the beauty of nature is lost on a piece of millennial **** like me
what's a tree?
who knew the air outside could be breathable.
I'm utterly lost without the artificial glow of my iPhone.
if I don't know who is eating Chipotle at any given moment
I will lose my mind.
what do you mean you "played outside" and "talked to each other" before the internet?
I call *******.

city in the shadow of a mountain
like denver on vacation
shady and deep
flowing down like the river
seeking centre
houses cling to the crags like barnacles
inverted ship cavity
jutting out of the rainforest

paradise of truants and travellers
eternally in transit to islands and misfit fringes, cold floors and warm couches
and displaced ***** enthusiasts
sailors without floatation
treading land and bills and PTA meetings
cast off travellers on their way to golden gates or northern lights
rivers under troubled bridges
fish suffocating underwater
living on the refuse of the nuclear generation
transmuting the lead into sustainable energy
recycling the atmosphere into breathable air
apathetic anarchists return from extremity
living on the dole
or working for the man
we are building something greater than this

My abode was not built by my own two hands
It was erected by the noble hands of labs, in the 1920s
I make caffeined, bitter black water for the over worked businessman: who pushes arrogance
so that I may sleep
My time spent manifests itself into red norishment
from a white-light shuttle
free of breathable sunlight but abundant of it in edible from

There are stickers on my apples
trees tattooed with chemicals
that find themselves everywhere
plastic freckles on the trunks of their mothers
or returning into plastic fossils
Embraced by the place in which it came

Stickers on Apples:
so much effort for something
so
sweetly
simple

No use whistling for Lyonnesse!
Sea-cold, sea-cold it certainly is.
Take a look at the white, high berg on his forehead-

There's where it sunk.
The blue, green,
Gray, indeterminate gilt

Sea of his eyes washing over it
And a round bubble
Popping upward from the mouths of bells

People and cows.
The Lyonians had always thought
Heaven would be something else,

But with the same faces,
The same places...
It was not a shock-

The clear, green, quite breathable atmosphere,
Cold grits underfoot,
And the spidery water-dazzle on field and street.

It never occurred that they had been forgot,
That the big God
Had lazily closed one eye and let them slip

Over the English cliff and under so much history!
They did not see him smile,
Turn, like an animal,

In his cage of ether, his cage of stars.
He'd had so many wars!
The white gape of his mind was the real Tabula Rasa.

I am, I think, the last survivor of my kind. The arc ship had chosen the wrong sun for our new world. Or maybe it was the right one. Either way. A solar flair had destroyed us. By some fluke I was in my space suit on the far side of the ship doing a final exterior check of all system on what was supposed to be the eve of our landing day. Or maybe is wasn't supposed to be. Either way. I had seen everything around me engulfed in flames as I was accelerated away from everything I had ever known at impossible speeds smashed against the renforced rib of the hull that somehow protected me from the all consuming fire. I say it was a solar flare but I don't really know. It's just the best conclusion I can draw from the evidence given. And I have had lots of time to conteplate it. My space suit contains its own air scrubbing ecosystem that will provide me with a breathable atmosphere indefinitely and whos little bacteria happily march their dead into my stomach keeping me never full, but never malnourished nor starving. My species had only developed such overbuilt bioengineering after it was too late to save our drained and polluted home world, but we had it on the ship.

We were supposed to do better on the new world. Or maybe we weren't supposed to. Either way. I would lie against this chunk of wreckage and watch the hideously slow procession of the stars. As I hurtled through the universe, away from the nothing that remained from the nothing that I had know and towards new nothings that I had never seen before.

Either way, empty space is all the same and doing nothing is a drag even without the time dilation from the ungoddly speed one can attain when propelled by an angry star. It truely is a miracle that I am even alive. If you can call such a thing a miracle. Like I said, when taking to the heavens for our long journy, my people did it with sturdy stuff, but still, whatever force that hit us destroyed everything else. If anyone else did survive, their fate would be similar to my own and we would be getting further from one another by the moment, so it didn't really matter anyhow.

Before you ask, no, I couldn't just take off my helment. My people had instaled suicide prevention measures well before the launch. People tend to get depressed when confined to a ship, much less a spacesuit. My people knew this.

