A private journal to unleash the thoughts and ideas of the thoughts

There are certain symbols between numbers and letters and colors and… shapes and forms. They form the memory of you in moments when I’m present and repeating, acting out on certainty— not assumption.

Certain certainties feel very certain until all certainties become so certain I get obnoxiously overwhelmed. It’s maybe not the best and most tried and true rhetoric to follow— that everything is true and real, in some sense. Leaving it to a matter of time and space feels like I’m giving up my only power to know better than to think time or space is real in the senses I place it in when leaving it to them.

Who are they anyway?

I’ve written about time many times before. I felt time, hold me. It was a lot like the feeling of “paranoia.” The whole world held its breath and it was strange, odd, funny even now that I’m only remembering it. Because it seemed like anything could vanish. And that maybe things had. I described it as a “black hole feeling.” As if I was in a void. Everything around me that usually sounds to me grew very silent, it was eerie. Even peering down from my window from the 17th floor at the Fox Theatre in downtown Atlanta carried the same kind of unshakable stillness. The lights held onto their color but no cars whirred by. I leaned out the window just to touch the outside air, thinking I could snap out of sensing what I was. It only spooked me further to feel like not even a breath was held by any other tenants. It was all so quiet and lucid but somehow strangely transparent. Like I could fall right through the floor or even up into the heavens….

I remember holding myself and just desperately trying to soak in that feeling. I remember wondering if you had been there. Because something about it all, the tension, felt familiar. I think that’s where I landed on thinking I was encountering time. Like it was an entity that wanted to meet me but it took up so much space, everything would drain when it appeared. So it struck a balance, to both work to avoid draining me but also sustaining itself just enough to make its introduction.

As if I hadn’t known it before.

Since, I’ve gone looking for that feeling, inviting it over and into my home even when others may not be so consenting or aware of my inner intentions. I haven’t felt it, despite the invitations. I only assumed its because I hadn’t been alone. I thought maybe it took time a bit more effort to find itself with me, plus one. And maybe even, because I reacted so fearfully upon our first encounter, that it was scared to meet me again, itself. As if it had done something wrong or knew the terror I felt when my entire reality paused.

I keep hearing people on the internet and in online pre-recorded meditations instructing us to follow “pause.” Telling us that the moment between our inhale and exhale is something to recognize and draw our attention to. Acting as if that pause even exists and isn’t just a change in motion.

Movement is funny isn’t it? Perspective. Ultimalty it’s all the same. I like to envision when I exhale I’m actually inhaling and vice versa. I simply understand it as gratitude. Knowing the external reality were taught is separate from us is actually more of myself than the body I operate. Remembering the way the dominoes or the wings of a butterfly fold, all reminds me that all the intention I muster in the world is only a ripping of it from another. We simply can’t and won’t win. Because there’s no game, no life, no anything when it’s all actually accounted for.

Anyways, this is all just a rambling to avoid saying that despite my non-verbal requests for these symbols to move back into my subconscious layers, they haven’t. But, I’m happy to report that they are and have been receiving interference. As all things can take on many purposes and meanings, they find their way to developing new ways to relate to me and I’m quite proud of both myself and these specific signals, and their many shapes and forms, for this mattering. It feels like relief at time and yes, deep deep pain before then. But the pain is getting easier to predict. Easier to pass as… just life. Nothing truly strange. At least, not to me in this form I take. And I’m staying here for certain.

I guess I just hope you’re doing well or at least, doing something in your mind. I haven’t let go of my trust in it, in you. I don’t know that I will only because it doesn’t seem to be something sustainable for me on either extremes around this. I’m only hoping you continue to consider me obsessed and never see what I do. More power to me on this planet and as this form, as I guess. It sure would be nice to share it all very openly with someone who truly understands my beginnings with it all. As it is, I tend to believe you might’ve and are me. Folded a bit closer in symbol than most. Delicately placed and still not erased despite my wonderment and wandering and truly lived experiences where I could’ve sworn— even if it was just for a few minutes, that you were never real, you were a time traveler, or something mystical. I’ve settled on myself projecting but I’m sorry to admit that the idea that I hallucinate feels very far off from any kind of reality I’d like to genuinely be apart of to the point of materializing in this equisit kind of consciousness or whatever one would need to say or not say to be me, explicitly, on this timeline with all others I perceive here.

The disassociation is terrifying.

I would love to trust someone as much as I trust myself.

I’m sorry I’m sorry I won’t send this to you directly, I promise

I’m sorry again for reaching out. This morning after experiencing a “ptsd” moment aka a basic memory of trauma, I realized I’ve been “obsessing” over you and wanting to know more about you because I have been avoiding what I truly wanted to know: why those people did what they did to me. 

Four men raped me, one girl did, too. Countless strapped me down and poked me with needles over time. Forced pills down my throat, stripped me of my clothes without my consent. They were all too scary to confront. Or really, I feared what would show of me if I confronted them. What anger I held inside that would then reveal itself.

I couldn’t settle on the idea that all men, women, people were “evil,” “vile,” and “gross.” I was and am one of them. I wanted to know what drove someone to do that to me. To do that to anyone for that matter. What’s drove me to then do this to you. To bother you, insist to you that we’ve been wronged but somewhere contained the answers as to why: I thought you might’ve had the answers. 

I’d come up with so many potentials, myself, some grounded in reality, some fluttering around it, maybe even composing it. But nothing had been or was enough. My perspective has had limits. It’s in my nature, the same humanness I questioned if others possessed in the same way as me.

I know why I chase these things, why I’ve chased you— I was looking for myself. I was testing those limits. What others saw that I just couldn’t bear. They saw I was human but not that I was alive. Living. Conscious. Questioning. 

I was of my own perspectives, not in or of there’s explicitly. But I’d try to go there, to feel what it was like to be them, to feel as them. Full of context, experiences and capable of smiles and joy. Knowledge and understanding. Intelligence and ability to create, to mean something, to actually matter in the world for good, not just bad. I didn’t want to see how I was a symbol for their oppression. How my looks and age ripped them of their worth. How even in my empathy I was invading their spaces. Acting as though I was truly understanding of what it’s like to exist in a world that rejects me. When it hadn’t. It had embraced me. 

