banshee

though, some are content to share with one who inspires

but for those who walk precariously balanced seeking both unique and inspired it can be easier to not have a name at all

inspiration comes with intrinsic association and cancels out the unique

i'm able to guess what the numbers might be my housemates have very low numbers ticking down with every noise they make

the numbers keep getting lower

But that's untrue. Life does not end with death. Our minds may cease, consciousness may vanish, but that does not mean we are no longer alive

Our vessels remain Whether ashes spread Across the forest floor Buried in a casket in a yard of stone Or left undiscovered at the bottom of the ocean

We decay, our vessels return to the earth with our minds and souls we become fertilizer for the grass and trees and food for curious animals

Eventually, as with all things Those lives will whither and cease And they too will become fertilizer Become food For another

In infrequent times, it stalls something underfoot rolls, rocks, quakes unsteady to be only for me

I ask, but none know this form of falter familiar instead with nuanced threads tangled a more complex angle

it comes and it goes but you feel when it lurks most of the time

sometimes you don't notice and you wonder if it heard the thing you said over the phone

you begin to succumb to paranoia fearful of the fly now why is it here? what does it see? who does it tell?

but nothing happens. it's only a fly. yet still you're unsettled by its ominous presence

you yell, you scream, you'd hit, but it's too high so you intimidate it and hope it runs away

in another life, you feed it you wonder what it does then but you will never know.

tasteless things these urges are to know, unhealthy splurges in affection for the fee of things that may damage me

warned away from this paling oblivion fire in comparison to what i know, i tire further onward, knowing the potential purges of companionship known and new. however merges

my need for biting and tactless touch and my want for something too much a hot knife on my skin this be may just another reckless and idle sin

that wrecks my rapport with the people new but i do not have in this time to stew with my thoughts; i kick out the crutch from under me, caring only for the clutch

in my dreams, i am also a web, laced well between the cracks of the concrete roads beneath — trace all of these lines back

to me.

in my dreams, i have many eyes; they see far and wide, high and low there are some people who try to fray from their gaze — too slow, too slow

in my dreams, i am the light, shining upon the shadowed earth — tell those who walk in the dark to return to the blinding me; tell them to return to this wretched hell

through time it festers overtaking body, mind, and soul they see the devil peering out through my eyes

and they are afraid but in the mirror is no demon only me

i live, still— do what i need to feed the corruption home in my blood

and more i do, more they see its plague and i become (in their eyes) a hungering monster to be feared and fled

Demeter and Persephone kiss the rocks with life gave us Nature's bliss but also its knife

for with summer comes winter the months Persephone delves below the land will start to splinter and nothing left to sow

so Hestia and Prometheus gave us fire and its hearth to keep us warm so cold can't reach us and so we may learn summer's worth

and when the time runs short and our hearts begin to quiver Hermes takes us to Charon's boat and he sails us down the river

these temptations confuse me this strange desire to put my nails into my face and scar only for the purpose of image

i care not for the pain. it's not about the desire to harm that is simply a means to an end

but instead, it's an urge to ugly to give reason to hide sunglasses over fine eyes requires excuse and I am no liar so to say I am hiding something

well, I need something to hide.

except I am a liar on occasion nothing harmful, nothing consequential merely embellished tales to strangers that I will never see again

fibs for reactions a means to hear varied stories to gauge persona to make mysterious of myself

and to never be me

why do I wish like this to be able to be hidden? why do I want to be unknown and known the same?

why do I wish to damage my image social and physical only so I can hide?

why do I wish to lay scars onto my presence only so I can pull that presence away?

this house is wrong solace incorrect sings a cursed song

awaiting the grave we are all suspect but we are all wrecked

design yourself in the lab of Christopher Wedge half-read the intentions 3D-print yourself onto this ledge