a book titled the comfort book
carries silver-tongued truths disguised as preachings offering some peace.
turns out reading what's already known
is like seeing the result on paper—
having exclaimed, i won't believe unless it's shown.

can i slip in, as a matter of fact,
the moon is suing me for emotional damage
and all the pressure i've brought upon it, forthwith, with immediate effect?

she left a letter this morning while leaving
to hide in her contrary's presence—
a cease and desist nailed to the door of my self.
she claimed i'd stared too long,
longingly enough she’d started to feel bare,
and seen me stark naked as i whispered my dire lies to the night air.
she felt used. perhaps i committed a crime.
so i admitted, and asked for apologies.

except i was sent a summon,
to present myself and the plead-not-guilty note.
the stars—she put as the jury,
the night sky her lawyer,
the sun as the judge—he held fury.

i presented myself, humor disguising my truth,
but when they brought the memories to the witness box,
i knew i was done for—eloquently misjudged and overlooked.

had to take an oath,
but they lied under it even.
promised nothing was wrong.
i saw right through their plotting.

i aimed for the time reversing,
pleading guilty, admitting innocence.
my shadow whispered secrets i haven't lived yet—
and they brought her to cross-examine:
no one else but my imaginary friend.

she was mad.
mad for being forgotten and left.

so i did the next best thing:
tore my skin, let her scavenge through the inside.
she felt for the way my veins pulsed,
and admitted i was right.
speaking the truth, your honor,
i smiled at the moon,
but felt guilty for not seeing it sooner.

the universe had glitched—
whenever i cried, it glitched,
sent down a star to wipe my eyes dry.
in doing so, the stars suffered,
and the moon, without her supporters, lost her glimmer.
she lost her friends, as i lost my own.
and no, she wasn’t angry—
just a bit tensed, for she'd seen what happened to my hope.

the lawsuit resulted in me being freed.
i stood up, walked over, and gave her a tight hug—
the trial of chaos, and of giving life to non-existent hope.

she handed me the book of comfort,
written in white on a black page.
it glistened.
the often misplaced truths hide in the bright.
so accept them as you may—
they could be sour, bitter, expired to taste,
but breathing in the venom is one way to make sure
you don’t repeat the same mistakes.

and so this was my tale,
held in the celestial court.
i missed everything—except that i was forlorn, not too long ago.
i still sit at nights and stare at her,
but this time, she lends her own shoulder.
the stars scribble it down:
surrealism meets emotional rundown.

ominous as though it might seem,
this fits like a verdict-stamped
"not guilty" in my very being.

pronouncing beauty, eloquism i've dealt with,
a lit-up candle resembling a snowflake
in the middle of weary summer—
hearth, solitude, and soulmates

have particular habits,
like one i seldom right now:
never get my hair blow-dried
after having cut them down,
knowing i wouldn't go to those lengths again,
or see the styled version—
that's as real as your plains.

wouldn't be there the next day, would they,
when i wake up, a messy bedhead,
stars on my skin, nightmares stained in purpose—
guesses on that somewhere along the ride,
i accepted the chaotic messy half curls
and half waves of my dusted heathery heathens.

learn my language if you must:
private with a public intensity,
burning in paradoxes and flameproof identities.

there's multiple facets of how you live—
decisions, situations, ironies, as you will,
weaponize descent, set trademarked positions.

loathsome evil little creatures,
annoying in proof,
existing by mere chance—
i despise them all through.
but oh, do they deserve love?
perhaps, maybe they do—
from those who speak their words
and listen to them swoon.

deities settled atop the mountain of lies,
dancing in between the lines.
truth is a factor—
those eyes, they lie:
iridescent, accompanied with desires,
breathing vacuum, eating dust,
speaking their shares even as they shy.

spider webs curling upon oneself,
eight-legged creatures grinning at the fresh catch.
fakers faked their own fake selves,
hid secrets of the sacred mess in their chests.

i live for i.
give up, for you shall—
i've some offers to make.
but before, offering some tea—

oh, on the side,
would you like some scones dipped in earth, perhaps?

Love’s like venom in the vine, a pendulum in time,
A crescendo in your spine when the heavens misalign.
It’s a shadow on the shine, it’s a dagger in design,
It’s the chatter in your mind that you never can define.

