Forever isn't really long,
We call it Love in a two minute song.
I've witnessed it in my cat's jaws,
Saw a dove impaled on eagle's claws.
It's a moment in grasslands and water,
A flash of colour, then the slaughter.
It's a nanosecond at conception,
It's a blitzgried in insurrection.
It has no width, length or depth,
It continues the second of our last breath.

We are
putrid flesh stained with
crimson pools that fall
as we drain it all.

We are fate’s fallen foe,
fragile beings
finally seen
as sparkling truths
that become
angelic paintings.

We are floating feathers
that mingle with
soft pink petals,
forming a new nest
were we can burn
and be reborn
from our old ashes.

If any stranger asks us,
we are walking frames
of fractured madness
little glass figurines
that fall between
the cracks that we have
never ever even seen
and cut other
soft bleeding things.

It's hot, stormy nights like this
With tip-taps on the glass and
Sudden loud claps rumbling
Thoughts of my past come
Scrambling back

That summer night party where
Our eyes struck a match and
We danced in the smoke while
We sweat out the high and
I couldn't stop my mind from wondering between your thighs
Whiskey burned holes in my memory
But not as big as the one I tore in your leggings...

But we burned out that night
I didn't know, I just hoped you
Might have wanted to stay but
There was someone else and you
Told me that you made a mistake...

You were art to me...
Just the way you walked through life
And talked with a lisp and didn't
Take anyone's ****, what a bad ***
Punk rocker *****, I swear to GOD
If I would've known you were
Sticking needles in your arm...

I doubt I could've taken it away
Addiction is something that stays
Even when it's unwelcome, and
There's nothing I can do to change the past, but it's nights like this one that
I just wish I could tell you
That you were art to me.

Despair is fear
that no one cares
and that
your life
won't be a mad cap comedy
or happy ending tv series,
but just an endless state of
existing unloved.

It is a pillowcase
wetted with
saltwater
and snot
to top
it off.

It is breaths
that cannot be
caught
as sobs steal
the air you wish
to fill your
lungs with.

It is the anxiety
and voices that
say you will hurt
the ones you love
and the only action
that is good enough
to protect them
is you dying.

It is a certain suffering blindness
where a pleasant future
does not exist
and only pain persists
in all future events.

I missed this,
magic instance
that happened
when I finally noticed
my heart was breaking
in tiny increments.

Tears tare
at time’s restraints,
making moments
of minor pain
seam epic
whilst
major sorrows
become speckles
in the distance.

I am disconnected,
disturbed
by this disjointed
society
that does not share
the same values
as me.

Humanity could be
lovers of poetry
and science
but instead
it chooses
greed and violence.

I am lonely,
left longing
for a companion
but unwilling to venture forth
into the storm
because life has informed me
that despite reports to contrary
I really don’t matter.

Who am I?
Just a husk
that has a name,
just a moving body
that claims
some sort of
superior
consciousness.

Who am I?
All flesh and stardust
particles that
become all of us
susceptible
to the inevitable
when my flesh
will cease to mend.
Am I my mortality?

Is this body made
of American skin,
made from some
specific region
that denotes
the value
of my existence.

I remember this
fleshy prison
full of emotions
that I have been
caged in
even when I am
constantly changing.

Who am I?
A puppet on strings
who dreams
of one day being
a real human being,
or at least
a reasonable
facsimile thereof.

Who am I
but a product
of every previous
generation,
a foundation
fitted with
the artistic
endeavors
of the clever.

Who am I?
but a single
ballerina
twirling
on a spinning rock
wondering
which will stop
and drop first.

Who am I?
But a finger
that points towards
heaven's dream
smiling at
sharp clouds that
pierce
the day lit sky.

Who am I?

My heart is
a hungry beast
beating,
and growling
for something,
needing feeding
of primal desires.

It is white shredded bits
of paper
preparing
for the taring
and sharing
of ash
as it burns fast,
consumed
by the embers
that rise
to fires in the eyes
of those
we long to touch.

When I awake
and quake
the tremors
of ecstasy
seeing my sweet fantasy
coming to life
the beast’s
urgency
slowly recedes
and I am free
to be
a rational me.

Until,
the hunger returns
for the next in line
of eternal
sequels.