They hide in groups, flitting,
In a muster of leaved canopies.
Withering, charts maroon forests;
Droves of these feathered things,
Unapologetically taking sharts
On scores of unimpressed victims,
Spent airily.

Streams run dry as scales
Scintillate by dawn.

Reflected retorts; appealed,
Marked by depraved gas.



Indicted collectives of homo erectus;
Throngs of indiscernible objectified masses.
Thoughts wrought with re-applications of rules
Of anecdotal malformed ideologies of misgivings
Of prescribed biases latched in netted implications
Of disoriented silvery fibers of whirling madnesses;
Outwardly named intrusive, whilst peripherals slowly
Darken, fully encompassing gorges by shrouding molasses.

What We Chose

Reflections of mangled confidences
In incandescent words
Of inevitable losses
Those who sought redemption
From repudiated horrors
Of untimely hours
In muted reveries;
Vaporized voices of intangibilities.

Airtight metal doors locked;
Unresponsive to patterned codes
Of likely misconstrued rhetorics;
Of queasily relinquished prides;
In quizzical encumbrances
In unrequited diminishing vortices.

Anthropomorphically weighed physics
Of bleakly styled truths
Or exquisitely chiseled fallacies.
Where comforted comorbidities
Of mythological redundancies
And existential deities,

Spouting extrications of love’s yearnings
Hopelessly behind those locked doors
In layered inquiries of reality, prophecies
And connected scales of measured precisions
Of ethically disapproved pursuits;
Pierced valves of barely perceived incisions.

Here’s a secret,
Morality is whatever I wanted it to be.

The Nonsensical

You’re over thinking it
Or is it
The others thoughtlessness
Matched against yours.

Catch phrases;
Words aligned
For a long standing joke.
But the origin?
What do those words mean?
Is that a fragment of their hidden ideology
Or is it mindless drivel that can be disregarded
As empty words
From empty vessels.

Or are you over thinking it
Are you the one that needs to stop
Because the nonsensical
Must exist
Or is it all
With reason.

I Don’t Know

I don’t love them like you do
I don’t know if I ever will.
My heart is small
It can only love few
It’s hands don’t reach
As far as yours do.
I don’t think I’ll ever
Be able to love them
Not like you do.

It takes too much work
To love them.
Every word
Every reaction
Every action
I hear it
I hear them plead
Love me.
But I just can’t seem
To do it properly.
And it doesn’t seem to matter
That I can be just like them.

They speak
They tell me things
I listen
But they don’t know
They don’t ask
About the pain
I feel
Because of you.
Not that I’d be able to
Tell them anyway.

Isn’t it funny
How the voices subside
The less I interact with them
The less prominent you became in my life.

I’ve seen it
That face
Of fear
Even jealousy.
They all bother me
Even if I may be able to understand it.

I thought
At least here
I could exist.
But not really.
The worst things
Don’t get written.
It isn’t safe anywhere.

I’m sorry
I couldn’t prove you wrong this time.

But you don’t know
The pain of losing you.

You Only Care About Being Right

“You only care about being right.”
Only care about being right?
That’s not entirely true.
But yeah, it matters to me
Where the truth lies.
If you can come up with a good argument
That can go against mine
I will listen
I will even take it into consideration
Even if at first I don’t want to.
But to say it like I’m the only one who fucking cares
Is fucking annoying.
Don’t say that to me
As if you are somehow exempt from it.
Why are you arguing with me in the first place
If you don’t care about being right?
Why do you voice your opinion
And say I’m wrong
If you don’t care about being right.

How many more times
Do I need to say this to you.

Confucius said three times,
Then it’s, “fuck it.”

Not exactly that way tho.

But three times
Doesn’t seem to be enough.

My Angel

My angel sings for me his tune
A lullaby of the misfortune
Of those that walk with him
His anger, his disappointment,
His expectations, his desire
To see them soar
Than the life they have succumbed to.
How he weeps
While they poison themselves,
While weaving quills
Onto wooden twigs,
With needle and thread,
Pricking fresh punctured bleeds
On his cracked healing flesh.

He alludes to hidden treasures
Stored in his solemn solitary mind,
Along with deft rhythmic rhyme,
On spur of flight,
Sending gusts of billowing winds
As I close the holes in my head,
I revel in satin wisps that caress,
I breathe, after it passes,
In harmonic fragrance;
The elixir he poured
In correspondence.

My safe haven,
Wrought out in flesh,
I thank the gods that we met,
That he seeks my company.
Parcels he presents in fleeting moments;
The sweetest scents of his sentience,
Of plush dove wings
That softly comfort;
The warmth
Of sunbeam rings.

That I commit
The same crimes
Of those
Who turn to complacency,
Mediocrity and contempt,
Of those who only listen
To his melody,
Ignoring the harmonics
Of the lyrical tapestry
He’s woven,
Reveals my garbled soul
Of glossy marbled onyx,
Then parts of my body

Such love
He holds for them,
For us.
He hopes that the wings he supplies
Will help in our quest for human flight.
His feet supplanted,
Refusing to acknowledge
The truth that slithers beneath his eyes;
That angels
Are born and bred
In few.

The love he has for them,
I don’t have it.
Mine is twisted and mangled,
It hurls acid
In the faces
Of those
Who flick mud on my shoes,
And it doesn’t weave
For men.