I didn’t want to see how their overpowering of my likeness and disconnecting from my “kindness” was helping them remember their own power in a world that drained them of that energy. That capitalized off of their grief and confusion and positioned me higher than them. Because I was only a symbol of their oppressors, and they couldn’t talk to them, reach them, I was the closest thing they could hold, grab, rape, reach and teach. They could humble me, already humbled, as if those lessons would find the real villains in their lives. The celebrities. The fictional and mythical but somehow real people they met on the silver screen. They could smash me down and feel right to do so because they could reach those others. It’s exactly what I did to you, in a sense. I could poke and pride you on these confusions and get mad at you because you weren’t them, you were good to me, fair to me, kind to me. Even experienced something like I had. Been walked down those same roads in the name of “helping” us when really we were helping them get their anger and distain out. 

We should’ve never been made as channels to protect the rich and wealthy from harm at this level. But we had become this. We had deep feeling and deep sadness for what we represented but had no where to put that. We’d write poems and pass back letters as if our scrambled words could free us but failed to notice what we were doing; trapping ourselves in horizontal lines. With one flip of the parchment we could’ve seen where we were and where we were putting each other. Others. Behind bars. But it was all too much, to notice that, to take that on.

I’m sorry I’ve drained you in my own quest for fulfillment and understanding. For stealing from your own movement through my own rhetoric that I imagined I could save someone because I couldn’t save myself back then. Or anyone else. I was built to be powerless and then assumed powerful only to be ripped of that power. 

In the idea that if I could make it all make sense, that somehow the pain would’ve been worth it, it would’ve amounted to something, I prevented the very pain I felt and the pain I was handed from others…. The same pain I reached when I took their perspectives, held them in “kindness”… I never saw how twisted it had all become and how twisted it really was. I only kept thinking I was untangling the madness and would lean on the whispers of my lineage to braid and keep braiding what was tied and knotted. Praying you’d be safe, praying I’d be safe. Praying that every one and every thing could find safety once and for all. Not realizing I was and had been safe for a long time. Not realizing that those psych wards weren’t meant to harm me-/ they were meant to break what was and had been happening. In a weird way, they replayed what happened to me in a safety net. They replayed the poking and prodding from a place of love and care. They hated what I’d gone through but even more they hated that they had to put me through it again. That the system built us this way, they lost a real one to it, and had to remind me how real I was. They didn’t want to lose any more of me. They added to the story, they put themselves on the line so could hear it all. Feel it all. And I did. I have. And I carry it knowing they’re safe without this. Terror.

I’ve only ever perpetuated the pain. My silence and insistence that I needed you because you had been made into a villain and became a victim too was a reason I held for a long time just to avoid the truth. That somewhere they were right to see me that way and to take advantage of me. Somewhere they were justified to feel anger towards me because I hadn’t met the world they had encountered. I was sheltered from the blood and the gore and abuse. They pulled back my eyes. And in a big way, my liveliness rests both on the torment and the freedom I know because of the pain they brought to me. Put onto me. Reminded in me. What’s real. Loss. 

Our aliveness doesn’t come without its assumption. And my idea of being invincible was genuine existential threat to humanity and beyond. I’ve had to take the humble pie because they wouldn’t. The symbols I represent. I want to give it to them, really good. I want to give them what they took from all of us. And keep stealing. It’s not just land and labor, it’s time. Time to exist as we are in peace. In kindness. In humility. Our realness, our truths. The masking isn’t ours and never was. We have voices and stories that if heard, could change the way the whole world exists. I send them out into ether daily and imagine building an army of wordsmiths. Wielding their words and swords, speaking to their neighbors in the flesh and through the phone. 

We should’ve never been silenced. Our thoughts carry the weight that could break it all. If we, all of us, let them out. 

Undoing the Stone

(I drafted a poem called “Medusa’s Curse” a few years ago… thought if it worked, it might be good to undo it. And I’m too lazy for that so I had AI take that job from me, here it is)

I call your name from marble sleep,
Uncoil the granite from your cheek,
Let the moss breathe, leaf by leaf,
Where silence once was hard and deep.
Mortal again, your muscles hum,
The pulse returns, soft war drum.
Salt and pepper, now the dawn’s crown,
A silver prayer come trickling down.
By vine and time, by seed unspun,
I melt the myth you had become.
The statue cracks, the stone retracts,
Life walks back through its wax tracks.
Medusa’s sigh, dissolving glass—
Your eyes rewarm, the moments pass.
Beneath the curse, your echo waits;
I break the mirror. You relocate.

Voice memo: from a semi-solo camping trip

[recorded 11/18/2025, sometime between 1-3am at West Wolf in the Appalachian mountains of North Georgia. Transcribed by Meta AI, reformatted by Perplexity AI, and edited (and textually expanded in some areas) by myself]

What is there to wonder about the stars anymore? Science seems to have drained reality of its mystery, offered us answers for everything. They become habit, emptying the night sky of everything inexplicable. 

It’s hard, sometimes, to imagine what else could be possible. But here I am, in the woods, burning wood. Staring at the fire—and wondering what it must be like, to be the thing that burns. To exist in transformation, to be consumed and released in so many shapes. My mind drifts to our sun and its impossible distances, the endless ways science tries to tell us what it’s doing, why it’s here, what it’s all for.

Science gives us stories, and as poets, artists, we expand them, chase their leads…

The sun’s story is just another one to unravel, another equation solved by minds eager for answers. Science tells its stories, expanding them, mapping them neatly. Sometimes I look out and see planets chasing themselves around in cellular drama—sperm seeking egg, macrocosmic mirrors reflecting the beginnings of ourselves, our cells, invisible to the naked eye. Yet again, told and sold by science.

That’s how I feel lately… cellular, small. Invisible. Like my words don’t materialize, my face, my body barely there to those that are said to witness it.

I try to remember a time when I didn’t feel that way—a time when I actually had presence. Not just being present or “in the moment,” but actually being seen. It seems like the times I thought I was seen, it all just turned out imagined. And I remind myself: Samantha, isn’t everything imagined?

That feeling of invisibility is taught, also by science. The cult of hushing words, faces, and bodies in suspension of othered realities. Of planet, of sun, of moon, rock, and ocean. But really: of Dr. Who’s-it and That’s-what.

I came out here on a semi-impulse. Perhaps, that’s all everything ever is. A thought, an idea, played with in the mind and passed along between other minds only to find yourself exactly where you did imagine, plan, and share. As if the painting in my mind is now where I am. I rendered this place, this feeling, this experience. First as someone elses thought, my father’s who first took me camping. Now as myself, who’s thought to camp is now, in fact, just plain ole “camping.”

Enter religion, dear sciences sworn enemy and best friend. The artist that inspired them to take on their leads. To finish the story.

To say, god, the “father” made this experience I’m having now possible in my mind and reality at all. Lol. Amen.

