lk / kl :]

The past is mine, must be, in some light The present might as well be, if I can decide And my greatest fear is to live this lifetime Passing by unnoticed

A speck of time, feckless, unbesotted Unwoven in the fabric, a thread on my lonesome Not even a spool to reel me in Not a person to see me in the clouds, the stars

The universe as it winds a poem Around your head, yours A halo of your being Your arbitrary, holy feelings The galaxy, written in your ceiling

It’s a childish thought, yes father, I know. You’ve made of me no secret, no stowaway, no outlaw, but endlessly I hide away for fear of you not revering me, for sneering at me rather than feeling a glow.

You should have parked out there in the street, instead of telling me to grab my hat and go to the lights that blind, battered and bruised. It’s your soul, I know, that I’ve so long betrayed.

Is it wrong to have assumed I would be born knowing you and you, understanding in totality, how it is to be a living person of our kindred dreams? You want my dreams to be exceptional.

Now I’m so afraid of being mediocre. You’ll all abandon me if I dare to be. I’ll only become what I’m supposed to see. My potential gleams like the holy grail of futures.

No, he’s not dead yet, but I will be on the weekend soon enough if not tomorrow, a night if not the daytime. Are you proud of me yet sir? Tell me dear father. Do you picture me as a product you churned out? Could you think of my kindly in every way I’m normal?

It’s my capacity for greatness that always taints us. God I wish that I was faceless, so nobody could trace it, the nose and the lips to the poise of your frowning distaste. Back to me- back to me and my exceptionally mediocre dreams.

As you watch the wonders of the world pass you by Know there is little I can handle and no one I can call Except you on the veranda, staring down from high

The sky of November casts a dreadful pall And I am reminded that you will never bear the sight With your own two eyes on returned, unstolen time

I think of you kindly all the same As I greet this world, this arduous life, standing tall Taller than the skies, the depths of my eyes, than life itself

In the light In loyalty In love

A laughter so incandescent I could pierce it, seer it Into memory

To cherish To keep To mourn

When you are gone Peerless, incandescent, dead Loved, mourned, celebrated still

The constellations I trace Will always retain you

You are beautiful, but nothing’s happened yet, and I am tired of it Do you think that mother nature could love me tender, like a daughter Not a pitiful lamb to the slaughter, mewling at the altar of cherishment  Of your making, of your celebrating, of you and you and artful you The kind man who raised me only made me cruel, like all fathers do Or maybe he mistook me for a son, so now the sun forbades peace

No foxes, no cleanliness, no idyllic peace; the weeds unruly, obscene I’ll never be alive, even when something happens and alleviates me You’re called to prance in the ring of my cells, cold bones, severed toes Summon the spring, witchcraft summer, plentiful abode of wild dreams Weave me sweet, expel the winter, autumn of my traitorous needs

Rust in my joints I need to brush off on the tall weeds in warm decrees Unblemishing, neat, pleat, plaid and buttery pleads, flowers in seams Blooming at your feet, orange to bluebells, then purple violas and lilies Curl into me, hoist me over your shoulder, a souvenir or a boulder I’ll be tame, a sack of unproven existence; unlike me, you’ve a right A right to give me the gift of giving and to hear my utterance, please

Let idle beats metastasize Evade the notion of pure staunchness Have that part of me, internally prized The big, the tiny, the unsurprised surmised For the mundane inane that I need to thrive Lately deserve recognition

Letting me so ardently survive If a tad poor on the weight of ignition So I shorten this, make haste, compression To denote me, end show, press the replay button Armored for a reprisal Lately latent in abundance

If they’re not for prose, a book passage, a frozen word Then you see no merit, no door or entrance To enter your heart and leave you with barbed thorns

Those piercing drivels are worse than the bleed A sharp nothing is more meaningless than the seam A prickle of conscience, ambition, ripe to reap

The love you want is encompassed in purposeful focus Organically grown, artfully swirled, embedded in your palm That blood you spat, splattered in the image of love

You’re young and holy and would strike me sweet As you watch me write in the worth of guileless shadows My naivety knows no bounds so long as I can scrawl A letter to your doorstep, prose only for you and me It is no one else’s but each other’s attention to keep Do I have you nestled here- shall you read?

