As you flick the wand, one more time
Again in a 360 rotation, around,
From wall to door
Her lean torso serpentine coils, her mind cocked to spin
Memories she hasn’t felt since ancestors past
Nor this hunger for the hunt
Crouched low against the carpet fibers
Peeking through the lattice squares
The gaze, the stare, the pause
Of the dining chairs
The hunch, the pounce, the ****,
The finishing blow.
Grace and ferocity beyond what even Discovery could say
It’s all a game, illusion:
To catch is to win, but to catch will end the game
To chase is to win the excitement, but to lose?
But, ah, all is but frustrated
To lose, is the essence of the game
Chasing quantum excitations
Like that chance for a mouthful of pride
In pursuit
But a ghast, fleet of foot myth
She says in the semaphores of her midair leap
With delusions comes laughter,
I am the uninhibited one
Dancing for beasts.

If he resists his tendency
To inhabit his fantasy,
Would he welcome reality,
Over his made up tragedy?

Open to let his eyes be true,
Perceiving real as something new,
Made to feel life like his dreams do,
When dreaming is all that he knew?

To live for real to no avail,
His fantasies would never fail.
He kept the world behind a veil,
No real people matched his tale.

You’d say all his fantasy does
Is fantasize imagined flaws.
He’d love the real him because
He was fantastic as he was.

But! little did they know...
Seriously,
they didn't know much
Illiteracy prevents them

Sometimes,
the knives in our backs
are the only things
keeping us upright;
Who'd have thought
betrayal could be our
greatest asset?
How ironic.

Everyone says it's not poetry unless it's got rhyme.
Well I wouldn't buy that for a dime.
My brain's a giant mess,
why would i try to make what I say any less?
Organization and aesthetics, you say?
well ***** that, anyway.

Coffee shops.
Lemon drops.
Those rhyme!
You'll see what i do with those in time.
Or maybe not;
I've already done a lot.

All this irony's made my brain jello,
so it's time to say hello
(to the end of this poem).

Hang me from your balcony
So you can hear my fantasy
People only want to listen when your wrists are painting poetry
Push me off a cliff so you can make a tragedy
Tragedies make poetry
Poetry is lovely
Tie me to some train tracks
To create a mass catastrophe
Catastrophes make poetry
Poetry is charming

A midnight snack of
Asparagus and mushrooms
Have to be healthy
Or I'll have a heart attack