many people i know
and i know myself
seek acceptance
love
compassion
from other people
and
admittedly
rarely seek it from themselves
it is a near impossible
yet impossible, simple thing
to love yourself without condition
yet most people
do not even
like themselves


we could start to.

more vulnerable than
most.
the child's gaze
says
to the man
beyond it
perched with
boiling need
not-to-be-wasted
desire.
more vulnerable than
most.

sometimes i get sad about
knowing i am going to
eventually
die
and, to keep on
i think, yes
eventually
perhaps even this afternoon
but at least i have
the sunrise

no moment feels as finite as this one
yet as infinite in the way
a mother can be with her unborn child
the cycle repeats
*** love
lust
this moment of aloneness
carved out in the universe
do i deserve a place like the womb or my
own home
which holds no such
warmth
caregiving
food for my soul and a soft liquid
universe just for me

how one man would
enjoy crawling back inside his mother
devoid of all ****** meaning
only the feelings of safety
that comes with the infinite cycle
mother wont you love
me
hold me in your liquid softness
which i can feel secure
in
like i was never born

what one woman feels
in the repetition of this cycle
she too, remembers the womb
yet there is no comfort in
her ability to create
it
for she's not certain
if it won't really be infinite
and should she hold herself responsible
if the cycle
breaks
before her liquid soft
does break too


one child is only lonely
because now he is cast
to a much colder place to which
his heart guides him with an equal amount of
primal curiosity and learned fear
how he must miss the feeling
to not even have to
breathe
like he was never born

there is loneliness in
having a mother
trying to grow up
for you
like the blue part of a flame
an unbearable heat
that only melts parts of
your self away
so you cannot tell the difference
between this melting child of your mother
and your own childhood
burned to the
wick

there is nothing i can say.
i am no longer a child, or a young adult,
i have no mass of anger, nor am i looking for a way out.
i have realized, along with my newfound silence,
that every single person is in pain.
their pain is specific to them, though.
i have listened to people talk endlessly,
hearing themselves, yet they never really say anything.
their words attempt to reach anyone, yet they evaporate
right off the tongue.
their eyes flick around, compelling yet merely like wallpaper,
to hide what rots and has cracked beneath.
their souls are infrared but empty, they have nothing to give
because they cannot receive.
i have listened to complete, stubborn silence from
many people.
and without words, without language, they communicate in
the most raw, animalistic way.
they cry, they shake, they scream.
they bruise themselves and wish silently for an end
and these people without words,
say everything.
i have realised, many times over.
this condition.
many things can make us tired,
but our own beating hearts are sure to be
a final point of fatigue.
it is incompatible, incomprehensible our place in the universe
overwhelming how little we know, how little we are capable of knowing.
we can feel we are bright but only in comparison,
and as a reality our blood is *****, our skin is pocked, our legs tire, our eyes glaze thick with age, and we do not die with our hair.
everything we consider of importance is material, decomposing.
we conduct our own destruction and applaud ourselves for our fatigue.
we scream, we cry, we shake,
we talk and talk and our teeth rot and our minds collapse inwards.
perhaps our suffering lies not inside of ourselves and our exhaustion,
but in all that we can see we are not.