I'm Trusting The Universe and Myself (Only To Be Questioned Again).

I always want everything
to mean everything
over-analytical of every action and reaction
obsessing about the past to the metaphysical,
                                                 metamusical,
                                                 metalyrical psalms of metaphorical ancestors
obsessing on the horizon as it descend, as the day passes
grasping desperately to moments I never even touched
I'll find a "hum" for a moment, though.
I just can't hum with delight that time passes.
How fleeting.
Maybe it's just the conflict that arises when I'm looking for(word) to acknowledgment
and i hide the guilt in cryptic letters to my "Id".
And a fear boils at the heat of thought that this was never meant to be.

But the stagnant life is the homicide of souls.
To its extremities is to push beyond the boundaries of physical existence.
To die? Again and finally?

If creation follows you, it haunts me.
And is the only trail i have left behind anyway.
The only energy output,
because my definition is white-blanked out from the most honest of answers.
Meaningless, Maybe?

Trust me, there's a kind of romance that just exists in this.

Moments like these...
in which my loneliness has served me the greatest comfort(s) there is...
in the light of some window that happened to catch the sun today
in the ambiance of music I have cried to once, and not much since then
and with a floating head of inspiration.
Everyone was right
I don't need you.

Self-Portrait

Look inwards soul, away from contempt.
Peace between the eyes strikes to the core.
This is the only truth:
All saints are sinners...
A spirit aged gracefully yet still alight with youthful spirit alive
trapped beneath a leather hide-a callous and muting disguise.
To the blind eye, time is linear and traced upon your face
-the map to hell and back again spelling out all past desperation and waste.
There has been no salvation in this place, but never a wasteful experienced hand.

Like eloquent vultures, tearing each other to scraps like its the most beautiful thing-cannibalism.

Realistically, there should be peace in the mortality of things...in the "ends" of things.
A salvation awaits at the edge, like toes over the rooftop ledge.
and a gust of wind to fly on.
It's the finality of these decisions that brings in the tides of clarity
filling tear ducts with sand.

Your stone boy emotions can't be read through the same stone faces unless you learn to read the language of silence.
And then he shines like glass in the sun
in shards but beautiful all the same.

If life was measured in momentum, I'd be posted.

All I ever sought was freedom.
I aimed for successful soaring.
My wings could have withstood that damn chicago sun
...because the wrath of heat was beautiful and enticing.
I could have...
I would have...
                        ...flown freebird.
Instead now, I face the wrath of time-keeping mirrors.
They show me what the risk is of being alive. They mark the moments of my failures and remind me what it looks and feels like to have crack in the surface.
And fractures in the mirror always show a severed head
off looking in the distance, for another mirror I suppose.
Hoping this is not the truth in my short-lived, caged, aged youth.
The kind of age that doesn't show on my eyes (just in them).

My heart dances on only crows feet but I'm gliding.
     Looking for the wing
     Listening to its whispers of all my responsibilities to find the answer to all my drifting-state politics.

Fair Well

There's this part of being in love that sucks you in and ruins you when you're spit out. All at once the galaxy opens with warm possibility; and that heat burns until your worlds in flames. The ecstasy of being in love is as evil as a capsule but as freeing as a trip and I'm fiending for your touch.
And when the bells and whistles cease there's a distinct smell of misery across train car floors. The kind not nostalgic of teflon tiles behind hospital doors. It's the same pungent hopelessness that clings to my hair like the wind. I only whip it away when you fuck me like the dog you are (we all are). Shake off after the fact and off will fall the ashes of livelihood and drips and tears of misery from my feral fur and pour out into a concrete impediment for us both.

Smalltime flight

Maintain your posture, girl.
Absorb the breath of experience.
Your heart is caged but theres a crack in the gate
and life could just be an open invitation.