nothing stays for too long, lest i

become comfortable

or settled.

i am not sure which one it is,

do i like to be alone

or have i defaulted,

as a hostage to the closet?

my atoms misbehave

when i know i am watched.

my writing, and its voice,

unclear and muddy.

i live with a mask.

glued on tight, apparently.

the life in the shadow

is the only remedy to this world’s noise.

and harsh brightness.

the concrete filters heat

from stark clouds. my eyes cannot

withstand any soul that perforates.

i don’t think that’s the way, id like to

live.

pierced corneas, in a permanent

blindness.

i like the idea of dying in a home

place.

to be known closely by surrounding

trees.

that hold me tightly.

i yearn to hike hills of no end,

engrossed in leaves and fronds.

no hand to hold onto, for long.

in the wild places,

untampered yet equally worthy.

i am abandoning

any hope of being known,

or recognized,

for accomplishments,

the fruit of certain rot.

i do not want to be known for these

reasons.

it feels wrong in my chest,

in the cavity where my heart rests.

for my blood craves reality

and integrity…

like those hard wooden floorboards,

that creak, steadily..

a quiet mountain home, in the

distance,

where fog peacefully settles

alongside this nomadic life.

for i didn’t realize,

what needed to be left behind—

was that nagging desire of the flesh,

a part that will soon be put to rest

along with my perspective on fate,

shame.

and death.

i thought, to live in fame

meant to be worthy of such status.

as if the title brought any gladness,

to the one that holds it.

perhaps, it does,

for a moment.

but the sun will always rise over

sleepy hills, in the morning.

i realize this life’s promise

of earthly guidance.

passions were clouded by who i thought i was,,

the ego diluting my decisions.

alas, the mask began to unstick

as i experienced what i wished,

youthful delusions;

dreams of a far away place, child

minded thoughts of escape,

since a far away age.

the dream of a place that feels like

origin,

acts of creation without conviction or

due date,

to follow the roads leading

absolutely everywhere and nowhere.

no concern for fame, notoriety,

or one to blame.

i accept a reality beyond societies

game,

a devotion to the wild places

one cannot reach by car.

fields where one can see the stars.

fire smoke melts my hair to ash,

it makes me laugh, how wild this all is,

flashing before my eyes

in the mid of night.

a true vagabond of

i don’t know if i can hold all the pieces

without fear of getting cut

in the process.

i could pray

but i don’t know if anyone answers.

haven’t quite figured that one out.

i think of this universe

and its incessant desire to be strange,

chaotic and bloody.

I think,

why me?

as the universe whispers,

that seems real

in my mind.

a man on the pier played jazz, softly

i sat on the rickety planks, smoked a cigar,

and saw a

star shoot by.

i grip onto the sight, for

soon,

i will be forgetful and grey.

silence will fill empty spaces.

thoughts will recede like the tide,

disappearing into

a nostalgic timelessness.

far off, there exists an ocean far

less polluted than this one.

there, i was still very young.

the world felt new,

and forgiving.

untouched by the weight of awareness

and experience.

yet there i was, soaking up the moment.

the world was my drink. it satiated my desire

i can’t help but think

of dried, barren landscape.

but then, i look at the ocean, my weakness.

i am reminded that

i just miss the way everything was.

when the world filled my cup;

before my shoulders weren’t so heavy. and

the world seemed a satiating curiosity.

it makes me want to have children,

to bare the pain of birthing

for the reward of connection. and legacy.

yet something inside of me

rejects it.

i think of the risks, my hearts doubt

in my inability to remain devoted

to love rather than hate.

hatred lies dormant

in this body long tormented, and

it settles

i realized recently, maybe for one of the first times, the severity of my parents’ illness. they don’t know what’s wrong with them, and most likely never will.

it’s an understanding, i grow into. to look at them reap what they’ve sown, chasing a cyanide dose prompting cyclical repose.

i don’t know if ill ever feel satisfied, next to one. can’t get too close, lest i become a hindering thing. alas i still search, to satisfy this loneliness. now i yearn to connect, as a coping mechanism instead of in purity. born into a family of regret, with personalities naive and wild; i sit and observe,, still perceived as a child.

