

But at least the refrigerator is stocked with Wine!

It's the week's end and
I have no place to be,

but believe me,
I'm far from free.

Hollow black fills my brain
in anticipation of dark solitude,

you will do this to yourself
again and again.

It's the week's end and
I have no one to see,
just my thoughts and me

in this little room
going nowhere in particular.

Working together in aimless desperation,
seeking order in the chaos,

turning up empty-handed
always.

I wish
     that each day would
     pass faster
            so that we’d watch a collection
            of sunrises and sunsets,
            hurtling towards things unseen –
            shadows of temptation and dreams
            extending tendrils     (there’s hope!)

            I watch the clouds during
            the day and the stars at
            night and wish I could
            one day
            fly among them
            (instead I sit on the floor
            under my window, feet
            tucked under, and watch, thinking
            of roads that lead to dead ends
            and those that lead to forks
            (and the split roads and split thoughts
            and all things that lead to divides called
            options.))

But yet –
at the same time,
I wish
     that each day would
     pass more slowly
            taking time to trace each
            dizzying circle and elliptical,
            numbers that leave me behind
            in lessons unheard –

            because for numbers, some stories
            end, and some never end,
            infinities that stretch beyond
            paper lines and minds alike,
            and maybe we all fall in
            someplace within the stories of numbers.

            At night the wind picks up
            in shrieking wails, and the
            little voices creep in, wondering if
            the day had been used up
            like each drop of sunlight
            had been worth it, the darkness
            squeezing out the
            value of it all –

and maybe then the room will stop spinning.