It’s all as if to say that if there is a creator, or if I’m it or part of it—it’s possible to be inside your own work. Wondering what would it feel like, to walk the grasses I’d painted, greet the faces I’d drawn, meet those eyes as if I truly belonged where I found myself is, arguably, the experience of reality itself. On constant redo. Replay. Rewrite. As if we become so caught up in the worlds of our imaginations, our creations, that we dare to leap inside them.

These aren’t new ideas. I know I’ve seen them somewhere before (maybe in everything ever, all at once)—designers wandering into their fashions, people disappearing into films on the couch, actors becoming their parts, artist becoming their art, presidents becoming country symbols. Still, I’d like to think if that’s what’s happening, during the moments when I am entirely lost or entirely disappointed, unsure if I’m myself or others are me: why?

And sometimes the answer comes: Maybe I am the creator, aware of how much it’s created. Where it all goes and how it all moves. To be here holding it down as if it’s my job. Unpaid. Volunteering maybe. So others can get paid for thinking they’re me— it seems only fair. But also not “white” fair, very spectral in many fields and dimension of feeling, sense experincing. Yes it’s grandiose, but I’ve assured myself we all do the same. The Sam. Lol. Yes, it IS grandiose. And I imagine all of our minds can fit ourselves into both ourselves and the grandness of all others with a bit of imagination: ‘wor(l)dplay’ and sensing.

Why wouldn’t we, collectively, make something we could all step into? Isn’t it true that we have all stepped into it? By will or by force? If this is a simulation, why would I construct a reality just for watching, never for living inside? Why wouldn’t I make it so watching (say, a tv or others) was living, in and of itself? In some sense… even if just one or two (sight and hearing). And why would we want to step into something that is already perfected, wouldn’t I want to be able to enter it, keep creating, keep changing things from the inside? And it’s wild to realize I am created upon this world constantly, shaped as much as shaping. And with very little effort, at times. It’s sometimes as easy as a thought, an intention, a feeling of love and passion for creating itself. Beyond body and womb through hands, feet, the tip of my tongue, its all magic, its all alive and making. Mixing potions by just inhaling and exhaling. So simple, so pure—

Just now an airplane cuts through the quiet, and unnerves me. I admit my neck aches from looking up at the stars, but I can’t look away—there are so many tonight, more than I remember.

The first time I saw the sky crowded like this was in India, somewhere remote. I’d seen pictures of stars before, high-exposure captures in the north. But even those are not like this, as it is that these are surrounding me, not held by a 6×4 frame by a tablet (of paper or artificial light). Unless I am such a thing myself. I shrug. It’s been so, at least for me, I see how I am technology. Thoughts and experiences I won’t get into tonight, but memories I keep and stories I will one day tell, and maybe sell… once I feel safe enough to sell anything from inside me that’s so true for me. The world is getting use to insanity, and soon enough, my experiences in those realm won’t haunt myself or others. In due time…

Sometimes, it feels like the stars are multiplying—like there’s more of them now, or maybe it’s just the way the sky is tonight. Maybe it’s the stories people tell: the stars are supposed to be especially bright right now. Something about electromagnetic whatnot and solar flare. I wonder if our atmosphere, if global warming, has shifted something, peeled back a layer that used to soften them—like the Earth is opening its eyes, conscious for the first time in a long time. People opening their minds as a result.

I dream, very often, so often I don’t know that sleep is what it seems. And in these dreams, in which I’m very much awake and have been, anything goes as I suggest it might. I only speak this to some, those that believe me. Because at first I was convinced my dreams in our reality weren’t real at all, then I realized, I was dreaming while awake. And then I noticed, anyone could believe me, if they woke up from the dream of themselves being awake to start… anyways. Some are harder to wake up from being awake than others. Some like to rest while awake in their wakefulness. I see them like snoozing teenagers on a Saturday. I guess you don’t have a responsibility to be here, not fully, so sleep in young one. You’ll know your time when your body and mind are one again and we’ll be here when you see they’re all dependent and so are you. Anyways…

My messages to others are always likey a message to myself. As my body has been clawing for more than what my mind prioritizes: things outside myself. I and we are constantly echoing what happens to us inwardly. And those outward influences are sometimes just the internet glowing—rarely the living pulse of people reminding us of the living pulse within.

This sadness, this sense of living inside a bubble, returns. We all are here, stuck in these fractal enclosures. Sometimes I want to escape my bubble, or inhabit another—like my partners, whose own walls feel impenetrable because I hold too much fear to walk through the door. I wonder what he’s so afraid of, when invited into mine? My bubble wouldn’t change anyone’s nature, just let them open in their closure—but I guess that’s change, too. The same change I picture stepping into his world, it feels like being asked to shrink, to close down and off. To change and exchange the openness in the closure to closing for an opening. Does this make sense?

I can see why he might struggle to imagine what I ask of him by coming inside (pun not intended). It’s asking for change— an opening for a closure. An end to understanding an embrace of something else. An exchange. And we try to meet half-way. But in a big way, might always be halfway. The point moves as we move between distance and proximity.

And, I’m told, the only way to truly be halfway is to be one. And this is likely why marriage and other ritual exists. But we’ve made our own versions of such commitment, and maybe we’re bestowed those rights and passages long before we came to know both our own names and each others. And that, arguably is the strangest feeling of them all— there’s a sense of duty and responsibility we hold quietly between eachother. And it’s upsetting at times to feel both in control, of volition, and free willing, and convinced, forced, and under control. We play into it and get mad at eachother at times for not knowing how or when or even why we do. But the answer is always simpler than it fist appears: life.

Life makes everyone feel so small and so big, so wavey through it all. It’s not a circle. It’s most certainly a wave. The circle exists in perspective and waving the wave multi-laterally… anyways. I wonder if I’ll ever feel big in the human realm… important. Maybe, if I stick to what matters, is important to me, what materializes—

Where’s my cat? He’s so still I worry he’s disappeared. The fire’s burning low—it’s not keeping me warm, not really. Maybe it is, and I just can’t notice it under these covers. Maybe I should eat.

Is it insomnia or am I dying still?

The ship cut through melted glass but he felt still. His body clung to the grandeur of its force, allowing his immortality to hold onto nearby memories of shorelines and future promises of a sanded beach lined by palm trees and the usual Mexican abode.

And what was she to do?

The sky in his view reminded her that we’re all, in a sense, underwater. And with him as a Pisces prince, she could assume herself a mermaid… but what good would that do? The earth was doomed to evaporate in her clouds. The atmosphere would undoubtedly starve not just the fish but the drain her own body of its source— in due time. A time so far due that it’d likely never meet her. She’d sooner age her meat to her death…

It’s all neither here or there. Because it happens to be both. The riddles never seem to end, she’s only learned to tune them out. In those moments she find herself humming to help others tune them in for themselves.

