Alive is our best guesswork.

The children with daddy's suits.

The same ole redundant.

Good advice by the mourning dream.

The desolate and afraid.

No-one talks to daddy.

Ambient dancing of colorless light.

Wedged between tranquil violence.

And

Salacious entertainment.

The black man is not black on Sunday.

If for, when he scores.

Don’t forget the Ancient Rule.

He who knows his Gold.

Must burry deep within.

For the dead eyed pedestrian

to call his own.

I hoot and I holler.

With eyes fixed on the indentured freedom.

The slave dances with an illiterate sprit.

I leap to unrational limbs.

Not dancing.

Not moving.

Stealing the spirt for my own keepsake

--

--

Do what makes you happy.

Smile like you forget what happens.

Remember nothing is better,

than the plans unplanned.

Playing to play

Before you could think.

All the ways that could secretly torture you.

A crippling beast, festering slowly.

The love is, everything when you don’t prepare.

Like truth Fitzgerald wrote his friends.

I don’t care for it.

Give me some happiness.

It is the only thing real.

The only that can’t be seen twice.

Your heart can fly like eagles in plains.

The fear of falling doesn’t let you see it.

Just let it happen.

Even if you don’t fly,

you will be more alive than ever before.

And with great pain,

you tell a story, most will grasp to you.

Calling you crazy, for thinking you could fly.

And you were.

You just didn’t listen soon enough.

--

--

The boys would be easy.

One quick gaze with dripping mystery.

And the fake hero would trot onward.

He would act cool.

Like he cares how I feel.

I chuckle at his attempts to possess me.

With rehearsed romanticism and that carefree holiday confidence.

Why can't they say it.

We all want nice things.

I want Love.

You, my Body.

Craftsman and her tools.

My lips are roses.

My eyes are diamonds.

My cheeks are happy.

I don't do it for You.

I do it to remind myself,

I can still glow in the barren times.

For if your heart flutters.

Don't tell me.

Just fly with those unkempt wings.

You have forever felt.

The hero, my dear, be mine.

And forever more.

--

--

I lay in his room with the stench of Day.

Bare and untrying like the glass window tapping.

We rest like simmering battle.

The booming erupts into the walls.

A perfect heaven with plenty a wound.

I am alone dressed in lazy eyed moonlight.

When the glowing ripples there is no orange or sun.

Just my waiting for his Thunder.

Whilst the storms conjure in my looking.

There just oceans, he says.

Rowing and rowing.

The rowboats are flooded with pride and desire.

I am more than his saving.

Little of his care and my blooming.

Yesterday, I was beautiful and even woman

Today, I am your Art to feel without feeling.

He thinks he Loves me.

A taker of my glowing and my Tao.

He lies like a perfect Man.

“I Love You” the words slithering from his lips.

Like I haven't met him before.

--

--