Plot Builds Character

I take another breath, slowly letting it out, savoring the feeling of releasing fears settling on my tongue, like a sour aftertaste.

Searching for the warmth and redness in the friendship is like trying to count 100 stars in a city sky: the fluorescent lights are blinding, falsely depicting every object around.

I don’t have a social life, I just have Netflix.

I fear that I live behind glass. Tapping incessantly Because the only other option is ripping it down And I’d rather not bloody my hands.

Pour the ichor dwelling deep in veins upon the concrete castles; through visions; erect pyramids and jungles. Slave driver, I ask, am I worthy.

I am a majestic falcon, with crippled wings. Unable to see things from a different view, trapped on the dry, dusty ground...

I am a locked trunk; the key lost. I sit in the corner, forgotten the smell of dust is unsettling The sight of black is blinding.

The flame flickers, She swallows it whole. The world is hallowed: Entrance to the Great Reality.

I say a man deserves a second chance, but keep an eye on him. A grown man never cries unless you are being chased by a bunch of coyotes.

Barry hated Tuck because he thought Tuck was disgusting. Tuck was clumsy, had a giant head, and ate garbage. Tuck hated Barry because Barry was a vegetarian.

He gazed longingly from the porch steps, Apollo scorching the back of his neck, his hands feigning complacency while curled inside his pockets.

As a child you could never stand the sight of him lifting the glass of poison to his lips.

The boy imagined himself as a radical prophet, his times unworthy of him, or, as the man in the decaying establishment likely did, a delinquent— a hooligan in search of the irresponsible, fleeting pleasures of youth.

As I hobble across the cracked pavement the fresh aroma of air fills my lungs. It starts its battle against the tear gas and the thick smoke that clouds the air.

For about three seconds, I stood frozen thinking about how stupid I looked. Then I burst out laughing and soon after everyone else did too.

“I know what you’re making,” she grins, sneaking a wink at me, then peeks into another, just-boiling pot of water. “Potatoes!” she squeals.

If I were furniture I’d be ‘clock too slow ‘cause two minutes too slow is the speed that I go