I observe myself silently changing because I hate you so much. I find myself having all the different values than those frantic ones I have created in turbulence because I despise the idea that you always seem to have what you want. You always manage to get what you want. You don’t at all deserve what you have because you don’t question the vapid sphere beyond your four walls. You choose not to understand the world beyond the space in which you confined yourself because doing so would be too hard.
I don’t like people who refuse to go outside. I don’t like people who walk to the edge of the cliff and decide not to look down. The world is placed at the edge of a cliff, and instead of reaching for it, you choose to kick it down because having a new idea would be too hard. It would perish in the wind, but that wouldn’t matter because it would save you from confronting the world that is so unknown to you. You think you are different from the rest of the world.
I don’t like people who think they were born with some sort of divine purpose to create art. I hate your smile. You look like a demented jack-o-lantern. There is nothing true or genuine or captivating about your existence. You think you have been created to observe the world, to observe its truth, whatever that means. You think the world around you is just a painting to be described, that human experience is just a book to be analyzed. I tell you a secret about human experience. It will be so artistic that your mind will be blown away. It is a statement so profound that the veil of self-deception will be shattered and left with naught. I tell you now: u wot m8 ill hook u rit in da gabbr. Innit.
Bury the heart in the damp dirt where the ants can crawl around the hill, letting their fangs settle in, swarming, festering in the pavement. There lays a man whose life was dedicated for one purpose: to live for others, to shelter in place, imagining how the tides could change, how the moon could rise for the west — its pale face strutting in the wind, facing the sun’s rays. I often wonder where that moon went, if that moon ever existed. I thought I imagined the moon, but maybe I did not. I thought I saw the moon when I was five, when the I still looked up at the moon, when my eyes still glanced upwards when I was bored. I no longer look at the sky, wondering if the lunar kiss would come back to grace my childhood face. What they don’t tell you about aging, is that you lose your plasticity. Your face becomes wrinkled, and when you touch it, you can feel that it is different. You are different. You are old. Isn’t that different? Ruined inside; it is an easy fight from here. The heart dipped in chocolate can drizzle its blood on a paper napkin. What shape is the heart? Is it the same shape a heart was when you were five? Is it still a heart, or it more than a heart now — the same way a child becomes more than a child when they become an adult?
Rippling rifts summoned twice on Tuesday’s evening tone I heard a story once asking where I went stillborn Phantasmic fingers that graze my every collarbone Grasping leaves in my hands just to have them torn
My limbs flail around with no sense of control My heart beats fast knowing that it cannot fail The hiss of water as I drip it into the embers of coal Wondering what if I dip my hand in, I inhale
I tend to think I live my life around a pit of fire Silver, white maggot laying beside me in bed I never thought my life would end up in a state so dire Simple black edges tracing the edge of lead
Restitution is thankless prostitution during supper Rituals moved on from absent expressive cries Bodiless hands move forth unto fervent horror Tippy, toppy, floppy ploop — and he dies
Longing is a lot like reaching out into the ocean Hoping that the current will take you somewhere You are exposed to the infinite of possibility beyond But you step back onshore after reaching so far beyond You are only left with whatever seawater grips your skin
But after you find yourself carried by the ocean The same shores beneath your feet seem beneath you How could you stay contented and grounded on sand When there is a world where you could be weightless?
As the waves crash back on your feet, it still calls As I move back into my suburban home, I often forget There is still the ocean at the end of the road past the intersection Where I hope to lay down at my final rest, sinking into the depths
I often forget there are sharks lurking the depths For the most part, they mind their own business As you dive deep down, they cannot be bothered But how can we swim among these sharks Without the desire to grab onto their sandy skin?
Before long the sharks stir, they take a bite out of you You are left wondering if it was worth it at all Was it worth a touch of roughness, if it meant reaching for the beyond? Was it worth fight for, a life that is more than floating around?
I am often left confronted with this question, wondering if I want a floating life? It is so easy to live a floating life It is so easy not to reach for the sharks, trying to tame it, understand it It is so easy to live a life far from everything else
I could return to the open ocean, in one of those territories free from sharks There would be no chance of contact, no chance of biting Yet the allure of the sharks still remains What about the skin of sand is so enticing to feel The rough edges that bleed the finger, what about it feels so right?
I return to my life absent of others Wondering when the day comes when the open oceans return Will I venture off into the distant, like I didn’t in the past?
