it’s raining outside today, and i binged “like a bird,” by fahira róisín. melancholia is the only word to use here. i eat that **** up. do i tend towards sadness as a means to escape my own? or to find solace in shared identity?

i’m hungry, but i don’t want to cook.
i’m tired, but i find it hard to sleep.
i’m lonely, but i don’t know how to be anything else.

im thinking about the future, a new concept for me. ever since i were young, i’ve had trouble imagining the future. not because i didn’t think i’d be alive, per se. i simply didn’t know how to see something that hadn’t yet happened. or maybe i didn’t want to see for myself everything i saw around me.

it’s hard to imagine a future completely different than the world that you’ve grown accustomed to.

It has been such a Long time since our last incarnation such like reassembly.

We’ve been scrubbing our United States
and leasing places
as scarification and other humans‘ faces
of stories,
to bless or gargle foreign.

We’ve been to the Neptune’s Fountain to find Young Man Hogan’s bench situated within all those loners’ speedy extroversion,
and catch the Saint Petersburg bell that hitchhiked the church there

to make a glimpse of urbanism and the world’s history replaced
by just one journal
and one fella’s pencil
swerving greatly‏.
‏
Still,
the words are still trying,
flexing,
to fit their whole ends
into shoes they should have taken off
already, a long time ago,
and that‘s this somewhere
where we could say:
crossroads decide their fruition.

And it comes to realisation:
faces,
screens,
bruises,
droppings,
chilling entries,
work,
how I remade the word “naked”of one thousand and one nights
under my tiny silky
cloak
-
it has been nothing but a play
for the day when I’ll write,
and the Life,
that will take on my own skin
one way or another.

One paper corner will meet with the other.

Departures are all eventually just fun geese’s bump in another flight of a night.

Like bells they hear this ringing
Not of Christmas but of orange goodness.
This Irish voice walks past on balled up green,
her hair red as the warmth in early March spring.
The voice speaks of prickled roses that lie at my feet,
she reminisces on the tacky green and welcomes
the seaweed green.

It's baffling the up and down in her voice
Like a paper crown it could tumble,
My eyes dare look left.
She's skipping now, down to the town hall
to walk off the corners edge.

A tattered, torn,
                  old journal
Holds echos
                   of a love once past
Words like imprints
                   on the brain
Press through
                    from one page to another
Two hearts once held each other

You,

I regretted knowing you, though I don't regret our memories. I regretted knowing you at a wrong time, at a time where both of us ain't the best for each other but then again, if fate ain't on our side then I guess there's really ain't any perfect time. Well, what can I say, I'm still stuck with this agony of a feeling, if I would play a scene and rewind it over and over again like a broken tape, the title would be "when I met you".

Me

O to be prejudice between the visible
and invisible Baha'u'llah.
When moving out of nature becomes moving by the Will.
Therefore, divinity becomes a shuffling of
the attention away from all things, words, senses,
forms, and starts to receive instructions from
the personages that visit me.
She stared at me as if I was the sole
expression of her day,
tossed the blouse covering her beauty.
Her waist was perfect and made
mine perfect while sitting.
She caught sight of Baha'u'llah,
and her spirit dispersed.
Angels of Prophets parted ways,
by means of Names.
He unfolds a general saying
to tell me of His hidden power.
That woman, Rey, of the Force
looks at me with tears in her eyes.
Baha'u'llah always leaves me
to have no sign or description
of the divine.
He came and left, and though seen and felt, left no remaining
evidence
of His
Self.