If

Imagine if our fate was set 

and we had a year to live, 

Could we live in our own composed symphony, 

etch a sketch of a new perception 

and snuggle up in it?

Disengage in our reality

furling ourselves up into our own subjectivity, 

slowly slipping into the small abyss of our own ideas of intimacy

Could you pretend with me, 

Pretend that we're the only ones who know the facts of the universe:

Conspiring to conspire,

Revolt against past desires, 

Retract our instincts and in an instant

become invincible.

In a tiny shell we'll wait and decay, 

Pretending it's ok to hide away from  callings, 

getting more tangled up in the ways in which we'll sway,

Our conclusions and decisions that will make our doubt fade away;

that unsettling infinite that stops us from believing that we matter, 

just wrapped up in cotton, warping what's important, 

Trying to forget the forgotten. 

Our specialties try ring through their ears,
only to ring out tuneless spiels.
No guarantee of epitome, we all lack our own distinctions.
Distinct in the way people recognize difference.
Different in the way no one recognizes our own distinctions.

And What specialties lay waste to those untrained eyes,
the untrained eyes who gaze blankly at a blank slate,
gazing, never phazed, by what could lie in plain sight,
like gazing at a white page laced with white intricate designs;
invisible to even the most accurate eye.

What is to become of someone who stays out of the light,
who screams silence, and sings in dreams;
When all else is out of sight,
no one seeks something that no one can see.

Shocked

Wish sleep would put an end to these thoughts; such hideous revelations keep creeping up.
Not sure if I should think them through,
because every time I do the thought of you becomes less appealing;
less pure.
For six whole hours the same thought holds the foreground,
with such flabbergasted reaction has completely been shadowed,
by the potential evil thoughts of one so close that seems to have been mastered.
Such thought goes into such a flow,
repetition of words I wouldn't even think of.
The only way I can stop thinking about them is if I start writing my own,
words over and over, that never touch the surface,
of the evil, no words can describe it.
So hour after hour these words will have to surface,
because the thoughts that seem to scar right above my eyes need to be flooded.
Drowned in a sea darker than the thought is,
disbelief makes me keep repeating what I'm trying to write over...
My train of thought keeps skipping to the record that keeps repeating,
over, and over.. and over, and over...

stream

The fragments of a glitch in the system

just as the switch turns off

we start to see things,

as the lag keeps us locked up in a million moments,

surrounded by notions of colours and faces

an elaborate detailed description

of that fleeting second..

derive by and relate to everything

degrees of separation all link up

then dissipate sensationally,

split into a million circles,

that create tiny intricate patterns

that fill the pattern on your carpet

that you once again you stand on

and then you've come back to square one

a step within a step in which a step has been placed on?

It's like the egg and the chicken,

but before that there's nothing,

and nothing never means that nothing has ever presupposed something,

and to get nothing you must destroy something,

and then that's only presently non-existent

pre-existent to the future

and the things that will fill up the spaces in between it.

And whats left when you stop filling your head with everything but fear,

and the silence is just an echo of scattered thoughts that were never cleared

no closure to the exposure of experience that you've questioned

questions you're too small to even decipher,

when words float to the top of a deep ocean of thought

derived from a sense of something, yet nothing.

Just formulated noise a person taught you,

and you look to the sky and there's no language comprehensible

enough for me to understand.

So i gawk and gawk and get fat with awe,

dribbling like an idiot stuck to the ground,

where arm span mocks the petty form it's stuck on,

terrifying stars mocking the safety of a bed,

in the crevasse of the universe, hanging in mid air.

trying to think in my mind,

what it would be like, if my brain was projected into the stars,

how little it would match up.

The brain waves and thoughts crashing in my head ,

don't even register a million miles in the air.
Being so nonthreatening against the expanse,

yet seeming so unbelievably massive.

Youth's Manic Chic

To see you age; through smiles of stainless steel,
To see your salted skin begin to pale
and the glint in your eyes become vulnerable tears,
I couldn't bear it.

So I look through a tint,
at everything as if,
we were all here for solitary immortal moments
captured in ephemeral photographs,
where no blood can seep through potential cracks
like yours did.

You say these are the good days, the ones they talk about that fade,
where music blasts through our ears so loud
the echoes of silence sit in the background like reapers and wait.
And our day of death hides behind the last meander of fate
not known until the turn has been taken,
a footstep before your final feat.

So you turn up the music inside your head,
of romanticized life; full of lust and life,
and leave all the dying souls behind.
And everything dying, like you, is something to be forgotten.
They’re just inconveniences never to be wondered, or pondered.
And all the gaps you jump over, that you never look at,
have captured and ensnared you, yet I still don’t look back.
And I never think about it, the gaps I’ll eventually collapse beneath,
The gaps where you lie now, underneath youth’s manic chic.

iug

We're all alone filling the gaps of the silence.

but what's so bad about the silence?

we realize we've accomplished nothing but hopeful encounters

full of potentials and failures that shaped our lives with their reactions

to our pitiful attempts of desperation to create an appealing temptation

that would lure them into our lives so we could stop going to sleep alone

and dreaming alone because our worst fears started to show

that there's no such thing as anything and sand will never again be stone

as we look to our aged families we realize everything disintegrates

as they cling to their unrelenting routine and fading characteristics.

And what do we do when we realize that our whole life's been wasted?

cling to the knowledge that other people have illuminated

and further realize our minds have melted into a pot of a frenzy

where people buy and sell so they can feed their families

families they've created because they felt they had to

because someone might have mentioned that they should do

so we all have no time because we waste it on each other

as we convince them to buy the things we're selling so we can buy the things that they are

and we insist we play an instrument so we pick up a guitar

and pluck strings to make the hollow noises that the others do

and some realize this so they make a different noise

and then they buy your cd and copy the very same thing

so then again you're part of it, feeding into the monster of time consumption

so we've no time to feel alone, because the music talks about the things we do,

like a pat on the back that tells you someone else understands

because no one has any time, we're all too busy,

blocking out the inevitable silence we'll all fall into eventually.

lskdjf

I don't know if I'm doing right
I don't see how I'm not,
Yet there's so much emptiness beneath
the plotline life revolves.
I feel I've fastened myself to
a crowded conveyor belt line,
where every broken piece moans
about it's contiunal lack of time.
All the pices built the same
progress towards ends pit,
Amd once the end is known, the pieces recede,
into a state of passive panic.

If only they could realize, a piece is only a part.
The bigger picture expands far beyond what is seen or taught.
I've tried to come up with what it is, i'm meant to become a part of,
but all I see is people projecting what's considered normal:
Broken records playing out the repetitive stream of routine,
They all seem to get confused with how things are and how things seem
so seemingly obvious that everything is obviously completely fine,
as long as there is a coffee break,
and an uneventful nine-to-five.