Coherent Poetic Nonsense

hence. bibib. 18 - 18 - 8.

the sunlight will have to be enough to mend my angry cuts, to soothe each place that scraped with fury. i never have liked anger, being angry, shaking. What a waste, to call me human.

the future is too goddamn fragile— i’m scared it will break on arrival. for all of the moments i lived in through today none will last forever. build me home before tomorrow.

sometimes i must make things harder, just to dream of some reward. there isn’t enough whimsy i can live on that, isolate. so i run myself to ragged; rest better once that’s done.

there will come a time when your limbs go unresponsive. you’ll forget the words to tell the strangers off, the ‘go to hell.’ wonder if you ought to have been worse than manners made you into.

the strange reaction of my captive heart, beating against ribcage bars aching to be loved back, to know loving at all, to find out what it means that to feel anything hurts.

i don’t know by heart my own blood’s smell— it seems to run with self-same swiftness as any other blood that human veins might shed, racing to be grounded and sunk into the earth like rain.

what a lovely thing, to be alive and racing towards the future, one bite of time after the next. we are in this life as individuals, yet reaching out—always seeking more.

let the good of the day be good, if you dare to hold it close. each moment that was bright is worth it, even if it hurts to grieve. even if it feels soft, like something that has yet to break.

open life at every cracking line— like some nut waiting for the springtime, there’s no point cutting down what might be good to reach, with hand past hand, stretching for the sky beyond a wingspan.

i have to let go sooner—i might linger on forever, waiting for some better option than a half forgotten wish that never made it home. What is worth the risk of failure?

sometimes things will settle down, in time. It’s not a question of ‘sufficient’— nothing could be enough on this world, bursting full with possibility. Yet the day finds its conclusion.

Frantic, racing energy of now— i didn’t ask to feel insane, clawing at the walls. Ready to pull out my teeth, or bones, brimming with unreason. Being alive demands so much.

The lives I used to live are written somewhere in my ventricles and veins and also in the dreams i kept myself warm with between ink and paper with nowhere else to flee winter.

The rain descends like splattering paint with far less messy consequences. I may bolt for cover but the drops descending break no unnat’ral streak. Only ink will run, like living things.

Light and water. Is that all one needs for happiness, in February? Secrets of the ages cannot hope to compare to sunshine and the birds above the water choked with springs.

tired of the consternated wind i duck my head across the traintrack bridge, approaching somewhere far from any mind-life, where the mop recurs and ceaseless, people fret along floors.