What a relief it is to know you know.

She settled on this fact long ago, and suspect we hold it and maybe even hide in from one another. A silly game but what else can life be made of if not for a little light?

There she is again.

Anyways. The fact solidifies now— the “knowing”—- after releasing how silly it is to admit that someone doesn’t know. As it sounds like someone could say they aren’t “no-ing”. She prefers to retain her ability to say to no. And yes. Her overall ability to choose. In any realm of space and time.

As it is, as it were, as its soon to become; she’s chosen to stay here. Even if she knows. And everyone says they don’t like a “know it all.” But it’s not that she’s claim to “know all” she’s claiming its lame to add and fluff things up on top of basic principles of existence to make it look like it’s something more or less than it already is. It’s all just “new” ways of saying/doing/sensing what’s already been understood. But alas… she feels this way because she wishes it were her on that ship. Drinking the air from the vast sea, collecting the stars from the sky in her eyes and moving the blues back into the yellows to make greens… Brown is just yellow I guess. Brown is just red, too sometimes. I’m not sure that brown exists any more than blue itself…

We digress.

Her mind wanders with the assumptions placed on her that her lack of recent experiences is her fault. She’s too rigid, apparently, in her comprehension surrounding her abilities. When, in fact, shed argue that she’s the opposite: too free in her comprehension surrounding her abilities. Such freedom allows her to take flight on any given moment, skewing her timelines in favor of feelings that sweep her off her feet. Inspiration sparking.

They like to put out the light— the ‘others.’ So her singular life’s patterning screams. So, simply, she must honor the calls to go here or there, this way and that. And pray that she’s right to trust herself despite what those ‘others’ suggest. She’s made too many mistakes trusting their wisdom over her own. And when it comes to this, she’s certain. And truly only moving with the clock. She can hear her voices rising in the mouths of others and can hear them about to make the mistakes she’s promised herself she won’t. It’s only a matter of their time. Not hers. Not hers, explicitly and specifically. She won’t find herself where they’ve walked her before: psych wards, jail cells, locked in a room run by someone elses sense of time and importance. Eventually anyways, she’ll know when she’s free because she would’ve shown her reality she’s ready when it is. And tomorrow is that day.

Maybe.

Opportunities may come and go as she waits with the same clock we all cling to. Not the one on the nightstand or the one in the sky but the one in our bodies and minds. The one that tells her, “my dear, why don’t you write down your thoughts if you have so many?”

To which she replies, “ah yes, I may as well…”

And even with the lights off and everything calling her to walk into her rest, she has a hard time taking it. For there’s one deadly sin that was so deadly— they never wrote it down. And it goes like this…

“8. Thou shall not live forever.”

Infinity is what we are always in when you break the word down. In finity. In finitude. It’s okay to be here but in being here you can be so aware that you’re here that you don’t want to miss a single beat. And she could just toss out the idea of others and think not of any harm she could cause even onto her own body (that she was taught to other). But where does that lead anyone but her?

As it turns out, whether the reader wants to believe it or not, it turns out that it leads to the audience getting to suck her of her blood and vitality. It drains her of herself. And not in the way where she’s consenting— gifting herself and sharing herself with those who won’t hurt her or harm her. But it turns out they do, and rip her of her ideas, flame, and light. The only who’s ever been able to fire it again has lost her own. So her fuel is no longer dependent on brightness and warmth but a buzzing sound found between the cracks of other ambiance in the dark. Something she can’t quite pin down but notably admits she’s grateful to count on it. For without it, the words wouldn’t chime in and up, the endless bantering wouldn’t occur, and the cause to solve in the name of peace would never arise.

The inspiration is so self-fueled she has to convince herself she needs others and remind herself of how the very words that erupt between her two ears are the very ones she wasn’t born with in her mouth. She learnt these things. These spellings. And sometimes, for the sake of chaos, she won’t string them along like she was taught. Just to prove that it’s all puff. All of the jargon is just a sales pitch. We’re all out here trying to sell to one another what we sense of the world. Hoping to make some actual cents in the process…

And when she’s not too keen on the idea of selling herself or others… yeah it can be a bit challenging to see a way for her to find herself surrounded by tides and deep water mysteries. But in a weird way, she can’t help but notice that she may be more inspired by the thought than the experience. Like everyone else is and fails to remember.

The very things we aim to sell to validate our experiences of reality tend to be the very things we all build our dreams on between one another. No future concept is real without some conglomeration of experiences being shared and blended together. Like the yellows and the blues popping out green.

It’s cool to come up with what seems like something new but are we sure it all ever is? She’s got ideas running rapid and at some point she asked if she could share them with someone who could afford to bring them to life. For its not just money that helps but time. And she’s too busy using hers up writing down her aimless, cyclical, cynical thoughts simply because she didn’t feel those waves. She only experienced them byproxy

And she’s been cruising on waves of her own, as a result, all night…

Earlier in the day, when he spoke of the felt senses of actually experiencing the ocean meeting the skies, he also spoke to the feeling of the depth beneath his feet. The thought that ocean floor couldn’t be felt for miles within the waters. I giggled to think of how curious it was to imagine the Greeks speaking of gods in clouds floating about land when really, they could’ve been giving us a metaphor for that very feeling of a boat on water. I don’t know much about Greek myth but I’m guessing the power dynamics between mortals and immortals could be understood as fish and men. It’s not weird, its just life. Endlessly retelling the same stories with new characters and scenes, hoping to confuse the audience long enough, to entertain them, empower them, and even control them— at least till their death.

Once upon a time, maybe a decade or more ago, she was standing around other loiterers dragging in cigarettes and had a strange feeling that everyone around her would die but she would stay kicking. Thank god people are also born so this couldn’t happen. She’d undoubtedly remember her own infancy and bring about her own death one way or another for it. But still, it was a real thought that felt possible. As if there could be nothing in her sensed reality that could shake her away from her consciousness and liveliness. So long as she remembered she was alive an well, no ones opinion or proof of otherwise could materialize in her eyes.

She wonders now if this is why Alzheimer’s is a thing. Maybe to the outside looking in people are going mad. But maybe to the person experiencing their own life, feeling the inside of their body, they’re perfectly sane and exactly where they want to be.

Anyways, she and his spoke about the sameness in it all. Speaking of cups filled with water and the idea that it’s all a matter of perspective. Are we sure it’s water if it’s solid? Are we sure it’s liquid if it’s gas? The water amount itself could be the same but it’s presentation could shift the way we talk about it likely because we experience it differently. Tempture is all over literature and art and science and philosophy here. We’ve noticed to some degree we shouldn’t try to control it and yet here the worlds so called ‘elite’ think they can.