i think, how many times must i swallow, digest, then process, until i become hollow, a faint echo of stillness.

is there a meaning, to any of this? my father says he doesn’t wish so. he says, that my egg was rotten, and regrets it all so.

the light that day, in his truck stains my mind. it was very yellow. blue hued sky, painting the drive home. the window scene was breathing green and alive.

it incinerates my mind,

fills the space behind my eyes.

in savannah, the air felt lighter.

i was able to ponder,

a future.

wooden banisters

i felt love, from the trees,

i slid between the pew,

in search of you

i pursued every bookcase,

caressing spines dressed with lines

far and few

however i found god in your fingerprint,

this much is true.

i tasted the energy, reveled in its drip

there is a holiness in your lips

and the sweetest dip of the bow.

for you were never here nor there,

you dance in-between

you are elusive,

and fear being seen

as if the seed knew it would burst into bloom.

as if the wood knows it will construct a room.

the root of what i know is to adapt and evolve, yet unlike the oaks, my life grows in the dark, lacking resolve; in regret, shame, an oscillation of unrealistic expectation.

ice drops melt the nerves

frostbitten and strange

dreary sky that turns grey

clavicle turns another shade.

i can see in dreams

crunchy ground,

footprints in sleet

that don’t make a sound

i thought i’d get too frigid in the frost.

freedom is worth any cost;

including sacrifice, a seeming loss.

though perhaps that is what i need,

an escape from this oppressive heat,

where breath can be seen.

maybe i just want to leave

i envision destiny

as a fruit in my hand —

salivated and digested,

by grit and small intestine.

i caress it, watching

for worms that burst out,

just to land

in the hope packed sand

on the playground.

the world has always been big.

i knew this,

when i was more or less a kid,

shoveling the beach box

with hopes of falling into

China,

lost in naivety and infinite

possibilities.

as i age

my perceptibility

shrinks,

like an apple rotten from the tree.

yet faith is the bird that comes

pecking,

when least expecting;

on a quest for worms,

or a hole to dig,

the same as me.

i am beginning to think

these things aren’t concrete,

for the seed that stays

encased in abandonment

begs for acknowledgment;

devotion to the quest, rather than the

questions

no man can truly answer.

i feel myself writing

a book, not just a chapter

or a poem.

soon,

i will leave the tower of doubt

and hold the apple

mushfaker.

it will be cold

goosebumps will raise

your hair will stick,

you may become sick

and grey.

but

there is a sunray, in the distance

and you can’t stop this,

find no reprieve in resistance.

the clouds will burst

for what seems like forever.

moments pass,

in a looping downpour

that is merciless;

misty, sometimes,

stinging like pins and needles.

a dagger of experience still pierces

the umbrella wielder.

so,

stand in the rain

and let pain drench

the drought of your vessel.

you have nothing to lose

except the comfort zone that nestles.

in the weathering

your skin toughens,

but first

you must soak in the

brokenness.

wade in it,

then brave this with patience.

have faith you will make it.

massage scars and worn skin

as rain pours harder than before.

gently whisper,

that this shower won’t be forever.

maybe spin and twirl

like a dancer

that has never held shame.

stand until body is ash and ember —

let the tears flow,

until you cannot remember

the cold, and the

heat of your temper.

what do you have to lose?

the umbrella you hold

comprises a flimsy glue

for the spirit that shines true

and alive —

unbound by time, pain, or an ego that

confines.

the rain

is a spirit undefined,

yet ancient as fire

that rises.

i think we are of a similar element,

you

depression is an excuse,

a manipulation of a limited mind.

i realize that this life is mine

and my action is a reflection

of perceived autonomy.

i love to hum

and read

and create magic out of fact.

i love my hands sunken in dirt

and the smell buried into my

fingernails.

i love travel, crumpled

airplane tickets,

stained lipstick on a cigarette.

