//and how much can you really know yourself?//
memories deceive and the soul retreats.
and how well can we know another?
(it’s so much easier.)
(it’s so much harder.)

store your memories and emotions between the chords and the motion
of waves that sync to our histories
better than anything words can beat
drown out the world in a lyrical tapestry
salve your wounds with the chorus

we all sing in sorrow
how melodious the sound.

who knows where the river takes us. who are we to know the inflections of routes set in stone.

all aboard, we must go now. into the mist, into the unknown.

sandpaper arms have roughened me up with bruises,
brushed and scraped and whittled down,
so i must stitch back together shavings and shards to recreate a new me,
discard this body and upgrade 2.0,
resilient and resolute — strength is not being impervious to pain but rather withstanding it.
can you stay soft and open when the world runs cold and cruel?
take off your armor if you want to wear the badge of bravery.

and what is even real? i am superimposed onto this world but drifting off in a different reality. and what is memory? we recall and recreate to a breaking point and the past is altered irrevocably. so who am i when i reside in a plane outside of here. and when the world ends we remain in the echoes of etched graffiti. caves in the mind and a chamber of perception. rest, we will board in the morning.

comparison is the thief of joy,

and we rejoice in envy,
pouring ourselves on scales to measure against everything we could never be,

barometer of change,
(i could never look the other way),

pluck feathers from the wind and hold your cap close,
there is a storm coming in,

and when lightning strikes,
we must blame our own evil eye.

play a tune on loop
record stuck on repeat
mind pulling receipts
balance the weight on your knees
ignorance is bliss
so write over these memories

I am seeking a calling,

Let me know if you have found one,
Because it is a wretched existence to be twisted up and wishing,
Though far preferable to living in the ignorance of it all,
For that is a deeper emptiness that compiles into poison,
And ruins all the bliss it seems to feed,

I am waiting for a call,
I sit by the phone watching for a ring,
As time passes, I become more desperate,
A buzz or a text even would do,

Purpose I have, but action I lack,
I wish to beat to a drum, but I cannot hear any music,
I don’t see any drummers,
When you call out and there is no call back,
Not even a voicemail or dial tone,
Where is there to go?

So we sit here restless by the phone,
Knowing that moving forward is no good,
Because forward is what needs illumination,

I wish to weave the fibers of the future,
Where is the pattern? Where is the thread?

Twelve rivers that form an ecosystem unfettered from yesterday’s woes,
Enveloped in another world, without any times to the old,
Bearing fruit eager and uncomposed,So that —
Curiosity can reign supreme,
Without the cumbersome beleaguering fatigue,
Of those who think they know,
But their experience is of the wrong sort,
Bringing upon the follies of those who did not have the eyes to see,
But are blind to their blindness,
The rivers flow without terrain,
Pooling at the end in oases,
With more robust roots than have ever been brought.

blunt

Sadness that swells into numbness,
Raking coals over all the visions of what life was supposed to be,
Grieve — but then have to carry on regardless,
Into the morning, with slightly less brightness,
A dull aura to move you through the day.