The simple endSo it seems thatas the years go bylike autumn leavesin snaking rivers,the sense of distanceis swallowed by the sea.So it seems thatthere are no perfect circles,only jagged linesfolding on themselves.So it seems thata human bodyis simply matterlessfrom violent beginningto the simple sweetnessof the end.
SupermassiveReality never bendsto human expectation,it simply does its thingand becomes the consequences.At times it blossoms perfeclyin the gardens of our creation,but when it dies and rots away,we may have been the poison.No result is guaranteed,even when thoroughly tested,but life is all but barrenwithout the seed of risk.And in the end,strange beauty growsfrom feeling thingsbig enough to break you.
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,this, our neighborhood of galaxies,in which only a single staramong billionsis even remotely reachable.And we tell ourselvesto dream big.That hard workwill get us there.But on the cosmic scaleour collective capacityis nothing.For every star in the Milky Way,all four hundred billion or more,there is a galaxy.Even the Local Groupis nothing.Yet since dreams are orbitalwe hold our breath to reach them.And when we perish in the vacuumthe stars still burneverything that matters.
Forest fireWe were snaking up the I-84through Deadman Passin the Blue Mountainsof northeastern Oregon,where stories write themselves.The trees are evergreen, you said,defiant spruce and pine and firprotruding from dirt and rocks,exclamation pointsfollowing the death of everything else.I recall a membrane of cloudsat the apex, a reminder of bordersthat should never have been crossed,as overanalyzed by a tired mind.It may or may not have been there.We penetrated the veil,the first Chevyto sputter onto the Moon,monochrome and lifeless,under a radiant crystal sky.The fire had ravagedthe land to the boneleaving us trappedin the rib cage of the world.Something else descendedinto the desert below,but it was no longer us.
AwokenFor years I slept with open eyesand fibrous dreams, cut into shapesso real to the touch.It took a shock to wake me upand shed my baby skin.The cold is raw now,honest and lethalto a naked body,freezing wordssolid in the throat.Light once imaginedshines no more.Love once whisperednow rings hollowamong the echoesof the dusk.
Why the ostrich bleedsI have oversharedenough.
StarpulseTen foldsof singularityaround and aroundthat lucid pain& sing acrossthe great dividelike a pulsar,a throbbing star.Let them hear youlong after you fallthrough your heart-holeinto the never/ever& keep them wonderingwhy.
Visitor's guideIn small-town Americathat biker dude at the local Circle Kwill greet you every time,by name, even, after a while,and he will ask you if you're OK.This is not an actual question,but that is all right.In small-town Americayou should not ride your bikewhile wearing a shoulder bag,hanging like a koala bear.A school bus will eventually pass by,the kids will laugh their asses off,nice Mormon bros will call you "nice" and "bro",and a '74 Chevy will nudge you into a ditch,endangered, like a koala bear.In small-town Americayou should not just turn left for the hell of itif you don't want to see a giant old manstraddling a John Deere, wearing nothingbut nearly swallowed shorts,massive gold-rimmed Aviatorsand a double-barreled shotgun.You should never ever wonder,where he keeps his extra shells.Small-town America.I was a stranger,but you spoke to me,and I wish I had knownhow to actually answer.
MissionaryI’m ready to be used, you said;but you’ve no clue what I could doto you if you let me.It isn't a matter of control,a matter of fact, a sense of the matter;it's the thrill of losing them all.Will you declare the samewhen I gain the bend of your thoughts,or take your latest hours for myself?The turns you take yourselflead you down predictable roads;I choose to close my eyes.I want your hands, your mouth—not your eyes, or even your concern;just the weight of you over me.Let's draw the blinds and seewhat primal tongues our bodies choirin the cosmos of the dark.
Insanity needs companyand now I’m stuck here,pondering,how the walls becamea veiny sight-(could the cause be me calling outyour namein the middle of the night?)and alone I stand here,wondering,how my feet gotnailed upon this floor-(do you hold my ankleslike an anchordoes the shore?)and I know it’s been thirteen yearssince you were here at all,according to the hash marksdrawn in chalkupon the wall,but I can’tlet goof our memories,that hauntme everydayso for now,I’ll let the doc declare: Insanity needs company.
five things they don't teach you in highschool1.it's okay to fall in love.i mean, they tell you you're never goingto marry your high school sweetheart and i'm not goingto tell you it's a liebecause it's not. you guys will probablybreak up and is gonna hurt like hellbut you'll be okay. remember, you are not the only onewho has felt loneliness like a knife,the only one to know the pain of lungs collapsingbecause they were your air,and you will never be the only one who whispered"i love you" two lives too soon.you wil not be the last one to have tuckedhair behind their ear and leaned in for a kissor the last one to wake up reaching for a hand that's no longer there.but it's okay.2.your favorite book will not always be your favorite.like you, it will change over timeto something unrecognizablethat gives you only a vague nostalgia in the tips of your fingers.flipping through the pages will neverfeel the same again.you will learn to love something new;your next favorite will teach you something about your
afterburnerslisten:pick up the slack andpick up that slack-jawed shadow of yoursdragging on wet pavement under your soles and hurry it along, we ain't got all day hereflex your white-boned fingers andtaut knuckles and pluck the soul fromits coffin in your slick throat the sun has better places to be than in your sky.
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
You. Got. This.I see these people all over the place –Depressed, anxious, confused, confounded even –And I see them, all uncertain, not knowing what will happen nextI see them trying to be brave or just accepting the fearI see them breaking and then pretending not to be brokenI see them, and I have only three words:First word: YouSecond person pronoun, indicating the person to whom I am speakingIt’s every person, just as it is specific to the one, making no discernment between the twoSecond word: GotA word indicating possession, ownership, belongingAlso a word indicating inevitability;In this case You must own, You must possess, You must belong,And third word: ThisA word indicating that of which we are speaking,In this case all those things you think you are going to fail at,Or that you want to try but don’t think you can succeed in,Or all the things you wish you could have but don’t believe you’ll ever ownIn this case, You must possess all your d
Heroin AddictionRemember the dayswhen I would come running to you,tear-stained faceand shaking body,and you would wrap mein your strong armsand whisper promises of tomorrowthat might never happen?I would come to youa broken messand you would fix me.What happened to those days?Now I'm too brokenand every hug ends in gorefrom the fragments of my soulpuncturing your pale, delicate skinand I'm choking on the wordsyou tried shoving downmy raw, bleeding throat.The sad part isit's so easy toindulge in the wicked comfort ofthis toxic relationship.
Legacy Men Oceans are safe; she saidshe was a landbird swollen thick by sun and sand, incapableof extended flight. Tectonic blueprints running clockwork strange,our bell-shaped blue footprints curving heating through cloudcover shake.Shook fists. Strange, how the war fever rushesand yet you only remember how you felt, the melting of her wings like streams on the horizon,the grass burning up in a blast, toes clenchedbut the earth was only petrol and scraps rusted between them.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
Heaps of horsesI wish I was less desperateto be different;I wish it was more differentto be desperate.
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