Smiling in this moment of love,
pollen brings alleges.
A sneeze pressures
her secret to fall
with a clang.

Vibrating *******, blushful innocence revoked.

I have a problem with the:
    
              Them against us
    Us against them.

This against That
                       That against This.

Why does everything have to be split between
the avenues of disagreement.
Don't get me wrong,  to discuss is evident
for what is life without question.
       But some ideas are just
    illogical
              cognitive
delusions of others thoughts are a height
above others similar reflections.
But only see there view
                                  not the many refracting.

"I ask you this, what is life if we cant disagree
                   but see the reflections of others thoughts"

I
am
******

and not in a clawing flesh, body convulsing, banging headboard kind of way

that kind of ****** I can rock the **** out of.

No
I am more the
twisted mess of forced misconception
enlightened by time innocence forgot
forced into a life guided by trust in the lies truth told

Yeah,
it's the end of life as I know it
that's the kind of ****** I am

I knew joy
it was based on trust in what was true

I knew love
it was built on that same foundation

So yes,
I am ******
this mess of **** crumbling to pebbles while blinding me in the dust of my own ignorance
is anything but blissful

and all I hear are the cries of beautiful dying
not that dying is beautiful, though it can be
but of the death of beautiful things
of things I found implicitly lovely
the painful dying of all I believed was good

I am so ****** sideways

protected by others
I can no longer say for certain who I am
or who I believe myself to be

****** hard and unrecognizable
***** into truth by the kindness of others

No more questions because I am ****** that way too
no one wants to hear their old news and ***** laundry

I knew love once
now all I love, I question
reliving my choices in reasons why
trying to piece together my life had I always known
trying to define how I love by my own definitions
and not by what I knew love to be
because that love never existed
only in my ******, shattered memory

So, hey
guess what
I used to love you
now it's tainted with yesterday's **** streaks

I'm still me
But boy
am I ******

My parallel would not be you
Voice/soul/essence of soil
That I sink my feet into eagerly
For its coolness
Against the stones littered tarmac

A strange sight; behold!
Straying far from home ; a luxury unaffordable
Not worth the ruin, not right the game
Chance gambles a shame to the sweetness
You exhale; my heart wanes

Candy forever out of reach; my lips quiver
Succulence so overwhelming I stagger; err
Before remembering its not my place to destroy
What has yet to be tarnished by his demons

Let it slip slip away
My dreams they await
A haven to gaze and delight
Diluted goods never felt better.

The Sansui turntable still works well.
Like memories, round and round,
Needling me. And the more I play them,
The more they itch.
I know the dark side of the moon,
And the way the sun shines.
The dances, whirlwind moves,
That have settled now.
Inside the sleeve are notes and our words.
I will not let the dust jackets do their job.
I set Abbey Road gently on the pad,
Place the needle softly, and hear the familiar scratch.
Standing back, like watching a parade,
I listen.
Here comes the sun on a cloudy day.

I've tasted black coal

For the first time ever

What a bitter taste

Dry grainy texture

Water makes it worse

I couldnt finish the first lump

Oh how weak i am

My parents made it seem so good

Smile of their faces

Black of demons on their teeth

Its only now i realized

The plain rice

And warm milk

Was a gourmet meal in comparison

They protected me

And i appreciate the weakness I endured through the love of my parent

But for my childs sake

They will taste coal the very first day

Every day
For the last three years
I wake up
And I hate myself

Maybe it’s been five years
Maybe eight
Surely I’ve lost count

Rare are the mornings
My aching muscles breathe a sigh
The sun drips through the window
Drenching me in warmth and life

Such euphoria is fleeting
It comes and goes
In two-week intervals
And I’m forced to watch it fly
To others’ faces
Where it rests much longer

There must be a balance
Dangling in the ether
Desperately waiting
To be discovered

But when dawn breaks
And my hand searches the sheets
It is hate that I find
Once more

Is there room in the tomb
Of our sun and our moon.
All creation stands waiting.

It's filled with transgressions,
Our ungoldly sharp sins,
A shroud unstitched by Seraphim,
With heavenly hosts on the pin.

It's darker outside than the light within.
And the temperatures rising,
There'll be no denying,
There's room in the tomb,
The sun has risen,
The curtains are torn,
All sins were forgiven
That first Easter Morn.

They shone in the obscurity
                      of every sunset.
Eyes absorbed  every teardrop
        that welled in there vacant
                           tombstone eyes.

But they were more than
                                    obscuration,
       within the stages of radiant demise.
They collected the bounty of those that
      versed from the sacred paths of hues.

There were those that had feel between
          optic blades and the indistinct gleams
that were contentious wounds that were
                                       underhanded shades.

                 The tinges, neither pure of light.
And those that feel in the eclipse of darkness.
        But it was a secret conclave of those
                 who were fractured between both.

But within the collective of shade
                                            and illumination.
Where those that versed the combination
as a sacrilege to the foundations
                                   of eternities motion.

Everyone but a few colluded to  constant versions,
             qualified  hues had to change,
                             or the universe would grow stagnant.
And so began the feud between the shades
         of perpetual opacity.

As the evanescence shimmers
                     where all where falling
                     like dead stars
cleaving within the benighted landscape.
We all glared like life was burying its self.


But they walked between us,
           shimmers of what was wanted.
           And the reputations of our reflections.
Everything must evolve, even the reflections
that fall between the cracks of life's obscurities.

I'm  just a page of lingering
          smiles, static in the eyes
of those that gaze
                           upon my memory.

Collections of stories of what made
           me, me. We are only paragraphs
or just words in the history
                           of tomorrows thoughts.

Create what makes us a reflection of
             what was, and now has been seen.
We create our future in our living moments.

A fluency within a displacement
                                 of symmetry.
      Empathy lingers after factual
      embers leave charcoal stains.

                 The nib static,
                                          so much
                          without a gesture
                                  of movement.