The worst kind of death
is the kind that eats away.
Year by year.

The kind of death
that saps strength
'til there's none left.

The kind of death that can't be cured; only treated.
By injecting radioactive chemicals
into her bloodstream.

The kind of death that she tells me,
"feels like I've been hit by a truck,"
every morning when she wakes up.

The kind of death that steals
her future and mine,
and causes even the hardest of heart to cry.

The kind of death that comes with a genetic mutation,
a survival rate of 10-15%,
and 4 years left to live.

The worst kind of death
is the kind of death that is killing my mom.
And eventually, will **** me.

I’m about to break open
Darkness bubbles out, oozes
Like sythetics in a flame
When in the world did I-
I sound like my mother.

I live in a straight line
So far from the circles
I’d trace in the rain
I took a role in society
The gravity of the wheel-
I cling to in desperation.

Blinders make years go by
The toll makes it faster
I’m holding on, slipping
Who are my sisters?
Better yet, who am I?

Technology, the race age
Can’t fight it, I’m caught in it
Contemplate.
But where is the time?
To remind me of better times
I can’t find it, I’ve lost it.

I struggle between the time
And the lack of it
The life I have to earn
And the life I let go
There is nowhere in between.

The joy, settles like dust in my brain
I can’t keep like this, I can’t keep.
My reflection shows the woman I smirked at:
“That will never be me”
But there’s no time to reflect.

It is what it is, what it is, what it is
It is what it is, what I am, what I am
I am...
Clockwork.
6:00am - we are up again.

I pray I will break someday.

The army of time marches ahead
while the nervous cling to the edges of hope;
wishing to be loved and cared for
in a future of worry;

Hands dance from number to number
while the pretentious feign having hope;
wishing to be loved and cared for
in a future of worry;

A billion clocks update with ease
while the tired let go of hope;
wishing to suffer no more for no longer
within the chasms of darkness;

The winds of change blow forever
while the dispirited admit to losing hope;
wishing to suffer no more for no longer
within the chasms of darkness.

when I die,
leave me as I am
with my greasy face,
and the streaks of blood,
keep me as the disgrace
I am.

Let it be in the night,
so that you may see the constellations
that I always treasured,
wherein I found Cancer,
and felt that Mom might be there.

So find Virgo,
and find me.

Play the theme from
Up,
and believe that I am
Up
there,
in the stars above.

For now,
I'll be here,
in the dumps below,
burying myself.

My valleys bleed blue. They rhyme under only
The language of summer, coarse and sticky.
A droplet, spineless trees, baked mahogany.
A piece of clothing soaked in water
hangs at night on a beam, begging for mercy.
It's been many years since I had
A clear head. Tonight I watch the sway
then swallow the sway, and the sway is in me.
It feels like magic foam fluttering here, or
kids hopscotching and the noises they make.
Do not question now, only wait. It ends when it ends.
Do not catch up now. A handsome sky pauses
Your song to try and say, dance without it.
You can. It is there, the sway. Even in summer; in coarse,
sticky summer.