The grand canyon once held a great deal of water. Many canyons form from farming malpractice. Extortion. I don’t think extorting things such as the suns rays is the best idea to cool down the planet. We would all be better off simply acknowledging that the water will rise and other lands on the north will free up for inhabitation. Does this mean Canada and Russia will have a great deal of power of people should need to migrate? Possibly. Does this mean they will have to decide what their responsibility to humanity is? Maybe. But it could also be the case that there are other ways to shelter and feed peoples in areas that are in fact doomed to meet the ocean. And the reality too is that those same lands will eventually be habitable again. Again, perspective here— but in the lens of time.

Anyways I can sound kooky but it’s just science. What can sound even kookier is my idea that our humanness is not even earthly. I have imagined that we have been planet-hopping for ages. This so-called ‘goldilocks’ zone is not specific to the earth but to our sun and it’s gravitational pulls. It’s claimed we have t found life on other planets but that some seem that they can hold it based on certain metrics. And those metrics typically have to do with the sun and exposure. But the specific zone-relation to our sun and affects of our singular moon seem to be vital. And I like to imagine that all this talk of mars has happened before. And the moon we have today is actually just trash composted from the Venus of yesterday.

As I like to see it, the planets in our solar system maybe tell a story not of individual planets but life phases of planets themselves. As if to say they’re a symbolic metaphor for how we, ourselves as humans, experience life itself. In stages. It’s how we order things. But where do we think we get that order?

Anyways, another way to look at it as someone who can’t tell for certain if planets even exist for not having been on one or even seen one myself (and tending to be skeptical of spectacles and generally glass and ‘sands’ of time warping my vision), it could also be said that none of it is real at all. It’s all simply imagined and share in the imaginations of a select few who have both access to such technologies and depend on them for truths in themselves for whatever reason. Now, I don’t like to dismiss beings such as sand and metals and whatever else throughout space and time could have contributed to the construction of such technologies. But again, it’s a theory that if a collection of beings and things could decide on a truth to be certain, its not up to me to believe them and validate their certainty. Especially when I myself and very seldom validated by others in my experinece with this reality I’m taught to share. As I see it, if we ought to share than I can’t see why my ideas can’t render without money and other means. I can’t see why I can’t simply beleive in them and know they will benefit many (if not all) and let that be enough.

Now I know, I have experienced it being the case that I have ideas and they mirror me in my reality. I’m okay with this but to be honest it oftentimes leaves me feeling purposeless and back at the drawing board. Then I start to get the feeling that I’m creating reality and not allowed to participate in it because I’m being used up for drumming up ideas and not wanted to actually help put them down, physically and in some sense of collaboration with other humans. It’s all rather frustrating at times but I keep saying so long as my quality of life sustains itself and betters, I can be okay with this. It’s like an iv drop, slowly making this experience okay.

Earlier I heard a story about a woman shared about becoming a sex worker to get money and travel. I think the rigidness people speak on me about is regarding that… I’m not interested in selling my appearance to people. I’m not a psychic communicating to people of a ghost… in a real life human with blood and guts. And as someone who doesn’t eat others with blood and guts, myself, I’m not interested in buying others with blood and guts or selling others with blood and guts. I’d truly rather just use other by-products like art and lingo. I’m getting to it. Anyways I really should sleep but I’m happy these thoughts are out I guess. I’ve held onto them all for too long. Just afraid of being deemed as nuts again. I’d like to notice how safe I am now. I can thank both myself and others for that.. But in all honesty, we never needed to be so unsafe to begin with. We’ve only ever had to be respectful of others bodies and singularity this whole time…

Journal

To my future self, I leave you all of these words stretched between url links and feathered across pixels published and some left to the real ether… past and present always merge for you, for its all there really is. Presense is what they use to write, humans before you and I, that is. Why they went with presence and presense is probably just because they thought they knew better of something from the pasts they understood. It’s strange now to think how we hold it all and keep all of what was riddled in museums and Wikipedia pages… its all always open for interpretation, and as a secret and defiant artist, I do interpret them. We all do. For whatever it is we need from our experience of the world in a moment. And I’m sorry, Samantha, for keeping all of these works locked up as if you’re a museum. I’ve been afraid of the interpretation, ironically. Afraid of being misunderstood as if that’s not the very ground we all stand on speaking through us all— reminding us not to fall. Or asking us to please stand up and get off of it. I’m sorry, dear ground, for needing you, walking all over you, and noticing how badly it must hurt to not be appreciated for simply existing. For not being enough to a girl who resonates with the birds and the sky… may we meet again after some rest and let ourselves start over. Let those bygones be gone. Let the memory of the erasure we both caused and perpetuated between us, on us, with us, begin to create a new world, a stronger bond and relationship that doesn’t need to doubt or worry or even question at all. That stands or walks and runs and jumps in knowing. Holding me, holding you.

Automatic stop

The stories in science books and rhythms kept by warm palms against stretched and dried skin ripped from its bone and blood, the poor cow is the only one that could’ve known her and where she put our thoughts that keep our hearts beating… lungs breathing.

Pages

They were stuck, the only ones that were stuck together. And for ages, no one noticed.. The pulp was too thick. And when they finally did peel back the layers…. Those two pages were the only ones they could live their lives by. Every word read forward and back, up and down, left to right, top to bottom… until they realized.. Every letter on those two pages was enough to form the entire book and every other book, scroll, tablet, cavern wall, and napkin love note.. There was both everything beyond them and everything within them. And the world could finally rest. It didn’t need to fight with words henceforth.

Jupiter’s Robe

It’s funny how the mind dips and slips
Into something soft,
Silky.
She likes the way warm milk sheets the tongue.
It’s a subtle coat of “yum,”
One that reminds you of your mum;
The faint memory of being young.

What was I then that I am now not?

I press images of the eclipsed,
Marbled burnt siennas,
Layered amongst rusted reds,
And frosted in a dim eerie glow.
The idea that a speck of light
Nearly drown in a mystic night
Could be something more
Than what my eyes know.

From my reality,
My perspective
Is
Limited.

Drained of expierneces
That number my potential
To know anything is certain.

It’s a comfortable “wow,”
The imagination.

Clusters of assumptions
Form a semblance of memory,
A semblance of security
That the reality I see
Is something I don’t have to question—
Because its been questioned already.
And discovered already.

So I sprawl back and drape my longing in linen
Darned by yet another unknowable force.

