There is fire in my stomach
And smoke in my throat
And soot in my brain.
So hazy is my life,
Overwhelmed by guilt and shame.
So heavy is this burden,
I want someone to blame.
So disgusted I am with myself,
I want you to be the same.

Oh God,
I will not complain about my life
And my woes;
Instead
I tear myself up from the root and
Pull my brain out through
My nose.

I want to die but,
I don’t want to burn,
Even though I am burning
On my own.

Leave me alone, lock me up
And throw away the **** key.
Take my consciousness far away from me.
Let me die without being dead so
I don’t have to feel the
Scorching heat of my actions.

I know I don’t deserve heaven so
As mercy undo my existence and
Put me back to sleep.

The grains of sand stuck
to the sweat in between my
toes are each as big and
burning as any star stuck
into the spilt Black—
each mass a Giant searing
through skin, bubbling towards
the hollow flues of bone,
kindling a greater burn that
shines out my eyes, reflecting
my own Ancient Chaos back
at those watchful fires
in the sky;
call it an introduction,
a nod in acknowledgement
of our meetings to come.

The cloth tears
shredding
dust unfurling
circling towards the ground
glinting as the sun slices through the shades
burning on each fleek a final glow
a most mundane silent explosion

The universe tearing apart
scattering the stars at high speeds
rocks tearing through black
turning into space sand
things becoming smaller
So minuscule there’s no word for
what is more minuscule than quarks

It’s contrary then  
That quiet even exists
day after day certain things I feel I’m owed
a sense of guaranteed control over my destiny,
when all I am is the shrapnel of the stars
collected together in a precarious cluster
a mathematical anomaly of particles
that settled together
blindly believing they’ll never fall apart.

On the phone we’d walk and talk in circles
Repeated conversations
Patterns on my rug worn from our talking
You taught me a life lived right will circle

Memories working out of order  
psychic dream senses in waking life,
stitching back together to make a web,  
Somethings have more than one context
But the synchronicity will only comes to those in rhythm

To seek out the motion, careful attention must be maintained:
A book will come back twice if it’s supposed to
One mention of it, you might let it slip your mind,
But then will come a coincidence so strong,
you’ll know it was supposed to be read

Without the dedication to trust a great doubt sets in,
the web so carefully spun begins unspooling
tangling into a knot wound so tight
It will leave in it's place a black hole
this is where I titer
between the point of falling in,
or dangling along the lines of the knot
trying to detangle whats left of the web we created
I am dancing around in different directions
hoping we’ll pass again in sync

(tw; existentialism)

I am intimidated by you,
though perhaps it is not you that I am intimidated by,
but simply that time seems to fly
faster than I am capable of falling in stride.
The universe is infinite
but my existence is the opposite,
limited,
and I am terrified to die.

The fool, plays tricks on himself,
Knotting his head over branches of a riveting kumbuk,
Dancing over the hopping line between truth and superstition,
Bartering with the bard for his wit and contradiction of concentrated diction, to display his friction,
Over Colosseum hipping corpus collosum

For a fool forgets to mind his breath,
Watching the counting seconds go by in the succession of time, one coming after another.
The next illusion of discontinuity through fluidity,
Trapping a held moment in breath of no flow.
Failing to follow the proverbial advice in don't hold thy breath, let it go in the exhale.

The fool wants nothing, needs something,
but cannot decide to come down on one thing,
starting point of beginning a thin kings event.

Drifting like clouds taken by the wind,
Along the axis of rotating rocks piled on stones.

Dancing about his madness found in prancing around his non compliance with no alliance of self consolidated foundations for aesthetic apprehension,
With apparitions of mind forming matter burning embers for the toxic putrid smoke of dragons breath,
Locked in melancholic disdain of not needing, but ease of occupation ******* on the elder wands death by cigarette stick.
the demise of tom riddle's incline.