I prefered to lie with my face on the rib looking to my right. That way the left half of my vision was consummed by the dark mass of the rib as my right half, while mostly darkness contained a particularly bright star as well. By watching it inch toward the rib I was able to maintain some semblance of a sense of time passing. Then, one day, I saw a second light. I saw it wizzing pass and I could barely believe what my eyes told me it was. A shoulder mounted light on another space suit. And in it, I assumed, another person.  I hadn't moved since I had made it out of sight of the explosion. After what felt like days, it faded into the black that surrounded me, and I , resigned to my fate had laid down on the chunk of wreckadge and not moved since. But now, my body started up with a fire before my mind could even think to do next. I scrambled to the edge of the rib and I could see their light floating away from me. I hesitated for a moment. I have always been the type to hesitate even if my previous movement would suggest otherwise.

Then, I did it. I swung myself onto what had once been the interior side of the last souvenir from my ship. I planted my feet on it and I pushed with all my might. I demanded that my atrophied legs explode with all their remaining strength and then some. I pushed away from the last piece of everything i had ever known and pushed myself into the vast emptiness. The light seemed to slow in its escape, but it wouldn't be enough to catch it I knew. If I didn't do something immediatly I would spend the rest of my days watching it move further away from me.

I didn't have to do anything. A rocket propelled teather launched past me and again, with out though my body reached out and grabbed it. My mind realized that as soon as the teather ran out of slack, the tension would rip it from my grip, so I clamped it to my utility belt using the built in vice grip. It wouldn't let go for any force less than an exploding star. When the teather did run out of slack, the deceleration was so jarring that I thought it would break me.

The other creature and I fell into orbit with one another. The centripetal force created an artificial gravity. While the reintroduction of force upon my body pained me, feeling the grip of gravity against me was bliss, even if it was just an illusion.

And this is where you find me, spiraling in tandem through the universe with my companion. We are different species and share no means of communication. It is likely that we were born millenia apart, but time means little in our vacuous relm. We tried to pull ourselves closer together, but the increased rate of orbit made the endeavor sickening as well as exhausting. Though we had no language between us, we agreed that it was best we maintain our distance.

When you're alone in space, there is no point of refrence for movement and acceleration except ones self. As such, from my partners perspective it would have appeared that they stood still while I hurtled pass. But the truth is that they hurtled toward me and saved me from the broken prison of the rib. I don't mind them seeing it as such, but I smile in my knowing of the truth.

And so we tumble through the universe as close together as we can manage. Which is all one can really ask for anyhow.

Since our lives were complicated
By outside reason
Our house has been loud with voices
We pulled the bits out of our mouths
And now we will never put them back
And our house has never been quiet
And our house has never been neat
A scream has always followed a scream
Like the roll of waves and the sea is never still
But for the first time in years
I sit alone on the swept floor
Of a silent room
And the cold winter wind rushes through our house
Through windows flung open to let in more breathable air
But it makes me think only of my warm spot halfway up the stairs
That I was too afraid to go to when I heard the cold coming
Now a scream echoes without a scream
And my heat is lost to a room
With nothing to hold it

Ushered into the breathable
Strung on undefinable threads,
Life's atmospheric interlacing;
A weaving, hidden to opaque sight

Subtle ties, loosen and relax,
Chest enmeshed entirely,
Titillating summations of Earth's enthusiasm
Entwine in activities of the lungs and heart

Pumping action, energy, growth,
Air feeds fire, and power, and blood,
Burning from the inside, animated,
Billions of cellular suns, throbbing

Light in the garden of the body,
Alive with murmurs, and hums
Of love, all of time, and space,
Moved to produce this oscillation

Ecstatic the body expands in swells,
Ecstatic the body contracts in swells,
Ecstatic are the waves exchanging,
Ecstatic is the surge of breath

Flexing patterns
Slight of hand
Flattering inspiration
Fostering me
In its warmth
Soft whispers
Like a breathable oxygen
Prima ballerina
Please grace
Me with your soft sweet movements
In limbo I’ve been
Four leaf clovers
Splitting lucks running on fumes
Army of me
Loosen up your
Bark
I’m just a man
Never claimed to be a king
Creaking floors shout
Gazing walls stare
Don’T shine like silver
Castles
Of sand crumble
A devoted
Loneliness
Just had to veer
It’s ugly head in
Fragments far to relevant
Excavated as the days go
Set by step
Word by word
Masquerading in every detail
To the finest degree
Executioner
Of life latched onto my
Footsteps and wouldn’t unite me

Having my head's in the clouds is what makes me happy.
I breath better and I feel as though I will live longer.
I feel free,
Which is something that I don't feel down here.

Down here is clogged up and broke.
The air isn’t breathable and everyone is fighting.
I want to live in the clouds and  I know I can’t.
But I wish I could, it’s peaceful and that doesn’t happen down here.