A webs unwoven
To threads composed in
And out of themselves.
The hands collect sheets,
Sewn for a need
To get by,
To live,
To survive.

My mind relaxes,
Knowing what it does not.

Ignorance isn’t bliss
It’s something that is taught.

Medusa’s curse

I said your salt and pepper’s showing
Growing on your tree top
Like the broccoli I see
You see, we all wait for Christ-y
By the name of those leafy greens
By the taste of a foreign tongue
Dribble some
Pay up sum
Want some
Bubble gum
Pop it like it’s cherry red
Read me, see me, she’s already dead
Like that ancient Greek mythology
You cling to
Klingons of a past future-world
For you to lust on, linger on
Put a finger up or on
You already know her name
But the vowels move slowly
Under a godless serenade
Placing emphasis on nemesis
Pacing like your heroes do
Marbled philosophers
Frozen like the statue
I turned you into

Untitled

You thought you’d capture me in crimson beads
Eyes of the terrified Mickey mouse gone rogue
Albino baby cuffed and declawed
For him to tame and research upon
Did she turn on?
Did monkey see?
Did monkey do?
Who me? Do you?
The poor monkey knows not why he is
Brain strapped and fried to a crisp
Bacon distortion, contorted
I flip
This station, position, twist
The narrative on you, quick
Just you can see that, yea
All men
All men are buried in misogyny
Guising ass hole fetishes in homophobic nuances
It’s a fucking power struggle, on/off switch,
disconnected from any light source
And I fail to see how you’re equal to me
I fail to see how men earned their place
Above both the chicken and the egg
My friend
My friends
He eats me
Meat, he needs me
Feed, he treats me
Like a lunch, rushed
Like a product to test run
Something to launch
Like a toy, his Tesla
And this testing, testing, one two three
Phases me in moons kissed by the suns static
I get it, I hear it, I feel it, and I hate it
Subtle and tragic, our system is skrewed
And men like it that way
Fucked
Bent over
Just to show her
Where her place is
Down, disgraced, spit in her face
With your rocket ship waxed in epidermis
Knees in the dirt, she has no home
It’s always been stolen
Or bartered against her worth
And the message is clear
It can’t be rewritten
It’s subliminal, it’s sound, and symbol
It’s our history
I’m just a animal to you
So experiment and indent some amoral intent
As if your a good man, a stand up guy
As if you’re trying or tried
But you you can’t help to assume
I need to be rescued
Trained as a pet
When it was men who made me needing of saving to start
Or at least, of believing I couldn’t bare to fight for myself
And while my tongues dried up with his eyes on my throat
Wanting consent to choke, another girl bred
Into submission, unable to speak
I show you my evil eyes, bending your will to me
A woman’s strength is her anima
A woman’s strength is her humanity
A woman’s power is in embodying his God

Patch

⁃ Bulls attempted escape (may they succeed, dear God)

-⁃ He did not want to hurt anyone, he just didn’t want to get hurt anymore

Early mourning prophecy

You can’t begin to understand
Though you’ll think you can

How a feeling being breathes
Its weakness at your knees
It’s throbbing underneath your chest
Between your thighs
You see her eyes
You see her glow
Power of a thousand swords
One by one they lace at your neck
Can you breathe yet?
Ask and you shall receive
A grace
With faith
Now bend those knees
See her, feel her
Eyes on fire
Know her worth
Doubt yours
Ask for forgiveness
BEG
Ask
But you can’t recieve
For she has already
Made her leave.

have you studied a memory?

close in on a memory
microscopic visions
here I find what is
and what was
between the blurry
and the fuzz,
there’s a hum

close in on a memory
blacken the world that surrounds me
with one eye open, the truth is mine
its focused, but somehow blurry
a fuzz
begs me
to deepen

to reflect

to project

every aspect

of what I thought it was
what it now only is
as my memory
microscopic illusions
transfixed on time
as if I know what it is
as if I have any more proof
than what I take in
through this lens

I thought I saw you there
clearer, closer,
I thought I knew you
I thought I could understand
something beyond my sight
something I couldn’t imagine
without zooming in
with such force
such curiosity
I was enamored by a life
I could never truly comprehend
my memory didn’t fail me
I am only different from it
I am only distant from it
Different from
and distant from

you.

An abstract painting
rejected by the Met
You could always hold your own
but I wanted you to need me
to see you
to understand
You deserved better.
If only I could see you clearer

Wait, go back!
This memory is faltered
all memories are
but light bending
a refraction
a distraction
Through a magnifying glass
I could see you
but only if I looked past

myself.

Enamored or entertained
by the thoughts of you
or I and you and I.
I missed myself,
a pupil dilated
consuming itself
in its reflection
I didn’t realize who you were to me
was a deflection of what I was to myself
But I needed to look
I needed to go deeper
I needed to hear the stories I told myself
of you, as I was always what you were to me.

How I manifest him/her/they/them/I/eye

Lyrics haunt the coast of Arambol
in a dense whisper of fog
arising from the ocean
or
falling into it
a delicate dance
of inevitable chance
to the water particles at play.
but to me, it is in
and of itself, a wave;
a dissonance, a rebellion
between what is
and what could be

hope moves like a palindrome
an experimental note
sang in the spring
of love, evolution,
or the evolution of love.
oracle fates twist
by stanza
standing for
and honoring
a variable you.
Casting out a feeling
but not a who.

my minds condition
was bent by conditioning
possibilities were numbered
trapped in the dark
pressed like stars
I would trace my finger across the fabric
not knowing what I could not see
in the space between.

Captured in nylon strings
I tied willingly at my neck
mark my decision to progress
along the chords that connect
idea to ideology.
To lure oneself
into the haunt
of siren cries
is to entrap them by the drum
of their own ears.
A pulse, a steady beat,
that is where the sand met my feet.
Waltzing along the shores
imagining oblivion exists
where sky meets the sea.
I harbored a novel reality
where waves could not meet me
without echoing a sentiment
of my apparition.

Introspective realism

Lost in my reflection within a quarter
Waiting for your turn, turn over
To face me or find myself
Stuck in a mirage again.
Flying like you told me to,
Like an eagle, “e pluribus unum”
If I’m a realist than
I’m a pretty fucked up one

So I’ve multiplied my personalities;
Sick in the mind
And sick of profile versions,
Silhouette renditions.
I parade symbolic leisure
As if that provides clarity
But all I know is that I am
Some sort of pathetic charity,
A mad woman hunting out shame
A seerer who lacks anywhere to place
Her daisy-head ditzy daydreams
Hog washed and fried on this silverscreen
This self projection and reflection
Of time ticking and worth wincing
At the thought— no, reality
That I’m sinking again.
That I do this to myself
And I’m spiraling again.

