We're always compartmentalizing our lives --wanting everything so neat and organized it never just is. Everything is labeled and diagnosed, defined, and described, that I think we've lost the ability to see the beauty in the simplicity of existence.

"I do not understand, " cried she, "Where do my loves go? Where do I go? Where is my mind, my life, my cares? Does it not matter anymore? Why should I not matter? I have eyes to see and ears to hear, a mouth to speak, and a mind to think, and still it is not enough for you! For you or anyone else to let me love and be as God has always intended I be. For He made me. Not you. He and only He."

he had never dreamed in

color.

it was a lack that made

him feel awkward about

the vibrancy of

consciousness.

he had never dreamed in

color and he had

psychoanalyzed himself

enough to know

color made him

feel more restricted

than a world of

black and white.

Don't watch me

I

don't need eyes all over

my body.

Trusting you to save me

when all you do is see

only the things I never

want to

show.

found

Something tells me I'm going

to see a world of flames

burst at seams to allow a

million fireflies to light us

all up and again.

They are buzzing in my ears

telling me of all the secrets

of the universe.

We feel so lonely, but it's all

just aflame. He's watching us,

trying to make us believe.

He is articulate
and calculating;
Quips that pinch my heart.

fixed.

i wonder where we hide
or why
and when.
where the passions flee
and we're left with
a yearning
and we don't know how to fix it.

or ourselves.

i see it in the masses.
the masks
the characters
the way we try to live
so that no one sees the way it feels
to tamp ourselves into the ground.

and the ground does nothing
but
encase
us in mounds of dirt
of what the earth once was,

but living things don't matter much
when they're buried
underground.

it seems i have convinced myself the world is not my own. bees do not buzz for me and snow never falls where i tread. it seems i have convinced myself the world is not my own.

i walk outside of everyone. i see the entire world through a window i found, lying in dust in an attic where i used to be a part of something more. this window might be grimy and it might shatter when i lose the ability to be careful, but it is mine. at times, all i own.

and, the world does not want me, does not need me, never looks inside that window i live behind.

i never wished on stars - how pointless!

i've never seen a psychic or tore a wishbone in two. there is no point; the world has given me all it can manage.

Saddened, i have nothing to return.

but i walk. i walk so much in my mind, alone in travels, alone in thoughts, and the whispers softly come from low-hanging trees dipping down to touch my shoulders; they wish me luck.

115

Oh!
To listen, to judge,
to break these worlds apart.
To give focus to men
Who see without seeing
and have long forgotten
the world is for the
dreams
that cry and spark,
pitch and scream,
that shake it all apart.

oh, oh.

Do we go?
Do we?
You have to let me know - I don't
move all that
well
on my own.

Do you swear?
Do you?
Because, I need to know
we're there -
You can't just
Leave me all alone.

But could you?
You could
Wrap me up in
silhouettes - pretend I never was
And I will be gone.
I will.

don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic. don't panic.

this

And to know.
Oh, to know just who
it is we try to be
when we're losing thoughts,
losing ourselves in "we."
And you're there.
You're there standing in the garden,
tall and innocent,
staring at me.
And I look at you.
I think we're wondering,
these thoughts we've lost
All tangled tight and broken
now it seems.
But, standing in that garden
I only remember "we."

less

inside lines of me.
outside lines,
it seems to be
that you, oh, you
never cease to let me go.
let me dream inside a dream
of drifting,
of unimaginable,
uninhibited existence.
never let me be.
i live behind closed eyes
and never get to be.

also, also.

only one way to find me
-living like a voice inside my own head.
that record stopped spinning,
collected dust so long ago,
taking up space on a shelf
I forgot I had.

40,000 Hz

We were making love
Under the stairs
To the flashing of fluorescence
And the sounds of spinning records,
Scratching memories into the disc
And hoping no one catches on.

Rupture.

What would you do
with all these pieces of me?
Please be innovative with your touch.
Don't paste them back together
in a crude attempt to recreate me.
Make me new
and whole
and lovely for your eyes to see.

I'd want to be nothing else.

like ribbons.

and when the rain comes heavy
i feel a little less empty--
fills up all the holes in my dam
that have been years in the breaking.

i am the firefly.

and there it is,
and there we'll go.
a thousand chances to hold it all,
but not one we'd ever know.

The End of the Garden

Do you break?
Do you shake
When I approach?
Quiver?
Stumble?
I think I saw it once,
A little bit of lessening
in the way you stand so still.
You are an anchor
driven deep into the roots of me-
You hold my world in place.
Sometimes I wish the ground could give a little
and swallow all the world.
Break it.
Shake it.
Watch it quiver
so I'll stumble.
Oh, I'm tired of being so still.

Head-tilt, Chin-lift

Oh,
I screamed--
I SHOUTED
Let me live!
Just let me in and
Oh!
I will give the best of me
to all the ones who
Bested you.
Oh, let me, let me, let me--
Let me save you while you're down.

Very Well Then

The thoughts,
they come like fireflies--
Lighting up
Then blinking out
Just when I think they've landed in my palm.
And, that hand is outstretched
Waiting for
any kind of gift
That tells me I belong inside
These four walls.
And thoughts--
They scream;
Like darts they fly,
Pinned into the cushions of my room.
Embedded--
Waiting for me to find them
And keep their lights lit for good.

Sometimes it's enough to know
the eggshells that I walk upon
have always been my own.

Untitled

A split in the sky slices graying clouds in two.
A trail where man's machine has reached the place that
Before only God had touched.
There are lamp posts blocking my view of heaven
And smog that separates a sinner from redemption.
No stars in that sky.
They've been killed by too many wishes;
Wishes for better things.

Though, what could be better than stars?

Right Through Me

It only
works when I never need it to.
Until then it spits up.
Cracks up.
Freezes up.
Fucks up.
It only breaks
And throws out a final spark
When I need a bit of
Proper functioning
To make it through the day.

"No one is free. Even the birds are chained to the sky."

My soul screams out for splendor.
It's a high-pitched wail
That tears a hole in the night.
Oh, I have longed for beauty,
To hold it in my hands,
But it always whispers
-In that fleeting voice-
There's none for me out there.

All of that.

Oh, love me.
Love.
Me.
Love me in completeness.
Hold me
With the care
You'd show your
Own
Soul.
Slip
Into
All of my well-being.
Right into me
And stay.
Oh,
Stay with me.
Always with me.
Always.
Always.
And I will
Give you
All of me.
No pretenses.

Just.
Me.

Arts&Crafts

I can
only see the
way things are
never meant to be.
I have led myself to
edges of disappointment -
A hobby, if you will.

This is how my writing usually begins.

All My Fault

So fix me up,
Although I am not broken.
Make me, mold me,
Show me what you need me to be.
I am not aware of anything
Or any way
To make you hang around.
So pick me up,
I've fallen.
Bandage all those wounds
That I no longer feel.
I don't really need you
To save me,
But it's such a lovely thought that
Someone would.

collective.

It is easier [for me]
To say it isn’t in the books for me to find
A savior to fit the finest form
Of all my varying needs.

It is easier [for me]
To see a tree and think of seeds
And sun and rain
And time
And not to think of a snap
Of two fingers
And a magical beginning.

It is easier [for me]
To fall asleep, asking myself
For strength I can’t seem to find inside
Than talking to an obscure illusion
That’s really only air.

It is easier [for me]
To doubt, to question, to search, to guess
To make believe I understand
The ways in which I’m never meant to understand
Than to sit back
And listen to words that do not belong to me.