flying

the shyness of your breath, between rings on your chest. tell more then then this test.

between lines i evolve, like a puzzle on walls, but together i am nothing.

in front of your eyes, you watch a callapse and relapse into space.

you are my key, but ill never be free, from this touch.

the feel of your skin, the sent of a sin, im a slave.

like ticks on a clock, you've picked through my lock, i am open.

calls may break my silence. i cannot replace the imprint you left. i know that you have commited theft.

of course

À Bout de Soufflé

sixteen chances to collect yourself.

every breath surrounding your conscious like a piece of buttered bread.

tired.

can't seem to move away from this invisible clutch.

the glue that once held us so connected, now weaker.

now still remains.

Like the strings falling from an unwinding shirt.

No longer is it one with where it belongs.

But you can not say it does not exist.

Because even in pieces it is real.

christ.

I cannot see beyond this.

I can not move my mountain.

I tried to go around it.

But found my feet were broken.

I've considered tunneling under.

But learned I had no tools.

Ive tried to play the mountains game.

But i do not know the rules.

So alas, i sit here.

Pondering whats at hand.

I know ill have to climb this mountain.

Yet i question if i can.

cough medicine

The touch of a spoon to my mouth sends shivers beyond my spine.

And as the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand, i realize the grape flavored goop that just filled my esophagus is not leaving.

And the bitter cough medicine lingers in my throat like the night after breath.

I am thrown completely off balance and the only reaction i can manage is an epileptic fit of my mouth. squeezing and pursing my lips as if it will make it any better.

To make matters worse the fermented flavor reminds me of vodka and i am forced to relive nights even my diary doesn't know about. Until alas it is gone..

and i can breathe.

dear diary,

then i write.

when i write i feel as though words are pouring from the tips of my hands, not even giving my mind a moments breath.

i am not thinking but my mind is pouring thoughts as though it was a pitcher.

one day im scared my thoughts will end and like the emptiness that still controls me, that nothingness will control my pen. and it will swallow up my budding thoughts and devoir them before my own eyes.

and i will no longer be able to hold up my hand. no longer able to let words sing from my fingers, because on that day i will be a slave.

i will be oppressed by, well by nothing.

a supreme control of nothing.

waiting for that day, my mind wonders to things far beyond what is already known.

dwindling in greater good, restoring faith in regions of myself i once thought to be hopeless.

even still...

breathing, walking, talking, yes.

but alive, no.

gaga

2,500 miles away, we are laughing at the same joke.