Sky

There are certain platitudes unfamiliar to the raging optimists,

With emotion, they dislocate their arms stretching their palms to dry sky,

Dripping eyes black spots, sun front, blue backdrops,

Go blind, go blind,

Won’t stop, can’t stop,

Staring,

Strict, a very strict bearing.

 

The sky forgets,

Believe the destination to which you would like your praises to reach is fixed,

Raving optimists,

The good still exists,

Good still persists,

What ever I am convinced-

Has taken ahold,

Raise my hands, burn my skin bold,

Burn my skin gold,

The story my sin told,

To me,

For me, to recognize my actions are free,

From me.

 

My fucking arms hurt,

My elbows pop,

My tilted neck’s sore,

Up, up and away,

One day, not too far from now,

My dedications will drift away until the sky cries back.

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Liquid Salt

There’s only people here,

7 perfumes, or caloans, I can’t tell,

Well “colognes”, I can’t spell,

Tear…tear gas,

Smells like armpits and fresh ass.

 

What are they covering up,

I think it runs a little deeper than body odor,

Maybe self-disappointment…the type facilitated by manipulative people,

The type we think simply goes away as we get older,

And then it doesn’t…so we invest in stay-away spray and cook in it in a social oven,

They’re spraying their lower spirit trying to convince the crowd that they’re approachable.

 

No air current, frozen as fear does us,

The metro railing providing a cool beat that takes us,

Just for a second,

Away from these metal cages,

The brakes hit, the metal rages,

Screeches, teaches us that we can trust our sense to judge our surroundings,

Paranoia binding our palms to the bars,

Around the cars the railroads wrap,

8 steel tunnels the rail cars trap,

Us within ourselves waving like meaty blades of grass,

Tear…tear gas,

Salty armpits and fresh ass consume my early morning.

 

 

 

 

Thaw

It would hurt me to see that sun I’ve run from for so long,

…cold heart, a burning back,

A burning lack of visibility of what dreams would occur if I bound myself to my happiness,

I used to fear being happy.,

Searching corridors and springing around corners for the next disappointment,

That time more personal, that time harsher,

I would tremble with my inability to accept the rapid upheaval of emotion unearthed from my tormented past,

I would keep myself attached to my twisted upbringing and spin out of control for months on end,

I would often fantasize about the glory in the end-

To the swinging pendulums beating at my ribs.

 

I used to scream when I needed to be heard,

Poisoning my statements instead of polishing my words,

Unwanted attention struck my tender back like loose lashes of slave whips,

With each crack, I would weep in mind,

Crying tears of thoughts my actions would rebuke.

 

I…had a golden sun holding an unloaded handgun to the back of my head,

It wasn’t the truth in death but the fear of dying dead,

That made me turn around.

 

Single One

Fickle the intrigues of single men leeching to she bodies for that sugary life support,

Draining the effects of those glass touches to which shatter on contact,

Four snipes of ungodly accurate dialogue from his unwanted guests would snatch his bloated ego from its hallowed throne,

The wandering species allergic to the purported arrests of undeniable commitment-

Flock among themselves to combat the uninvited hopeful,

Damn any woman willing to build an empire with only the sighs of my aspirations under the mumbles of my tongue; be damned myself.

Your Lives

I cannot wait any longer,

It feels,

Just one more second,

Could splint my heels.

 

I…we have walked years,

And talked about a form of hope-

So much that it caused a ringing in our ears-

We’d try to wash out with unwanted social soap.

 

In attempt to dissociate ourselves from our annoying reality,

We firmly placed ourselves in the life of others,

We would read their books and follow their press like a high school varsity team…

We would not truly benefit from it,

Not one bit it would seem,

Their corrupted heartbeat would become ours,

And their blood in our bloodstream,

We’d take their path through the darkened cave,

And never live a second of our own lives until we feel the cold embrace of our lonely graves.

 

We cannot wait any longer to mention,

The blatant stupidity in ignoring ourselves,

Wrapped up, wrapped up tight,

In their skies and dim daylight would cause the cold to creep-

Into the veins the frost would seep,

Eating away at warm meat we keep locked under our skin,

We know we are products of our failures and heralds of our sin,

But I really believe we can learn to wish again,

If we got impatient about what we wanted.

 

 

 

 

Vibe

Amazing orchestrations,

The mixture of dimness and warm sound massage my chest in ways I will not be able to explain,

Sheet music and swinging strings give tangibility to my pain,

And defines the existence of my soul prancing around between my bones,

Power in quick silence and that luxury in sustained tone-

Are depictions already known but displayed in states never better shown to me,

I am imperfect in the presence of something great,

I am worthless, I am presence without weight,

Clinging to the perfect reflections of what these human hands make,

Those vibes, those vibrations to cause the soul to stop and mediate on what this reality can offer.

Afterlife

What I look for in my afterlife,

Does not involve immortality,

Does not involve resurrection,

Does not involve obvious impracticalities.

 

But involves different floors, different sections,

Dedicated to a specific time of my life,

I am a time traveler removing thorns from my side,

Giving sickness and sorrow to those who eventually would decide to be betray the generous nature of my character.

 

I would take a straw broom and sweep the path before my steps,

Brushing my ground while I  knowingly watch my body proceeded safely without harm.

I would watch me become…

What the world wouldn’t allow,

And spring from the unyielding darkness I wish I could now.

 

What I look for in my afterlife,

Does not involve immortality,

Does not involve resurrection,

Does not involve impossibilities,

But only a clear direction, reflection, and inspection of a past life I couldn’t live.

 

I wonder if I’m dead right now looking down on my past self but not really doing a good job at the sweeping, but that’s okay…I’ll eventually get it right.