Believing that separation from the origin is the best path to take
That somehow, the open road, the changing places will all benefit
Our collective experience, our hope to growth everlasting
Then why, as these indirect requests vacate the stability;
Are we the dissipating ghosts of our trail in the atmosphere?
Should we not rather stand as wholehearted equivalents of our pride?
Touching base with the virtues our fathers fought to strive
Obeying every chance to take part in the opportunity of a lifetime
Yet now-- we stutter in the grocery line
We bake goods half-worthy of their recipients
And the love we demand
We less than worship its share

I don't live elegantly; the beautiful people I surround myself with...
They make it seem that way
Crying into frustration, laughing into oblivion
Both elements of shame lost in hypnotic wonder
And less is the grieving past of the marble and hollow wood
These dates we've set as stone in penitentiary
Are given as the follicles by which bites the seal
Moments like this are kept and roam
Furthest from the smallest lighthouse
Exempt from all other illuminations abroad
We dip softly into the salt encrustation
Adjusting our eyes to the deeper sensation of sight
Once more born, often with two toes moving palm trees
The sentiment is lacking that of holographic backing
And the unity of swarming arthropods
Has all but forgotten the wrath of megalodon

Open to Lift

Much much on my mind. I'll try to briefly expel everything here.


Please forgive me if at times you find my hand in my pocket of the past
Shrouded, shifting through the lost numbers and forbidden catch phrases
I'm tempted to find that mischief now, in the blooming hour
And all apologies if I can't see as straight upon your conditioning as I should,
Having lived it on my own, months prior, though now ready to give up the restrictions
Because past translates simply to chains, whether on neck, wrists, or ankles
Worst being the neck, giving you stifled vision of what's in front of you
Covering the fact that we were born with all required instinct
Knowing now that those karma carriers we spoke of
Are truly ourselves, for a past time
Past-times we've tricked ourselves into
All in harmony with our gentle aura
Soon summoning the depth of incision to the hand
Rotting off the servitude
In this crumbled restatement of what's pinned to her bedroom wall:
None will remain for certain. None that came offered to stay.
Any flux in motion lost inertia to the varying festive decay.
Wisdom builds craters while the ministry caters

Star Slight

Listening to Acrobatic Tenement for inspiration.

Haven't written on here in a while. Doesn't mean I haven't been writing.

I'm fine. These weeks have been crazy though, absolutely crazy. When will this end?

Chris will be here in a day or two. For like three nights, so it'll be great.

"Like a boat without oars"

Goodnight.