In the clouds you can dream and you can hope
In the clouds you can believe.
You can be you and you won't be judged
In the clouds you will be free.

But I know that the air up there isn't breathable,
But I wish it was so then I will be free
of the hell from down below.

dear twenty-year old me,
the storm in your head will settle and
the debris will remain down for a few minutes longer this time.
(and then you'll learn to hold down fortresses in the
hurricanes, instead of being the ragdoll that
the torrents play tag with).

dear twenty-year old me,
there will be a moment when no amount of
poisonous smog clutching on the every molecule of breathable air
will be enough to block the clarity of the sun, the moon,
even the little stars that seemingly do nothing but give you a carpet
of diamonds to cut your feet on.

dear twenty-year old me,
this is a test. this is a phase. if life has taught me
anything, it is this -
it
always
goes
on.
**so should you.

I laid on my bedroom floor and sunk my face into my elbow. There was nothing. No sound. No movement. There was Blackness. I was engulfed, I did not feel my heart and I did not feel my lungs. Time went on, unscathed, but I remained in the Black. I do not know anything. I do not know who came in my room. I do not know what they said. I do not know what I said. The jarring crash of a constant sound kept pulling me away. Every labored second time bore forth, I was unaware. I had gone somewhere so far that I was nowhere. The dust lined the back of my throat. Then I knew everything. I desperately wandered around looking for the Black. I had no provision but the Black. I had been unaware. Perfectly unaware. But I could not find the Black. So I was aware: no salt ever was so tasteless, no liquid was ever so dry. No pain was ever so miniscule, no mucus was ever so breathable. No, there was nothing. Not in the Black.This prejection of perfection, I could not emulate. I close my eyes and there was black. It had ears, a mout, eyes, a nose, and touch. There was a pit in the middle of my soul, somewhere between the bottom of my rib cage and my pants. I tried to find the Black there, but it was gone. Instead there was grinding and crashing. There was color. There was noise. I was refusing to really acknowledge it. There was aching and burning; there was pressure and banging. There was blue and there were barbells. There was a bed; a Bible and many books. There were bandaids and bottles and bows and bespeckled things. There was a blue monster and blue shirt. There was blue gatorade and black cords, and there was black shoes and black clothes. But there was no Black. There was brokeness and bruises; beige and bumps.There was a bunny and beauty products; a balustrade and a bathroom door. But there was nothing, and with it was no Black.

He tells me he likes nachos while we sit in front of his living room TV,
lights dimmed. his dog has shed relentlessly on this couch.
I’m feeling dizzy, because I’m pretty sure that cheese was growing mold and I remind myself that
this is the 4th boy this summer (it’s only July), and he’s holding my hand.

it’s not so comfortable. in fact I realize I really don’t want to watch this movie about chemotherapy and space aliens (willing to bet he’s run the same one for every girl) at all. for a moment I forget where I am,

and I ask him if his name is Mitchell.
It’s Rafe, he says, ¼ laughing, ¼ wondering why he invited me over, half imagining what he could do to me.
what a ****** name, I think to myself, and I throw the scratchy blanket off me in his too air-conditioned apartment,
much more breathable.
I open the door. sorry Mitch, my mom told me to be home by... (squint at my watch in the darkness)
he stands up and knocks over my untouched Pepsi, probably spiked, saying it’s pretty early, are you sure? and the name’s –

(door shuts). bye, Mitch.