Salt gathering in your eyes I love that which I can murder I love that which is ground down with me Hellfire full of misguided martyrs and unheard minds There is nothing you can do

The bugs are decomposing as I speak That I am sorry for everything Should’ve done nothing and thought of only dreams Spun a tale round you, holiness and humanity alike Divinity made touchable But then killable by right

So many ways to murder you and pull you down An abyss to hug you, crush you, tethered to my teeth Fences strung of bones and skulls muttering words To cats, to dogs, to bothersome birds As they chirp of the moon chasing sun chasing doom Stars hung between, a veil of canopy and futility A bed made of hope, not luxury Flowers of scope, not sweet amnesty A religion swelled in children’s mouths and your gums You preaching to me of all accursed beasts Like it matters, my relief, my hands, my shaken belief

So many dreams, but oh Incomplete, the whole is, incomplete they live But perfect, the whole is, so perfect you weep To have a tin of anything and perceive it so dearly

When this touch is laid to its end With your mandibles apart We are only two minds That can never truly read between The patterns in our shared shrines

If I smoke like a gun going off Leave me out on the road to sundry It’s no worries, it’s no problem I have to learn to get up, go on, go home Even if I don’t know where the front door is Even if I lost the keys to my favourite wardrobe

It’s only natural that the stars are sparkling Don’t fret about dying yet The world is singing that you live, live, live

No matter how much it repeats I know my head is gonna concede But it can reset itself when I get there After going through the years of this And that, and you, and me, and all that’s good Because it feels bad, but it’ll be okay

Those clouds spell out for a brand new day One that tells me to keep on moving along It has to work out now or later Because I never asked for anything more

Next year, I’m gonna live to die

So, for now, the newest pictures are up for sale So, let’s be honest, drop the honorifics I’ll probably be gone before you know me well But it’ll fix itself like a bullet in the pavement

I hope a girl reads my poetry in the future And thinks to herself, now I am known Now I have the power, to live or die To know that whether I kill myself or not Someone knows, not if it is the right choice But that it is a decision that must be made all day When she wakes in the morning and I go to sleep

My words are the understanding that time is matter And through the substance, anyone can collide Not in something radical, but in simple inherency That we are the exact product of our selves The only thing that was ever in need of discovering

You could be dying far from the coast As I stand watching from the shoreline In a lifeguard’s vest, letting the kids swim Crying when they drown, but not empathizing

I already felt like dying from the moment I was born I just didn’t know it, have the awareness to pinpoint it Until right here and now

It could be so much worse, all of us

Choking on the dirt that we emerge from Because we’re made the same, truthfully Though I really wish I could say you never knew me

I hate the lovers and I hate to love this We always think the world is ending in our time Doesn’t matter if your drowning, dead, or alive The kids and coastguard’s going out quick

To a formless verse, as their watchful eyes reflect

Where children kick the back of the driver’s seat Heels digging into the synthetic leather Scores of laughter, droning on, faintly honed

Toss in a bed made of feathers and white seams Of coloured dye painting the near dead so sweet Let that love, fabricated as all, be forever unseen

A presence, a name, grounded to be obsolete Two letters, or one, not configured for immortality Languished after years if relevant for a moment

But the flowers are leaning in for the kill The insects engaged in their warfare of bug pews At the church, small and unkempt, where life feasts

The moon gorges on its spoils embellished by stars The sun glaring behind without catching its trail Fierce combat wages, beyond mere perception

It’s not in my hands, and I know, I am near relieved Nothing is mine, and I weep, nothing is mine to keep The cruelty is tender in its temporary fullness For a second, and I believe, I am almost complete Everything is divine, and I hope, everything is out of reach A second in which anything could compel itself to dream

I could never hate you, but love is out of reach I would like to touch, but could never tangibly meet I am farces upon farces, uncomprehending I am not built for idle company, nor full intensity My connections are broken, debilitating I can write my hatred and lovers, twofold or ten

But I will never be without isolation That is the only companion which hugs me Straight though the skin, where my fragile heart lives And I would let it break me, only to feel caressed For a second of vitriol, not spent in total seclusion To be more than my own and not this alone Only a pipe dream, a tongue without teeth

In heavy hands, in youthful eyes, it would not matter, the state of innocence- all life points to one truth, one unknown variable.

That singularity, she gave to it her entirety, as if love- experience, moments, pain, were grievances to toss away or follow astray.

You could not convince me of another noble search, for any pursuit as absolute, for any yearning- those of which were futile to her solidarity.

How can a fool be so full of words, a romantic so ruined by hope- how can I be a poet so incentivized by an objective meaning?

When my suicide note is published, it will have been fifteen years in the making- only a singular year of which was spent truly alive.

That being the foolishness of romance choked from my hand- casted upon the shadows where my voice still croaks, and once wrote.

She dreamt of it, I confessed like the end was sympathetic and adoring- a greater friend to me than my own honesty.

In truth, in brutality, it never matters in an unflinching trajectory- my mind’s eye described only in dead profanities or timeless ires.