It feels as though I make my way
through massive rock
like a vein of ore
I am so deep inside it
I can’t see the path or any distance:
everything is close
and everything closing in on me
has turned to stone.
Since I still don’t know enough about pain,
this terrible darkness makes me small.
If it’s you, though—
press down hard on me, break in
that I may know the weight of your hand,
and you, the fullness of my cry.
in the middle of exhilarating transitions
from the confines of past transgressions.
hungry for the next sound
as I expound the idea of starvation
to an ant whose inevitable devastation
makes it contemplate salvation
knowing how absurd it is
that somehow there could be
some sort of meaning found in its regeneration.
"That time you set me free."
and oozing with allegory
I rest upon the essence
of the unknown
a wretched questioning
turns why and how
I’m awaiting potential
while potential awaits
another choice I never got to make
another sensation ever left for me to placate
as I circle insecurity
like a vulturous drone
yet always alone
debate levels of satisfaction.
so I write about nothing
which instantly gives it a somethingness
just like everything has a sort of nothingness
in my dreams last night
you answered my knocking
as though nothing had changed
in the morning
we still share this house
but the short walk to your new door
feels longer than any road trip
Create Everything Before You Die.
All that is gone was never mine.