My home is filled with faces.
Of people seeking places.
To park their melding hearts.
Their lift my spirit
But often, near it
Are clouds of burried bark... I find my soul surrounded.
I find my neighbors dumbfounded
The clouds are all they see
The dark is surrounding me from what i believe to be
In webs, in shells, in tattered trees.
Beneath the dialated leaves.
Is where my soul must be
So to those new angelic faces
To rake the leaves.
And don't forget to find me underneath.
Is like tiny little strings
To ease the burden of carrying
Which, like bricks
Surround your soul
It is like the wind is at your feet
It is like your tendons are thick tree vines
It is like you really exist
It is like lollipop sunday
Being optomistic is bliss
Being optimistic is like surfing
And I don't want to fall off this wave
Being optimistic is truly being
The internet is fantastic.
It gives me access to knowledge and rhythms and old friends.
It allows thoughts to spread like ivy vines.
It broadens my world, which would otherwise be so small.
It allows me to be a member of society.
What more could one want?
I am so tired.
I am tired of cyclical thoughts with no end.
They spin until their path strays.
Like runaway train cars.
I am tired of my reflection.
I want to look into a mirror and see my mind.
Instead I see my face.
I am so tired of this troubled face.
I am tired of my rubber band body.
I want to cartilize.
I am so tired of each morning.
Waking to a reality so bleak.
Makes me want to go to sleep.
But I am too tired.
I will soon take this burden off my back.
It’s claws have punctured my skin.
It has left an aroma of raw meat in my mouth.
Lips like lasers.
Feel cold as ice.
When I take this test, pass or fail, I will feel renewed.
legs like grapes in the silent sun.
The connection between my actions and intentions is a drawbridge.
It is unpredictable as if a mad king is shouting orders based on the color of his mood.
I think that sometimes my drawbridge slams open.
I think I have some control.
I am a fly on a web, which is connected to the edge of the lever of the drawbridge.
I just wish I could be the spider.
I holy no me not
Me bad goat
I be mad though
I bad low the dead grass grows
I with teathered tongue speak like this.
It’s sad though.
I want my lips to listen to the light bulbs.
I wish I could escape from my emotions when I engage in intellectual activities.
I can completely disengage.
I can turn off.
I just can't be half way.
I need a dimmer switch for my emotions
I can be a disengaged teatherball, with foolish inertia.
I can be a puddle of chunky mud.
But I can also be an engine.
And in those moments I cannot disengage.
If you had brown hair, and I hated brown hair, then I would hate a part of you.
The leaves stand still.
The air so static.
Your hatred of my aggression is your hatred of me.
I have brown hair.
If I could shave it off I would.
I think I can place an apple in an air vent.
It would only float with the right air pressure though.
It would only do so in the right environment though.
The vent must be adequately wide.
There must be an optimal amount of friction.
Not too much though.
There must be an ideal level of lighting.
These are the conditions required to make an apple float.