pick

there are two kinds of people in this world

the ones at peace with god
and the ones at war with them

jaguar

 and they say i have the mark of a tigress

but all my roars

pale 

when you howl

at 

me

lovers

there is a time in the early morning,
when the grey first brightens behind the still dark trees and figures,
that moment to me
truly feels like the death of night.

softened by an unseen rain,
the earth slowly remembers itself,
startled and afraid of the new day approaching.
this is what a quiet birth feels like.

i want to remember you here

 
it is here in this new day that anything, everything, is possible.

 

what is love besides endlessly watching the sunrise together, 

again 

and again?

and again...?

the shift

the shift comes in like big waves,
and small drops of warm rain

your body is no longer insecure and your ego is malleable. 

you are prepared for a peaceful war with this thing called life. 

you find yourself mourning your disappointments with mint balm, herbal tea and literature

you strictly seek out people that will be lifelong assets and support your well being, 

and sleep has never looked so shiny and pure before. 

each morning you tip your hat, to the monster inside you, as you leave the house for work. 

each night, you crawl into bed begging your cherubs to visit. 

'perhaps tomorrow', they whisper, as you slip away into child-like slumber

runners

/ the static gives birth to motion 

/ the motion results in intangible love 

/ the love gives you something to run towards or away from.

im a runner. 

i run towards love. 

no matter how many times i think ive found it or lost it.

i cant run away from it.

im not programmed that way.

im programmed to love. 

give love. receive love.

for better or for worse.

i will always find something to live for regardless of how many times circumstance or fate tears me down.

perhaps this will be the undoing 

but there is no other way to live this life, you see. 

i carry many swords, 

but most of all a sword of catharsis, 

for it is rarer than i was even told it was

i brew my potions of transformation and hide my wand of stories inside a technicolour cloak of palpable melancholy and anxiety

so i can heal these tested wings 

every night 

in my cave

one must live in a cave 

when they live with a mind that battles and turns inward, 

when you can turn into a werewolf with no full moon in sight.

no one can see the blood spilt because its inside my fucking head 

so they dont know how to care 

since they cant feel the gravity of the disease at play

they dont see the smoke signals

they see an angry face, ugly and twisted, hurling words of desperation, 

which makes others run away or shield themselves

leaving more wounds instead of blankets

and then i find myself 

lost with all the other lost ones, 

out there in the ether, 

playing with spirits

so as to heal in solitude, 

bitten lips, alone in the bathroom, curled toes

its not attractive but fuck you

fuck judgement 

being human is ugly when its real

so even if no one loves the way i'd love them if they were lost

what i do know -

is that have the capacity to do so 

when so many dont

and theres something glorious about that.

thats why they always come back

when i am long gone

when its too late.

because they know

i will always face another day, because 

im a runner.

i run towards fucking love,

and it makes me strong

everyone wants someone strong

i beg you to pick love

especially when its ugly,

and leave only blankets,

when you see a fire.

nesting

i sit here looking at the nerves on my hands throb,
and yet it makes me smile softly as i see myself float back to my favourite place in spite of it all. 

this place. 

just me and my words - my voice. 

i'm back to spilling my soul and guts into alphabets and poetic word vomit. 

this is selfish. it is all i can do to save the mortal me, and the soul thread within it, that somehow tethers me to you. to the universe. in some strange intangible way. i write to show myself the path when i am lost, to guide that lost little one thats inside each of us, confused and dreading the journey - for it is bittersweet and ultimately ends in stardust. 

the technicolour stellar phantasma show of life that this is

and so 
this raven flies back to a familiar forgotten nest

to rest

station 35

1 month away from 35 and my papyrus skin peels slightly, 

at the curves. 

more than ever before, 

it is so apparent to me that we dwell but only in our minds, 

and there only. 

the heart is but an extension, a skittish one; it lives for carnal desires, petty distractions.

the heart can get weak

but the mind must stay strong

and pick the right words

to support the baby heart

so the story can go on.

what does it really all come down to then? 

do we hold on tighter or let go and be lighter? 

do we dare to grow and wear audacity on our sleeves? 

or shudder in large groups, muttering robotic 'bless yous' when you hear someone sneeze? 

the universe is pleasantly indifferent to our 

so called suffering, our maddening loneliness, our solitary strife. 

so yes,

hello life,

you got me,

i feel a whole lot fucking wiser.