I strain to chase my own inspiration
But ev’ry day there’s only artifacts
From my past eras, this lonely creation
Takes every fleeting feeling like a fact.

I seek, I seek, but rarely do I find
The abstract answer I was looking for;
You’d think you can’t get lost inside your mind
But sometimes you don’t own the parts you store.

It truly is a pit without a bottom
To stare the depths that lie within your heart
Because we underestimate the *****’s
Ability to turn pain into art.

Although it may appear to be a void
A writer’s well of words can’t be destroyed.

In the garden of flickering neon trees,
where shadows dance with marionette leaves,
I met a man with a clockwork heart
and eyes like prisms, tearing time apart.

He whispered secrets in a language of static,
his voice a symphony of glitches and clicks,
telling tales of constellations uncharted,
and love letters written in binary scripts.

We wandered through a labyrinth of velvet mist,
where fish flew by on currents of twilight,
and the moon sang lullabies to sleeping stars,
cradled in the arms of endless night.

I found a river of liquid glass,
where thoughts flowed like mercury streams,
reflecting the dreams of forgotten gods,
and the echoes of interstellar dreams.

A carousel spun in an abandoned carnival,
each horse a phantom of forgotten lore,
and as I rode, the world unraveled,
a tapestry of surrealist decor.

In the distance, a cathedral of crystal,
its spires piercing the fabric of reality,
and inside, a choir of silent voices,
harmonizing in spectral duality.

When dawn broke, the mirage faded,
leaving only a trace of whispered winds,
and I awoke, clutching fragments of visions,
in the realm where the surreal begins.

:: 05.17.2024 ::

When the air shudders
and the air is thick with
onyx pressure, dunes of war,
muffled gusts and stubborn iron --

A tree sighs barren,
unable to support their own leaves.
A giant of reverence,
testament to love,
time's lust and an intimate rot long gone.

The bucking of future's specter,
the manic hoarse thunder at silent soil
and patience lost to rain's unbent ear.

They who died with a full belly,
remorse only for wind's kiss and Earth's embrace,
laying with demons,
open door, dialogue honey, a bookcase full, sore legs.

opulent hearts

-- Heaven's ******* and Hell's divine,
the Hummingbird of West Berlin,
the mortal's roach and the stars' first undead

with taut bones and ragged flesh,
amongst carnival lights
and eldest fire's pride,

returns to the World again.

they come
for me in the
summer

sweetness of
the moon rains down
on the last bus
going home

all the flowers
crushed beneath
the sky

cry for the
mother tree

it's not that hard
to mute the violence

for she was standing
still when I met her

now she's part
of the crop

I don't know what
else to tell you

I've never known
what it feels to be
someone else

I wear my skin
more drunk then
others

my bones pierce
through my veins

the blood rushes
down the staircase

spiralling into
the circles

circling the end
of times

I wish I'd known
you better

but you don't
exist inside these
walls

if only I was trying
to build a better world

we could've known
each of us

there's nothing
else to succeed our
thoughts

there's only so much
you can feed the insides
before it eats you in your
moment of silence

it's better to burn the
rest of you than keep
living the lies

maybe the fire will
cleanse us of our stagnant
despair

nothing moves without
a herculean effort

is this how you feel
when you are sober?

it's better I don't
wake before the end
of another year

I've never felt more
alive when my mind is
blank

so let them come
and find me

I'm waiting for
something to happen
anyway

I'll trade all my
fantasies for one
moment of absolute
nothingness

I can't even tell when
the summer begins and
where it ends

I wasn't born to
count reality

the pain rampant to my emptied faith,
showered upon a cautious bed of weeping lilies,
loots a once blissful child
whom begs to **** the relic sun...