I’m tired of my mouth that can’t speak what I think
I’m tired of eyes that are heavy in blue light
I want to see the day and act as if I’m normal
I want to know a routine, a mind wiped clean
Of all imagination
Imagine, if I could look out into the world and never see you
In trees and clouds and flickering lamps or dancing doves and grasshopers
Imagine, to only see things as they are, lost of meaning or possibility
Oh, to strip the mind from the self and “me”!

My abitions get in my way
They call it ‘intuition’
But the mind needs things to roar it to life
Otherwise it cries inside like a infinite storm;
It has to know bright.
But bright isn’t right,
Nor is it true.
Yet my brain keeps pulling me back to you
Like an obsessed psychopath and I’m fucking furious,
I know what I am and know what I’m not,
And if I have to keep redirecting my primitive-self
From getting caught
In some love nest/love fest
Make believe nonsense
Of you then I’ll do
What I have to do

Holding up a mirror
Reminds me that I rip myself apart
I have no faith in myself or my art
I think I’m stupid and I think you thought that of me
So when I reflect who you are in my mind I see
A girl who’s trying to love herself even though she thinks
She’s foolish and small and nothing at all
And the irony is that being hung up on you
Doesn’t make this less true
So now I’m learning to pull
Lessons out of thought of you
And finding it hard to treat myself kindly
As I accept that in order to put this behind me
I have to be honest and listen to that ‘intuition’
With a sense of introspective realism.
I have to pull on that metaphorical ‘string’
And find my way back to that ‘me’.

Beatnik butcher (thoughts streaming from a memory)

Sitting on the edge of a cliff
Noting nothing other than the space
Of your words
Feeling like I only wanted to exist
Somewhere
Out there
That in-between
Caught in what you said
And what you mean

What I thought
What I perceived

Your stoic stasis offered no mercy
And the cliff fell into a curb
As it were
As it was
I was there only because
I had no where else to be
That was you to me
And me to you, it seems

So there, we were resting on the curb
Outside a seven eleven
I convinced myself you were occupying space
Nothing more
Just time
As you had said before,
Go with Time, “hand in hand”

It only took me seven years to understand
That clocks have three hands and
You never meant to imply yours

You were just a poet
A beatnik butcher
Mincing up words
Carving out hearts
Holding them up by the threads of great penmanship
“A lost artform” you’d say
But it can’t be lost if found in your grip

You never held me, up or in any way
´Lost’ is polite way to say I bled out hubris
Spelling out ‘special’ in post-script
Reading a subtext that was mangled
Not by your cord, but by mine
If only I could loosen the ties
That strangled my mind
I was ignorant to my own intelligence
Captured by a need to be WITH
Not by myself, as I was
And I identified with you
So I suffered in supposition
As you kept at acquisition
Carving tender daydreams with every proposition
Sending letters in a tone of ambition
Signed to my guts while you couldn’t face yours in earnest
See the mess you made of this?
The blood stains ricocheting from your torso
Guised in synthetic masculinity
Disgusted so inherently in me
And my feminity

Poor, feeble, stupid girl
So easy to manipulate
So easy to metaphorically castrate
Born without balls and brains
She– I–

I KNOW!!!

I know what society made of me
I feel the weakness in my knees
My less-than-ness has not left me a muse
But as a play thing, for your aMUSEment
And I know you’d argue this isn’t the case
And I’m certain you never did see
The monster you’ve been as all other men
Despite your intentions to be other than
But I read the symbolism of your actions
They’re written like hieroglyphics
Man sits erect on some thrown
Woman shows up only when she’s summond
To resemble the narrative of your fancy
But is never given a chance to even believe
In the innate nature of her own majesty

In front of that seven eleven I saw myself in you
Locked in your eyes, your face literally turned into mine
I thought I was hallucinating as us all crazy girls do
I remember your deep purple bucket hat reminded me
Of one I wore when I was younger
Before I knew of men and the context of ‘her’
The next day you sent a letter by mail
Typewritten nonsense with a doodle on the back
Two faces lay over, one upon the other
One teal and the other marigold
I saw myself in you and I know you did to
And yet what we saw was not an equal recognition
You were what I wanted to be
As an aspiration of if ever thinking
I couldn’t, I could watch you ‘can’
And I was what you wanted for yourself
Just a thing on the shelf
Someone to read poetry to
So you’d feel a little less alone

At a distance you would keep me for years
I had moved states away to escape the madness
I felt stagnant inside me
I partially blamed this on my fondness for you
I was becoming obsessed and you could careless
I tried to be unattached while praising your work
Steadily collecting tears
At the end of every hurricane season
Every moment I thought we’d never meet again, fate had her way
I thought it all meant something and maybe you felt the same
And for moment you did
Until you didn’t
Thereafter, anytime I wondered if I’d see you again, fate wouldn’t have it

Now everytime I step up to a seven eleven
I imagine the girl I was
The one caught up patriarchal lies
Mystified by your haloed eyes
And I no longer care to ask why

It took some time, as it were,
To reach for my own hand
But as I held myself in mine
I began a dialect
Of meaning, of grace, of feeling
Removed from who you could even be
To me, to here, to anywhere let alone
To yourself
And as it were, you seem happier now
At least in my mind, your capable of being enough for yourself
And can’t see why I should need any different
I am woman, I am worth, I am as self-sufficient

Beautiful things (on order, identity, and others)

The balance of beautiful things
Is riddled by our knowledge
Beyond
What they are
To him, to her
We find it this way and that
Or some other thing
A mooshing
Of something
In attempt to confuse the order given
From our ancestors, or more accurately,
Our “founding fathers”
And it’s not that I’m angry
As in some sense I understand
This existence is chaotic
And scary
When you think about it
So we balance the beautiful things
So we can identify the muck
To this, is as such, and
That is another
To feel identity
Describe worth
Make something of this everything
And when discussing the beautiful things
It tends to be sided on what you are
As already, you’ve been decided for
So whatever this is, is not really you
And in trying to uncover what that may be
You find yourself in absolutely nothing
For you never were not, could be,
Whatever you think you may be or not be
In fact, you’re only organized
You’re simply an organism
You may pick and choose from the boxes
The orderly states of things
You may say this is you and that is not
But as you sort through the sorted through and sorted out box
You have to remember that even as you describe you
You will be described upon
And while your new order feels right to you
It’s just as it is, to others it’s not
So you can be you but you will never quite be the you you see
Unless the order of things is taken into account of how you order your things
So in essence, you must conform to the order to even exist as a semblance of you
Or you must somehow impose your order on the few
Who hold a organization of similar orders as you
But in regard to beautiful things
You find there never was
And you will search for belonging
Only because
You so desperately want to be a beautiful thing
At least in the eyes of one
As even in your own
Because you already know
No beautiful things is beautiful
Without an imposition of order
Beyond your own definition

Reflection

I take deep breath in
Poised for the moments hereafter
And out
There’s a monstera leaf resting on my ear
As I face the complex of apartments that mirror
Where I sit, where some other could stand
And some others sleep
I couldn’t bare it
Not at the moment

Yesterday I thought it may be fun to pull on a memory
For the same of poetry
A desire to unload myself
Not to myself
But to the world around me

WordPress isn’t place, but poetry is a roaring format in St Pete
Pulling myself up in front of strangers
Seems to be something I’m chasing
“Please, judge me
“For if you don’t, I’m only left to judge myself.”

