Writing without an aduience

is dead before arrival

if what I say here sparks no remarks from anyone

then what was the point of it leaving my head?

If no spark comes

no fire burns

and cold will set in

#poetry

#audience

#please

it hurts to breathe.

my lungs are gasping for air, like there's not enough to spare.

I start to panic, my mind is manic.

I start to pull my hair, I wonder if I were to go if anyone would care.

is this life fair?

I have been so sad, even so mad.

but I know being a part of life is rather rad.

I'd be missed miserably by my mom and dad.

they have been all I've really ever had.

I miss the people I've lost, but life has a cost.

I keep wishing them back, or a trip to the clouds is where I want to pack.

just to see if there's something so much more up there, it is what I think about while just sitting here.

my demons can smell my fear, my head isn't all that clear.

I have to calm myself down, I want to smile instead of frown.

I feel like if I don't I'm gonna drown.

(k.m.m)

alone is okay

when i’m

in a fog dreaming

with fish in the clouds,

scales grey

torn fins bleeding

red ink for the mist

to pen

pages of sin, and

alone is okay

when it

stains me within

but a light in a fog

makes my

timid bones snap,

fright my fish from the

clouds and

red ink draws a map, says

alone is despair

when you’re

in a fog screaming

with hands in the clouds,

skin burnt

sharp claws scheming

no ink for the mist

to pen

pages of light when

alone is okay

for a

soul without sight

but i’m lost in myself,

in my

fog, mist, ink, clouds

with my fish floating dead,

grey scales

fall on the crowd, say

alone is okay

when you’re

in a fog dreaming

despair on your hands and

the clouds

pale, deceiving

black ink for the mist

to spill

and betray, say

alone is okay,

alone is okay.

Clickity clack.

Skid. Stomp. Snap!

Tap, tap. Hop.

Clippity, clop.

Smack. Rap, tap.

Spin. Stamp. Slap.

Click, click. Snap.

Clickity clack.

so many rules,

methods, rights

and wrongs

and we wonder

why our words

fail to conjure

the magic

in our hearts.

Like snowflakes

purely white

delicately float

each fluttering

sinking till their

crystals tap the earth

then a furious flurry

descends like madness

covering the ground

the black flakes fell

signifying the end

coating our world

and we were the snowflakes

blindly falling

to what we thought

was the end

and it was

but a bitter one, indeed

We fucked on that old black band t-shirt

Then I never threw it away.

Save the sheets,

Save the dirty creases of fabric on the closet floor.

Save it for weeks, months,

Until you're gone.

Until remembering such a simple thing is awash

Thousands of feet below a churning surface.

Misery loves memories,

But never those you need.

Those are left,

Saved for later,

On the floor of some closet,

Something to pick up,

Stare quizzically at

Before the tears come.

Before you remember that once,

You were happy.

The walls of

This

Space

Are heaving

With emotion

They rise

And

They

Fall

To the rhythm

Of

You.

The way

Your name

Rolled off

My tongue

Last

Winter.

Tiny angels

Diving

Into

Somersaults

And spinning.

But my tears

Fall

Too.

And through

The

Fall

They--

Just as fast--

Beat my words

To the floor

In

A

Race.

They crystallize

And shatter

Against

This bowl

Because sorrow

Sinks

Heavy

In an aquarium

Of salt.

Where hope

Is

Blurry.

When the water

Ripples.

I feel like falling, 

Into your arms would be dangerous. 

I feel like falling,

Into your eyes would drown my

Inhibitions. 

I feel like falling, 

Into your bed would lead me astray. 

I feel like falling, 

Under your spell would make me forget who I am. 

I feel like falling, 

In love with you, is inevitable. 

I fell asleep

I dreamt I had a canvas

And a palette with blobs of densely colored paint

I began painting on this canvas feverishly, feeding the canvas its food

My hand danced, stroke after stroke with a wisdom of technique I questioned possible

My brushes moved with a rhythm, too choreographed for coincidence

I was destined to paint a masterpiece

A voice, not audible, it was intuitive

Suggested I call the painting "earth"

I awoke after the last stroke of my brush was meticulously placed upon the canvas

And saw what I had created was no longer a dream, but a beautiful reality.