Love is the first fish. 1: 1, but in fact it's true, it's true.
After returning Esq. Information (section). The law
we will be using (amongst other things) allows girls (among others)
at the end of time's T cone (a) not to include / encapsulate
the group that is red wine and white wine in the London region;
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from the words [2] Extinktorium in the gardens
of broken blood vessels and the paths of salvation
and good health. |||| |||| 1 1. I'm a thief of 13,000 grams.
From the pathology provided by the (local) graphic products
(4) to local officials. || Sometimes it's easy.
And all the words are good. 1. In Sanskrit and six years
of French colors in the garden when I go to heaven?
For the tele-peer technique named for the two men,
it can be cleared in N. Los Angeles where the air
is breathable and the summer home of Emperor Julian the Queen of Russia; The development of six children in Europe was not one of the French poets Falakarokrax; 1 for holiday begins to ask: what do we do for poverty after drinking port at home? from me are pierced
with the noble art of pedicure MECOME:
the doors do not need connecting points
and the smoke outside the book is all in peace
and I started to remember the words of our ancestors,
aware of the wall descending from the cliff top
of the mountain and the young people of Canada,
the child this November, and machines
that would be able to father his father,
Bettie is from the books of history;
the new Member is a dentist in Germany,
but the guy with his coat hour after the meeting,
soon became without twelve who did not have a gift of senses;
and Golem in Europe "1, which began to train love
in her first fight.True, true, true, true, true After returning
the Esq.Test (section) is a condition that girls
(among others) Perth (among others) at the end
of each cone T (a) do not include / Ka in the side
chamber in London and wine, the wine is if the color
of the skin does not differ from yours, I made gardens
and parks and its blood can be for salvation Blitz [2]
Extinctorium Blitz on the skin sent quarterly. |||||||
thieves grams 1,000,13 and 8 (12) that produce
that is the guest Fisherman is well established 1.
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in the garden, in the sky, Technically, Tele-peer
was for people on both sides, Nordic angels,
and what is the spirit, Empress Juliana,
Queen of the French gender of Europe with Russian developments,
will sing up to the 15th Russian soul
and with the desire to be open and peaceful,
but also in "Fa Vorite" , and one of the medical ones
crystal glass instruments, or football,
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into the speech that cidero pronounces within the company;
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"MECOME", because there is no need to be a mistress
of the EP, and I began to mention access to the elders
in the mountains and children in Canada in the mountains,
trees and mid-January. Bettie and the father
of one's own person were a story of Christ, French, German,
and not a serious role-playing group that makes
Dada and Golem wind up in Europe, saying, "I am in a camp."
Love is the first fish. 1: 1, but true in reality, that's true.
Information after coming back. (Section). The law
which we use (in between) allows girls (in the middle of others)
at the end (a) a red wine in London's area and a white wine.
We both talked The color of the color is different
from the coloring [2] in the gardens and the nutrients
and the good health routes. |||| |||| 1. I am a thief
in the amount of 13,000 grams. Research (local)
and graphic products (4) are provided by local officials.
|| Sometimes it is not easy And all the words are good.
1. After six years of French colors in Sanskrit in the garden
when I went to paradise. The name of two men
is named as a "man" for a talented footwear,
it can be cleaned into the NNA Los Angeles,
where the air flows and in summer, Russia's death
in the Emperor Juliana's house; the sixth developmental
development of the French Focararrox in Europe
Not one of the poets; Asked a question:
What do we do with poverty after drinking at home?
I created me a great and technical article:
Do not have to talk with the door,
and the books of the book are in peace,
and I started to remember the words of my ancestors,
Know Horia and the young peak from Canada.
Early people, machines who come from father-in-law
historical books, have a dentist in Germany,
but in the meeting, the people of Richmond
would not have been children sooner than weekly kids.
And in Goallum in Europe "1, who began to train
his first war, after truth, truth, truth, truth and Isaac (as)
returned, the condition is that the girls (among others)
The final part of the universe is not included
in side chambers in London and wine, wine is that
the brightness is not different from you,
I created gardens and parks and to save its blood. [2]
Thieves are sent to the thieves. Thousands of birds,
13 and 8 (12) are included in chamber, creating a guest,
Rabbi is a formed position. This year, six colors
of French censorship have been made in heaven.
The telephone was for the people of both sexes.
Horses angels and What is the soul, Emperor Julian,
Russians rope in the 15th Century Spirit of Europe,
with Russian development, and it should be peaceful
and peaceful, Ferrara Violet "and one of the medical
instruments, the Crystal Glass Glass or G Glasses
Gala S. Ecaraxs may not have been declared
as an episode in E-society; Artic's long-distance
state "McMom", because you are not a property of AP,
and between the mountains, mountains and mountains
in Canada's mountains and mountains. Started accessing the elderly. . .
Beat and his father is not a single group of Christians,
French, German, who plays a role, which tells Dada and Golem
not to gambol in Europe, "I'm in the field."Love is the first fish.
1: 1, but the real truth is true. After coming back information.
(Category). At the present time (between) allows girls (other media)
at the end of (a) red wine and white wine in the London area.
We talked about both the color and the color of different
colors [2] In the gardens and other nutrients, and good health routes. |||| ||||
1. I am a thief in the amount of 13,000 pounds. Research (local)
and graphic products (4) are provided by local officials.
|| But now it is not easy for all of the good. 1. After six years
in the Sanskrit and French color in the garden
when the Paradise. In the name of the two men
named as a "person" for their genius in women's shoes,
cannot be DNA in Los Angeles, where air flows
in the summer toil in Russia Emperor Julian's death house,
and the sixth development of progress with the French poet,
not Focararrox in Europe; The questioner asked:
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but do not tell the door and peace in a book about books,
and I began to remember the words of my ancestors
know Horia young people and point from Canada.
In the morning the people who have come out of machines
and the father-in-law of the historical books,
such as a dentist in Germany, but in the community,
is that it was not them that are born of the people
of Richmond, than a weekly with the kids.
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to train in the first war with the truth,
the truth, the truth, the truth, Isaac (as) returned,
the condition is that the girls (among others),
and the last part of the universe is not confined
to the lowest upstairs in London and wine
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and created gardens and parks and take his blood.
[2] will attack the thieves. Thousands of birds, 13 and 8 (12)
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a shaped place. This year, the six colors shining
forth from the Gallic and the censorship and the battles
have been incited within heaven. of mobile phones
is to the people, with the consent of the parties.
of the horse to the angels, and what the soul, of the
emperor Julian, Russians a cord through the Spirit
of 15th Extra development century Europe, is also peaceful
and peaceful, Ferrara blue "and one of the Emperor medical,
glass or crystal glasses G St. distance Gala had declared
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because it is not apparent among the mountains mountains
of Canada. Initial accessing the elderly. . . Father and beat
one of a group of Christians French, German which plays a role,
which tells Dada and Golem in Europe, "I'm in the field."
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at the end (ie, diners) (the "cells"). They say the colors
of the colors and the colors [2] gardens, and other foods
and health lines. |||| |||| 1. I am £ 13,000. Research (local)
and graphic products (4) are provided by local authorities.
|| Now everything that is good, is not easy to find.
1. genetewiwi yešenišikitine French color holder
and six years later. Los Angeles, New loreši, yerušiyewiyeni
Roman Emperor Julian the Emperor of Russia
and sixth development was found "two" training shoes,
not the French philosopher Befichēšikorochi in Europe.
What shall we do a lot of drinking, poverty, and the at home?
I had very good technology, but in the books,
and I was reminded over coffee to talk about peace,
and Canada, a former Canadian of words. In the morning,
the German dentist in the city, such yeshife history books:
Each week for children. "Islam," helps to also be consulted
as soon as the war is a "goal" in the true, true, true sense,
reports Isaac, Jacob, "The women (and other) universities
were at the lowest level in London and wail (12) all are
chambers of the singers in the inner chamber,
in the game so long a time, in which a rabbi,
a part of the guests there are six colors, just as the Gaelic
and thus may be more distinct. Danish literature in Paris
in the name of the French horse, it is, and the king
of the Julians in the 15th peace are nonviolent
against the system, the French set the horsemen
in the name of the French horse's name
"Li king" and medicine, or glass light Krister
Tek'oreret'ene economic consequences in the form
of medical gigabytes, is one of either glass
or glass yešišileše. I, Golem Legiluli in Germany ||
                                                              ­   to German-speaking groups speak:
                                                                ­           "I am the Federation!"