i love the world,

i love to exist within it

yet the conditions create a

challenge,

pulling me to question

my passions.

i love to watch insects swarm,

crawl, and hover.

i love to see color climb the sky.

i love when the air is quiet,

when i can hear the layers

around me.

i love the crash of the sea,

salt in my hair

and on my skin.

i love to learn,

and

listen to the world of others.

i want to know them,

these bodies of perspective.

yet i ignore,

bury,

distract my senses

with hollow pleasure.

the truth is

i don’t know who id be

without this love.

this love forms me

like the salt to the sea,

or the wind caressed reeds,

effortlessly.

i have a lot to figure out.

i have to make sacrifice;

stubbornness in this way

for the fruit of a new life.

i am so entrenched in my

pattern.

self refuting sentiments,

guilty and shameful

resentments.

i can’t accept others’

humanness,

nor my own.

i don’t want to wind up alone

wounded so deeply,

unable to pickup the phone.

i’m already there, i admit.

unpleasant experience

sends me into a fit.

reality is viscous,

it hits

in the middle of a

sentence,

in the quiet,

yesterday, as the sun retired, i mourned an

angel in the bathroom.

she was covered in slick residue

of time and cleaning supply.

stuck to the grout, clinging to life

unto death,

stalling the process

of an inevitable rest.

i picked her up, gently,

and took her to safety

under a maple tree.

as i placed her

one wing tore off,

and a piece of me

disintegrated with her.

we all become tired

with no bed to return to,

those that can fly

still die in the cocoon

and in the light.

those fluttery things,

what a sight;

i memorize her imprint yet to dry

and her mahogany backside.

i think decay is a peace

this world does not allow for.

perhaps, death is a door

i leave halfway open

so as to hear the world’s snore,

when you are at the end of your own.

rigid body, ruby coloring

limp and unmoving.

i wonder if your heart still beats

on the concrete,

rhythmic like the waves of heat

clinging to your wings, fur,

and teeth.

i miss you

although i did not know you

until we met here,

where the cars do not slow,

regarding empathy like cigarette ash;

flicked from the window.

you were a forager, a mighty traveler

that imploded promptly,

lying motionless —

yet greeting death,

swiftly.

you are a seed never rooted,

rotten in the cocoon,

the disfigured baby

that left too soon

due to mirage of our worthiness.

disregarding your purpose,

we maul potential,

a world of natural importance

and order.

we treat the carcass like a stencil,

driving over spinal cord,

rendering a splintered corpse

from a living soul.

a distortion lives on,

splattered into the pavement we pour.

maybe, this is guilt’s payment, the toll —

grasping this burden as my own,

to purpose this body that i loan.

but a part of me is unconvinced.

perhaps, alternatively,

these sentiments are a fragment

of the love i have sown.

i stop now, every time i see

rigid body,

vivid ruby coloring;

once abandoned limp and unmoving,

moved alongside weeds,

away from exhaust filled streets.

i wish i was there in time.

i wish i was the car,

that spooked you to the other side.

i’m here now, in

the moment you are too

far gone,

mutilated ferociously

by the electric steed,

disintegrating into particle

and debris.

i know i cannot save you

though the earth will swoop in

and root you plenty,

more than every follicle of hair

in your head,

more than pure word or

knives edge.

she wipes my tears with wind and care,

sings bird song as i dissolve in the chair.

her tendrils caresses my shoulder,

her rain cools my temper

and cleanses stained skin.

my guilt, washes away with good riddance.

so, i move you to the safe place,

in the reeds, for they intertwine round your

sunken face,

like a chlorophyll wreathe

that cannot be replaced.

your death is a ripple in the wave,

a cherished page tore from the spine.

may your heart rest,

in nature’s unkept grave,

roots pervading decay

until i feel the space in between my ribs

and their decaying filament.

i am a figment

my needs, a settlement

made long before my conception.

this world, and society

are a deception

i was born as

a pre tense,

an ellipsis in the sentence.

i feel,

a rotting essence

blooming in the same

regard.

childhood is long far,

i am a creature of my own making.