Two moons rising at once
I am at my wits end. All of this has got to come to some kind of conclusion. I don’t even know if it will help, but every day I don’t sleep is one more that I regret. So much regret pilled upon the sleeping agony is just going to awake a more disturbing, disgusting being than anything I have been able to describe thus far. I am sick of it. It’s making me sick. It feels like something has to be destroyed in order for the beauty we all once shone to come back to us again. It just feels like something has to break.
but
I’m probably the only one feeling the tension. In which case, I’m the one whose going to have to shatter.
I’ve read so many letters
that tell me I’ve got no clue
how do gray skies become blue?
can I draw a pastel night
paint a constellation right there
in plain sight?
Could we compare the epic feeling
to clawing the thin ice?
One of these days
It’s going to be true
I’m going to cut right through
explode into a billion tiny pieces
bend backward against all the creases
show you it’s not so blue
and when the sky becomes blood
you’ll see me come crashing down around you
so many parts of this puzzle
the jagged edges of truth
are going to stab right through.
Six months worth of advice could be summed up into a footnote with only one phrase. That text is what I want engraved on my tombstone, my epitaph. It would be my final bow to the power of the creative womb that we all find ourselves yearning for when we’re feeling so poor. But I would like to be buried facing west, so that if I’m dead when the final sun sets, perhaps I could have a view. I’m sure it would be beautiful.
I believe god
oddly enough, in love
and doves of beasts
as beautiful releases.
But adorn the sky
the color of lust
red on black
I saw jesus.
Leaves us behind
instead, loves some kind..
of monster that’s craving,
starving for flowers
to devour.
So confusing
I could care
but it’s so much less.
All I want
singing soft lullaby’s
so I can rest
to dream of it all
in jest.
It’s just hard for me to see. Someone should tell me. Maybe it’s not so difficult, maybe I’m just being ridiculous. But for ever contradiction, there’s a man waiting in an unemployment line. A boy outside an office waiting for his mother. A nervous teenage girl driving to the doctor. A middle aged woman declining slowly into insanity, and a father hiding from his ghosts. Karma has us all by the throat.
I don’t know.
Every single letter you utter turns a hellish red.
Mainstream tides collide with massive minds.
They call this the end with a soft beginning.
They say you should travel, and see what’s to be said.
Softer than a feather the streamline train
caries your thoughts far far away.
To a place I call home
and just for now, I’m all alone.
I call it the reckoning,
of all there is today.
Softer than a feather
my mellow heart beats.
The strum of an acoustic
aristocrats autistic.
A genius in disguise
questions just whats behind those
deep blue eyes.
Although I rarely understand,
I can tell you what they see.
in the dark black sea
where the imagination is scared to be
the mothers child awakes
and sings cryptophic keys.
bellowing from the depth
the beginning of an aftermath
vibrating psychopaths
are born to ground the seeds
of another apple tree.
our minds hard fought thoughts
are fighting toward the surface
searching for an escape
to begin their midnight tare.
we try to scour away
but it’s always in vain.
They are always our shadow
grasping our lungs for air.
and even though we sometimes fight,
Our breath always becomes theirs.
Amazing pictographs
of a world not so plain to see
is what lies behind these
deep blue seas.
Scary thoughts of disgusting imagery.
They are what we think
when the sound you make
doesn’t match the worlds beautiful landscape.
To die warm
When the power goes out
candle light will provide.
From the moon all is bright,
the earth will be on fire.
The mother will cry out
for her sons daughters to all die out.
From deep space comes our inevitable fate
hurdling towards us at an unfathomable rate.
Gods only tear will be because he waited.
Our mother will hurt but she will survive.
She will thrive.
If our sole is anything more than a dirty whore,
we might see one more sunrise
before the clouds cave in.
In the moments before,
You will not ponder.
You will not wonder.
you will not wish,
or become lost.
You will not care.
You will not fight.
You will hold her tight.
You will love her
one last time
and laugh at the world
one last time
before the hammer comes down,
and the trees become free.
You will find an open space
with the beauty that almost matches her eyes,
you will lay down
and stare at the sky
as if it’s nothing larger
like it’s only a soft blanket
keeping us all warm while we’re sick
you pull it up over your heads..
but it’s torn away.
You’re exposed.
You’re still holding her,
you’re alive.
for one last picture.
The flash,
the moment,
it’s the last.
You capture her smile
and you’re happy.
If it were a dream
would you miss the point?
Life is for love
to be happy, is to love
is to be loved
and is to be in love.
you cannot have love
and be unhappy.
St. Peter and the Scroll
does the grass sway in the wind
like a stray cat on a thin limb
of a tree growing selfishly around
a house with a barn just outside of town
or does the grass stay still when the wind fowls
as if their roots are made of steel
like the foundations of our lives
built with the understating that integrity
is the bases of all reality
Does the wind work in a way
that redefines gravity?
like the untold truths of history
to rip words from a book like they mean anything more
than the words torn from the sole
without speaking.
If the winds of change were true
than everyone has to have known
that the cat would have fallen
and that grass is made of stone.
If the giver of all life
showed himself to you
do you think you would remember
who took it from you?
standing at the gates
stairing into the eyes
trying to negate
pulling back all your lies
realizing your fate
self naturalizes
fingers tremble in wait
shivering down the isle
spineless again
groundless shaking
periodically, seconds apart
the footsteps
of a giant
in theory
and in heart
floodgates open
to show you the art
of human interaction
an emotion
called love.
6th dimmension
I dread the day when a mechanic needs some eight year degree.
fear is flowing, so it may not be so far away.
just like a fly, caught in a the shining light
banging itself against a laughing glass window.
We’re just trying to escape our massive realizations
over-bearing expectations, our drive to insanity.
or possibly, just complications of the mind
something like conformity, without a spine.
polar opposite reactions like these create the swine
these are the people who will replace us.
They are the one’s we’ll make.
These are the people who will need to go through pre-med
to fix their flat tire.
complications of the mind..
I think we should set the world on fire.
I’ll hold you close.