It’s a glitch in the glow, the itch you don’t know,
A pitch too low, but it hits you though.
It’s a spark in the freeze, a bark in the breeze,
A lark that you seize, but it’s dark in the trees.

It’s a pull in the tide, a lull in the ride,
A skull that you hide with a smile full of pride.
It’s the crash, it’s the climb, it’s the hash of the rhyme,
It’s the past that you mime while you’re grasping at time.

It’s a thread in the seam, a dread in the dream,
A head full of steam that’s about to scream.
It’s the war and the peace, the thorn in the feast,
The beast you release when the hunger won’t cease.

It’s a reel that won’t cut, a feel that won’t shut,
A deal that you struck when your steel turned to gut.
It’s the tear in the weave, the air that you grieve,
A snare you believe but can’t quite retrieve.

It’s a hex, it’s a hymn, it’s the vexed in the grim,
It’s the text in the dim when the rest starts to spin.
It’s a maze in the spark, a haze in the arc,
A blaze in the heart that decays in the dark.

So twist it and take it, resist it or break it,
Insist it’s mistaken, but you’re stitched to forsake it.
Love’s a rhythm that rewinds, a prism in decline,
It’s a prison, it’s divine, it’s the venom in the vine.

It was impaired:
The thread between thought and mouth.
Is it nature or nurture?
  A crucified vulture
    Hung like a basketball

I watched it happen:
  Not loud, not sudden,
  But like sand slipping through clenched fingers.

This still fascinates me:
One’s ability to lose speech.

They told me to whisper,
But cut my tongue when I lowered my voice.

They said:
  “Say what you want,”
  And soldered my mouth up instantly.

I stared at someone too loudly.
My lack of response was interrogated,
My chains like barbed wire,
Becoming tighter anytime I speak.

I’m a flower with drooping ears
Uranium is the best snack for me

  I water myself ever night to make sure I stay ripe
  I heard the thunder scream “not again.”
  A bird watched me implode politely.
  Bees avoid me like taxes.
Sometimes I sit in the sink
Talking to dishes I refuse to wash.
I once tried to talk to a lightbulb,
It turned on, then went blind.

BAM!
  BAM!
    BAM!
      BAM!
 ­       BAM!

Caught.
Chainsawed the product.
No one asked what the product was.
They just clapped.

  BRAVO!

I wore a barcode of my favourite cereal as a scarf,
Told the cashier:
  “Scan me, I bruise easily.”
He called security.

My reflection told me:
  “You blink too much for a cyllinder.”
And I agreed.
Then blinked four times, fast.
  (That was the code for “leave me broken into thirds and believable halves.”)

I’m a memory someone scribbled over.
I’m the museum you build around your hostel.
I’m a vending machine that sells only change
And money is required for usage.

The floor tried to arrest me.
The ceiling held a grudge against me.
The windows applied for workers’ comp.
  And
  I told the walls I loved them.

They said:
  “You only say that when you’re hurting.”
My response:
  “Calamari doesn’t scream, and neither do I.”

I’m a unicorn torn from blood,
I drink shandy — it lifts my mood.
Wine gets me drunk with no delay,
I run so fast… yet crawl all day.

I feast on Docherak with pride,
I’m Cyrano with wounds to hide.
A nose too sharp for subtle scenes,
A dreamer lost in tangerine.

Look! A child soaked in mercy’s glaze,
And me? An anarchist brushed in haze.
Dead words are often heavy and sore,
One does not trifle with love anymore.

A word is blasphemy’s breath,
A cry for help in a world near death.
I’m the king who reigns — these are my themes!
But truth be told… I’m low on steam.

I feel cold under burning skies,
A mouth of sweat, a tongue of lies.
A stare frozen by what it fears,
A feeling lost in a cage of tears.

I bother a janitor just for fun,
A shattered soul, yet touched by none.
See my words as a blasphemous wedge,
For the living dead is not a hedge.

Sometimes I have to remind myself what a monolith is:
  A slab.
  A structure too heavy to argue with.

It doesn’t blink.
It doesn’t beg.
It just stands.

I am not one.
But I pretend.
  I straighten my back,
  Hold my breath,
  And let people leave fingerprints
  On something they think won’t break.

But I crack,
  Only where no one sees.
Not like stone,
  But like anything that remembers being softer.

Sometimes I have to remind myself what a monolith is:
  Unmoving,
    Unmoved,
      Unreal.