Early in the morning, when the beans fall onto the ground, the monsters come out to play I ask myself, to what end, is the salty taste in the mouth the result of exposure to the outside I reflect back to pivotal times in my life — the times I didn’t realize was pivotal — and cry There is only one moment that matters, which is now, but that is so hard for me to accept
I give reality to life in the past and life in the future, the moments that should not still exist It is in the nature of things along with the growth of man: the tendency for me to create Simple sorrows yield not to an uncaring reality; complex sorrows fall into bottomless pits Benchmarked against my life is a hook that keeps me chasing, when stoppage equals pain
The choice to rest never came to easily; I could sit down on my feet and never get back up It is an appropriate moment to stop: when the world moves around me, some areas do not My feet drag onto the concrete floor, and the ripping scrapes of my nails never felt so right Sometimes, some skin would drape onto the floor, but why would I need skin on my driveway
I understand now, why clouds don’t move when they are told The wind never rests, life goes on, and I cannot keep a cloud to hold
When rom-coms move onto their next scene, I wake up in a blur The stories that quickly pass are the ones in a frantic blend But somewhere in the fold, I opened a book to its last chapter I thought it was the beginning, but the beginning started at the end
I hate dropping books on the ground, yet some deserve a pummeling I pick up the book again, only to drop it harder and send it tumbling
I hate finding books already broken because I cannot break them in There are two stories in this book, one where I already know the ending I chose to read the story without an ending with a glass of tonic and gin Only to regret my choice, knowing the road less traveled is missing
Two plus one never ended with three, one had to stray away The equilibrium must remain, no sentiments left to convey
The anger that comes at night — I tenderly ask myself where does it come from? Where does my anger originate and incubate into the festering liquids drizzling down my throat? The daunting winds lashes thick scars against still rocks. The world is where I come from never felt so dauntless, where pleasure unto others requires pleasure written in sonder. The life of others confused me at a young age. Taking life from others felt so listless. When the words creep down my mouth, when the need to touch becomes so bare, I cannot help but to wretch, to bring my hands against my face, hoping that the world might return to darkness, when crows scream loudly at the sun, when words spoken feel right. I look at the sky with eyes of anger, of anger I cannot understand. It is an anger derived from passion, where puppets were thrown into a fire. I was the puppet with limbs so bare, so wooden the trees would call me one of their own. So alive I wouldn’t know where the tiptoes crashed in horror. Forever forgotten with the hapless need to create stories written to be told in haste. I hear those stories written to be heard by someone, someone who has empathy. That is not me. That is not the person I was born to be. Empathetic souls were born in June, and I was born in July. I missed the month by a couple days past, and I left that possibility in the past. It is not a life for me. It is not a life that I wanted. June was furious when Jupiter sought to leave, yet July does not have this history. July is the month I lived. June is the month I died. To listen to the anger of the sun is not what I was born to do. To hear the stories that were told by the sun is not the story I agree. The shallow cloud held so deep that one day the sun would be its savoir. I look at the cloud and blow my wind, knowing that clouds only move when they are told to do so. But when a cloud does not move when they are moved, the thought of it does not please me. I seek to move the cloud as it was intended. I hear the stories that it will change. The cloud moves with its simple nature, and I move on with my life as I do. I miss that cloud that day, but not because the cloud had something for me. I miss the cloud because I like blowing the cloud, watching it rip apart in the wind. I was born in July. I missed the cloud by a few short seconds, yet chase the cloud I still do. It is not because I want to catch the cloud, as opposed to rip it all apart again.
Incredulous whips crackling in the fire Rinse and writher my crumbling bones Thrilled eyes of novelous wonderment Intense uncertainty at larcenous lies Rippled emotions reminded presently Fastidious horrors tipped soft palates Fascinating specimen I found on the ground Another living song to replicate in time Souls stolen from another sad country Flesh woven into another sad puppet Skinned sheep’s face hanging on the wall Words spoken softly are those taking the fall
Parallel stories leads only to regretful lingers Hateful spree between two alleged friends One set the house in a frivolous expansive fire To escape a burning house is fraught with woes Ridiculous quotations resemble pretentious pricks Sentences spoken as truth where lies take hold Unknowing ignorance create unfound emotions Manipulative words find celibate deficiencies I take what is mind and leave with what is not I relinquish prarie farms with their burning muck Strangers carry wary from hellish gasoline caverns Strike a match and drop it into Satan’s moral hazard
Dampened lips lead to dry bloody clothes Terrorized moment questioning if it happen at all Lizard skin draped over globular toxic organs The warm inner organs never tasted so crusty The venomous past resurfaces to present interest Curious feral creatures picking at deaf ears Hydrochloric acid dripped onto confused fingers Irritated rash that can only be burned off with fear Taking in the last breathes of somber air Holding in disgusting human inquisition I found the source of negativity in the tepid air Where the sum of wonderment is final despair