Today I touched you for the last time.
There are still traces of your skin on my face,
I build the remains of you under my head.
You wanted to die in some different time,
With your eyes open,
Covered with jasmine petals,
In the dim fairy tale without stars,
Without my touch and silence painted in the colors of the sky.
I forgot the melody of your breathing,
The length of your looks between flickers
And the outline of your body left in the snow.
With every breath I sense the taste of you -
Raspberry flavor with the addition of cherries
And sometimes, blackberry wine.
Because I feel intoxicated by your being,
You vaporize through my every pore.
In each one of them I keep you,
Like your fingerprints on my heart
And the softness of your body under my fingers.
Today I touched you for the last time.
If only I knew it was so.

I can't sleep
The insomniac back
I want him
I have him
But not quite
He doesn't know I like him
Idk if he likes me
I'm stuck
Idk what to do
I'm upset
Fustrated
Sad
Angry
Messed up
Verge of tears
This fucken ****
*****
I hate this *******

I'm Fustrated
At myself
Mostly
In you
A little
I want to tell you
I like you
A lot
A **** load
Okay
Like yeah
But
I can't
I'm fucken scared
Scared it'll ruin what we have
Already
Fucken scared
It'll ruin our friendship
What do I do

It's weird to think a year ago
We never even spoke
Now I tell you everything
Now you tell me everything
Now I trust you with the world
You now mean the world
And we never spoke a year ago
You were just kind of there

You think your friend
Is in danger
One of the happiest
Cutest people ever
This person we know is on their Facebook
Dragging all this ******* out
Making it seem like something was wrong
When in the end it was just our mate
And said she was asleep
Why'd you drag that out so long
Making us worry
To find it's really nothing
**** sakes

Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.

No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.

Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.

The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....

whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.

There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.

I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...




good luck.....






have fun.