how much longer i hate the way i love and loved. it has left me feeling like everything that i am is a ghost that possessed a body that is just tiredness and melancholy, a soul that is just weary. i have missed what i missed so much now that it has become my instinct to hate it all. i feel so tired, so tired of being so tired and yet doing things that takes all of me and everything about me. i thought i’ll be fine once i know all that i needed to know, about why it is like th

cant untangle them i keep trimming my self down. there is not even a liminal space. i have to travel back no matter how far i have come. have i ever known the joy of being an animal? a simple animal. or is it that i do not ever become any more than the most simple animal? i am not inside the zoo. i am outside. that much i am certain. because if i am inside, i must be the animal no one can watch, see or get. the deep sea creatures are capable of fascination. dinosaurs are. so

parte uno capable of such potent dread and yet incessantly obsessed with spectacle. misplaced grit. misaligned wit. utopia and dystopia in parentheses, mere figures of speech granting sheer pomposity. qualia persists but devoid of lucidity, absent of oblivious existence’s momentary epiphanies and consequent forgetfulness bird o bird, dog o dog, roach o roach are we as much a spectacle as we like to think we are, or are we just useful if we are useful at all as useful as the e

stay for too long now my heart feels incredibly drenched and heavy. and i can’t pull myself together to wring it dry anymore. what has it wet is so very capable of wearing me out. i have fought so hard to keep on and i am not sure how long i can go on. and i am worn out. i am so tired. poetry glorified my melancholy and my dread but i feel like a dying man moving mountains to stay alive. i do not want to go at it that hard. i never did. i have not felt home the way i want. th

do you want babies? This is not a righteous tirade about the morbid climate of the world and the sin it is to bring an infantile life into such troubling times. This is not a soothing, reminiscing spell to remind you how beautiful childhood is and how it is the purpose of a human life to rear them and bear them so much so that one day they will do the same. Granted, those are what this is not, what this is my admission that I cannot find a sincere narrative or expression that

i used to want to become one I think i have mentioned this before. A musing from the time where i would have less restraint in saying i was young. I wanted to become a tree. The musings flowered and had a poetic nectar to it. It had to. That’s the most i want from anything always without subtraction - nectar, poetic kind. But i am just feeling my roots a little too much. Birds came, nested, laid eggs, hatched, left. Many. Branches were cut. I grew them, for i loved the shade