How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant to reach Mars?
Was it meant to be a ladder to both near and far,
To the way far beyond and the far beyond stars?

How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant to be raised up to the sun on a pole?
Was it meant to sniff clouds and those lovely bows,
And breathe comet dust in a breathable boast?

How high was a nose meant to go?
Was it meant as an ornament for onlooking eyes,
Combing and surveying air instead of people passing by,
So the friendliest friends can breathe lovelorn sighs?

Those friendliest friends are the first despised.

How high was a nose meant to go?
The one pointed down will be the one pointed out,
The one smelling the floor will be rejected and fought,
The nose pointed down, broken with blood on the ground.

How high was a nose meant to go?

People came and went all night, welcomed by the warm evening, the 12-piece jazz band, rich restaurant aromas and the boundless night sky. I hear their enthusiasm as they’re escorted to their tables. These Geneva people seem more Germanic and reserved than the French, although they’ve stolen our language. Maybe they license French or subscribe to it, like Spotify.

Peter (my bf) and I danced, unburdened by tomorrows, on a terrace of frozen-ice like, pale-blue tiles. The spilled star-field glittered like fireworks on a dark canvas of a new-moon, black sky.

The distant, snow-covered Alps seemed to reach for the glistening cosmos, like spilled water rushing across a floor or children grasping at toys. Compared to this celestial gallery, the Geneva skyline looked as sad as an old stage prop.

