S is for something known.

And all of a sudden relief
release

together

outside, the sound of sirens and sleep
inside, wounds have failed to cauterize, reopened.

Worthless chords, tuned to a noose.
A room full of noise, is your head, is your tomb,
is a surrogate interest to harvest the wound.

And the relief fades slowly

And nothing remains

outside, the wind heaves its chest
inside, shell pieces went missing, reopened.

Noise outside never sleeps, drowning in itself,
calling for us to leave the tuning pegs behind,

you can't hear the sound.whytryandfaildenylostandaloneandnoreasontosurvive.
But with your fingers, they breathe
Surfacing slowly
Shivers upon the neck

Stop listening.

Feel.

Not all true.

Immolation

Slowly, the fabric of optimism soaks through, my skin washed clean of pleasant, of that joy. Soaks through with a realization long denounced, robed in denial or disillusion. And one day, maybe we all will wake up and realize the best things to happen to us have happened, and now it's time. Blow the candles out, no one will be sleeping there, no one worth caring for, no one worth the might, the strength, the shaken earth, the calloused hand/heart. And the day that all happens, a new hope will awake, a hope that the road goes on forever so I'll never find the end, never have to return. And without a hand/heart to hold, I may as well color myself like the sun.

Copia

Find Copia, Eluvium, that's the one. Play it. Fill a bath with warm water and wandering ambience, let it sink through your temples and directly into the memories of / Take yourself back to the moments of obscurity, the shadowed familiarity and dense patterns of unspoken reality. Fragile and alone, six feet above the ground, encased in wire, cheap furniture, and the sound of late nights, ignorance, and constant / The comfortable territory of that which makes you uncomfortable becomes the very plane that shapes interaction, the known / the pleasant, yet feared / Find Copia, stare at the ceiling thirteen inches from your eyes, the paint meant to say nothing is a heart, something its own. Every night is spent with Copia, filling the thirteen thousand foot dome of darkness, closed eyes, star spangled spectacle / Filling the lungs with frequency, filling the heart with hopelessness, to love this is to never leave it behind, carry it with you, make it your own. That's the one, use it to build a wall for one thousand miles and never let them in, use Copia, your defense, your home, destroy vulnerability, create the ultimate space between the real and / Find Copia, hold close the tone of tenderness touched by turmoil, hold close the waste of friendships, hold close the strange fondness of familiarity, and then pour it into the fifty minute void of Copia, and be released.

haha/

Cast

Cast judgment upon others. For it is by the hand of this judgement that the first spade of soil is tossed over graves. It is this judgement that polishes the pedestal of foolishness, anchors the mind in the bay of self-righteousness, and secures the blind before the might of fallen guillotines. False modesty is the spade, the brush, the anchor, and the eyes that see no end.

Don't

Maybe we're better off acknowledging that love might not exist in the conventional form that we've wrapped and bowed ourselves to. If love were like colors, the heart a screen, hit system settings and check how many colors yours can display. Twice have I plowed through snow, rain, thousands of miles, concrete constraints, and innumerable warnings against the obvious, twice have I realized that illusion, conviction, determination, suspension of, unwavering, immobilizing drive to the west, to the one who I can't look away from. And what's mist. Missed. If you can't walk through it and arrive on the other side colder, cooler, refreshed; controlled loneliness lead us through. I don't want to give in to the next, I've put on your shoes, maybe I'm done believing. Someone said they didn't want to keep protecting themselves from feeling love if, and I said okay, but don't let it be me.

How are you?

Hardly. I rarely attribute negative tones to acknowledgement, to the thought of loved ones haunting the attic of bone houses. The carpenter of curiosity has no use for moments between dawn and dusk, but temperature drops, or when heart racing stops, the coffee cups pile up on my beat up and snow soaked sleepless nights, and I hear in a whisper from the moon - "too soon, too soon." But we do. As we do as we'll do. I'd hate to be the hill atop which hopelessness sits, waiting to slide into the gut, perpetuate the shadow, a light behind eyes cast into eyes. Cheer up, they might say, the best is yet to come. We've got a lot to learn, and when I see you again, I'll be a tree rather than that puddle of water waiting to be sucked up by seared soil. Don't stay wrapped up in "you" for too long, ghosts are only present tense past. A letter to myself and others, as applicable.

Hello

"i forgot me because of the weight on my shoulders you thought i was lost, and so you left me to be such now that i've found myself, i couldn't recognize you if i tried the i's are the same the you's are different in that relativity i don't how, but would still want to be, in's and with's ... only with a memory"

Sometimes we, lost in this thing considered, by some but not many others, in respect to the experience derived, unlike that or those who resort to impose, love, make choices that create such a cacophony, like waves against cliffs of question, our thoughts drown out the beauty of life within "us."

When the pins that hold cloth tightly to the skin, showing our shape and vulnerability, sink into the flesh, through our ribs, our nails pry each other out, unsure if this pain is a part of the permanence, wild wonder about why it feels wrong to become right.

I'm not sure if you'll read this. But I should have pretended like it never happened. Into the frying pan. You were prepped and ready, I was unsure and steady, slowly discovering that others are far beyond what I care not to comprehend... and you were the flower in the boot, trudging through the mud, love on a dock, deer beyond sight, the flight down hills or locked bones racing along any road. Maybe if we had asked more questions, sought more acceptance, destroyed more difference, came together more quickly and took two hours to convince every goodbye, see you next time, alright, to happen. Maybe if I could see over the 400 miles, the rolling clouds wouldn't have stifled mind's sight, I'd take the heart you offered with silk and shining armour, forever protected, respected, accepted.

Things have happened, yes. Void of importance. I could crush the moment in time and the self that had such a thought. I wish you'd have said hello.