At this time of year
trees give to the
ground because
of how much they
have to support,
Anticipating another year
to come, separated
from their source.

Have you thought of
this,

the reason why the wide
spread word
has entered your
heart,
because it longs
for its source?

Don't worry,
it's not noticeable
to others.
It's something you
can keep to yourself.

Just be sure
you know where
the boundaries to yourself
lie.
Otherwise,

you may become confused,
you may call me a liar
and burn me upside down
on a cross
until there is nothing left
but your ashes.
Ashes from a tree
that did not raise a white flag,
but still leaves.

Don't worry,
there are no pain
receptors there, in the mind,
you won't feel a thing.

I ask you
who you are, and you are silent.

Once a hue-man
has been separated
from his beginning,
is he somewhere
in the middle,
or is he,
lost?
Is he sitting in the
gutter in the
alleyway,
crying,
or is he
rising from the ashes,
unfolding his wings and
flying?
Does he have to choose,
or is he just in gratitude,
of still being alive –
          does the thought
          cross his mind?

It's crossed this line
many times before, so please,
tell me why it's brain matters.
If you can convince the devil in him,
then maybe he can
convince the sinner in you.
But you continue to tell him
you're all right,
that no wrongs can subside below
a thorough look
into why
it all began.
And if you
can find the beginning,
please,
please
let me know.
Because I want
to stop the sirens
that keep begging
him to begin
again.

I'll take this bridge to
nowhere.

I'll let you know what
it's like,
if I get back
from nowhere.

I'll stop at somewhere
and here,
and I'll stop at there.
And maybe overhere
and underthere.

I'll stop at overthere,
And I'll take a
bridge to a
ware.
"But beware,"
they say,
"This bridge is only
one-way."

"How bad can
it be?
On a bridge
whose end
one cannot visibly see.
It looks to be going
nowhere."

Neurotransmitter gases
are those
whose communication's
tough to track.
Like the communication
between our eyes.

Drink the herb
of Narnia,
and slowly,
time will pass
till every day
is like stepping
into a closet.

With time to come
the one
will become
the one to be found
within
and
without
yourself.

Life is perfect.
It is our idea of the perfect life which is imperfect.

I'm treading on
my old thoughts,
no longer rotting,
they're in the past,
decayed,
and turned to soil
nourishing the lasting
qualities of a
first-class mind
to grow not up,
but in three dimen-
zions.

Let it all settle
and your generations
to come
will find gems,
and  a  smoothed down
Madonna of the Rocks.
The mind is free from grave-robbers.

Sometimes you have to
do stuff even if
you don't like it,
but does that mean
that it's right then?
But don't
ask me,
ask the
fill in the blank GOD
that you warship.
Or hell,
just send me
His daught -
-er
cause apparently
she's just as good -
"I just don't understand,
what's the big deal
with G.-
-thus," the third line follows
from the first
to
preMiss S.
Doesn't what I'm saying make
any  sense at all?
You think I'm slow? -
Well I think
you are quick
to jump to
conClue shuns
that aren't there.

 

A: Do you work here?

B: I’m working.

A: So then you’re not here.

B: I guess not.

A: So where do you think you are?

B: Oh,

    well,

    I don’t really think like that.

    It’s not that I think I’m somewhere

    else. It’s more that

    i

   don’t know who the “I” is.

 

Who is following
the tone of my voice,
the overflow
of my choice
to see the
rapist
in his eyes,
from his view.
To become glued
to his hands,
to his wants
and desires.
He cradles
me in his
mind
Keeps me
warm
in blankets
that collapse
the time.
and naked bodies
for stuffed animals
- stuffed mammals
carefully,
oh so
gently,
running his
fingers
over my body,
mentally
infusing
(his) techniques into
me.
feebly,
quietly,
i am
released of
tension
as i feel
him rip
tender, virgin
skin,
and still
instilling
years of progress,
days to come
whereun -
too,
i become
partly him
(the sin of
breaking virgin
skin),
the sin of
taking him
within,
the boundaries
of fare,
supple
skin.
and my libraries
within
begin to
restack and relocate
the hosts of
who
i become.

Can I make you a drink?
half distilled, half spring
water?
Pick your poison,
and then go
lay beside your
Juliet,
or maybe your
Romeo?
I don't know,
you pick your
part.
And even
though
everyone keeps
picking Juliet,
I'm not so
sure
which one is
less
heart
break -
ing - land
the patriots
say.
But tell me
does a costume,
does an act,
does a smile,
or the lack
of staying by
your side
condition that
your mind
and
heart
allign to
that
which is observable?