The air was scented with blooming jasmine, baking bread and coffees. A breeze, in turns warm and cool, wrapped around us, sharing the dance by pressing my dress to me one moment and throwing it away the next.

The dress I picked it up in Paris earlier in the week - a svelte, Chiuri Dior, ‘New Look Silhouette’ in Prussian blue Chiffon and cobalt crepe - felt as lightweight, breathable and cool as workout-mesh.

Peter’s a good dancer. He’s firm yet gentle, guiding me effortlessly, in a lazy, jazz way, from the waist. When we’re in the flow, our choreography’s guided more by the unseen music than a set dance.

Our evening - I think it’s fair to say we owned it - turned into an unhurried night, before easing, unnoticed, into morning - as summer evenings tend to do.

Our words, in hushed tones, were washed away on the breeze and the music, lost to anyone but ourselves. Time never seemed more of an abstract and irrelevant construct - and if there was a world beyond those moments - it went unnoticed.
.
.
Songs for this:
Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan
Lose My Breath (Feat. Charlie Puth) by Stay Kids, Charlie Puth
Stumblin’ In by CRYIL
**** to someone by Clairo

Anguished and agitated
Being barely bred breathable
Clearly crushing childhood
Desperate,dilapidated,dejected, DONE.

Staple the mess to my dissappointment after so much went to hell.This will make sure potassium infects the soul,  And that DNA matches the horror.

Hoods with a ninety degree cemetery and a broken sun, shall cast. Let me show you the screaming inside me that hope can't hear.

Breathable Walls and worthless fabric are background to my cocktails and clouds.

Come to me when the night is deep,
when the darkness surrounds you,
when the spiders creep.
Spin a web with fingers sleek
and catch your prey when the world
around sleeps.
Haunted secrets we keep
when the air is not breathable
and all around the sound seems
unkeepable,
when love is weak,
tangled,
despicable...
Know I hold you,
unfold you
in a world that's predictable;
I'll lift you, unshift you
when the night feels so crippled,
uncage you, reclaim you
when your world falls unfixable.
Tonight under moonlight
when the wolves hunt alone,
we'll tune out the drone
with love's resounding home--
We'll delight in the known,
knowing we're never alone
and howl at the moonlight
too soon midnight gone.

Sky climbing is the optimum reason
I’m still reaching for the chances with you my dear

Deep cleaning the air with my lies
Diving back down towards the water zone

Casually faking what I truly meant to say
Boiling down the points to the upcoming ******

Moments lingering behind this setup
Ideas melting sliding closing shattering

Behind this glowing sunrise sets upon another sunset
Winds twisting me into an oblivious maze

Universes collide forming new breathable air
Kiss upon your forehead, is the end

There is a lesson
among the others
that I have failed to learn.
A mother's wail,
a child's cry,
the tortured sighs
and lonely eyes-
these signs,
these misgivings,
these misguided reasons
become lost on me.
It's the pain,
the uncultured beginnings
of a slowly spreading weight
that I fail to see
in full colour.
I look to the sky
at the words;
tell me it's raining
and I will believe you,
but the water will not touch me.
I look up,
searching
for the tears among raindrops,
the carbon
among the breathable air,
looking for the cats-
looking for the dogs-
but finding only a beautiful rain.
And ashamed
for not understanding
the pain that it takes
to be like the people I see,
sitting at the window
just like me,
but whose blank stares
and sighs
mirror nothing
inside my own soul.
I have wished to feel that pain,
if only for a day,
just to understand
the way it takes hold.
I have searched
for that sincerity,
and found only the clarity
of somebody who skips through life
making eye contact easily.
But sometimes,
instead,
I look down at the ground,
trying to find what they search so hard for;
trying to pick it up again
and lift it towards the sky.
I don't need a reason why
I just do.

A mountain of decay fills the land I see,
Infects the air we breathe.
Legal poison into offspring’s veins,
The invisible people of color that reside where the rest dispose.
The toxic fumes are the silent killer never brought to justice,
Wiping out the poverty stricken with manmade waste.
Banished to the wasteland with only what is in hand,
Nothing to defend from the monster society created.
The rich leaving toxic bombs at the poor’s front doors,
Of those who cannot afford the same rights to breathable air.
When will the smoke stack begin to fall?
When will the air I breathe cease to make my nose bleed?
When will the land on which I lay revive instead of decay?
When will society stop treating us like rats living in their sewer?
We are the people of impoverished  wasteland depleting away.