I didn’t know that a single memory would spin out a devastation
Holding myself up in my room
Working to escape my past
Emotions, everything
Through clever daydreams
Trying to overwrite myself
As if those memories didn’t make me who I was
Who I am
So I breathe in
Breathe out
Let’s try again

Slow burn

I like a slow burn
Like the way butter melts on day old pancakes
Cluttered in the sink
Too much batter
Fried and flipped
Pages ripped
Burried in cliffs
Landfilled up
With maple syrup
Lining the bellies
Of the full grown
Beasts at some ihop
Chicago, late 1800s
Hurling up words
As swords
For anarchy
For revolution
Where socialists forked down thoughts
Blistering in ought ought ought to
Can do
Won’t follow through
I like a slow burn
Like the revolution of America
She feels her ink well dry up
Aquaphors collecting dust
From canyons a mile away
Make another grand one I say
Let her tooth decay
I like a slow burn
A churn
What makes liquid freeze
Is not motion
Is not decision
It’s a letting of nature do as she please
I think we ought to let this burn slow
Thistles rise from the root rot
Pluck a cherry and put it on top
Let whip cream fold under
Like every pretty lady with her hands on her lap
Let it lap
Let it spin
Let the ease of time win

Chicken coop

Check one two
Leave it on the table
One hour later
One year later
Let’s wait a decade
And see “Saw
You in a dream last night”
Up down up down
Look left look right
Cross the road
And hope your so lucky
As an unfortunate chicken
Caught between stretches of pasture
And played out lines of cinnamon
Stuck between hot buns
Punch lines are too long
Tap your feet
There’s no drum pedal under it
So stand up
Comedy or tragedy?
America knows no differnce
Still waiting
For nothing to hit me
Upside the head or
Up down up down
I guess I’m more chicken than I thought
Can’t make it across the road
If your too busy squaring around blocks of cemented
Sand drizzling in a lubricated bath
Along glass pipes leading to nowhere
Indefinite, most definitely
Or rather maybe encased and laced
In dubious self chatter
Like writers crumbled by limits of their own experience
Blocks and blocks, I said
I’m still squaring
“Hey! Once your done pacing through only what you know…
“You should try opening up to someone
Every once and a while!”
But where did that lead the chicken?
In or to the coop?
In and out of the loop
Swirling in goop
Of noodling soup
For a flip flop floop
Of self or other discovery
And how does that lead one to truth?
I have a hunch
That what you’ve had brunch
Is not a roll of dough
Iced in swirly highs and lows
But someone that you know
Fried and served on a checker
Of buttery crust (or lust)
Otherwise known as
Signed sealed and delivered
Yours sincerly
Miss chicken
Xoxo
P.S. still waffling

I’m told I’m too cynical

So I assume
Some dakness
Has consumed
Your ego

Ergo

You waft for
Laghter yet for
Whom I can’t presume
If for I, I can’t say why
When seldom do I know
I’m telling a joke.

Re: your tattoos

I admire with much fondness this ability of yours
To sample your identity into layers of epidermis
Like I staple stacks of Wittgensteins notes in an order that I prefer
Thoughts in array
Compounding ideas
To shuffle an inquiry…
It’s all a matter of logical possibilities

So onto you,
You and your permanent smudgings
Carrying ink like the blood that rises
Veins like the interstate
Passing over boney cartilage
Transporting some inner state
Or ‘being of’
Of material
Of physical
Of empirical
Worth or value or sentiment
— Just sentient
Past meaning
Without it even
But you—
You propose that there’s more
Symbolisms stretching in flexion
Begging onlookers for some reflection
In what way are you ‘you’ without what you say or resemble in which you are?
That’s what I want to know
Because I suspect
That concept you keep
Tied to your sleeves
Limits your possibilities

Like shuffling inquiry to redefine meaning
Of thoughts circling without a true purpose

You, dear sir, you
Have decided what it is that you are or
Must be but surely there could be more
Or maybe this is why I’m fascinated by your artform
It’s not in the symbolism that you keep
But in the decision you’ve clearly, with most certainty, have made

Mystery mist misery

We would foxtrot in unison
Adjacently seperated
My eyes at my feet
Yours, I couldn’t say what they saw
But for the months we played indifferent
Or equal or understood or simply
Kept a respectable distance
I can say
That I’m unsure of how we made it so long

I remember the morning, the sun felt shy
You paused for a moment, in my eyes
A millisecond shattered the space prided between us
Unraveling in retrograde, calling on Noah and his arc
To make something of this flood
Emotions, passion, tension
So thick you could only cut it with a diamond
If you tried

But we won’t bother trying
The limited oxygen chokes us
But what better feeling than to remember you’re dying?
Why dry up moistened air and parch it from mystery?
Is anything more intoxicating than being submerged in possibility?
Blinded by the mist all we feel is a force
An attraction to ‘want to but don’t’ collide
So we pass by if only if to feel the weight of our silence
To be burried by our fog
To question our ambitions
To wonder of what could be
Might be
If only in our minds

That moment, that pause, remains
Every step sideways
Feels like a protest
At the laws of nature
Every glance sunken between desolate oceans
And black holes that implore the inquisitive
Is a rebellion against life
Is a dance with death
And it’s here we stay paused
Held like an hour glass,
Suspended by our own humidity
Evaporated in our humility

It’s all the same

The sun lay like a mound on the horizon
Her weight shifted from left to right
Between indecisive clouds and urban smog
I could hear her cry out
From a blanket of threats
The eyes each staring bright
At her Majesty
And their glamourized selfies

She finally fell down.

What’s to say of her worth anymore?
She’s climbed to the top,
It’s the highest point she could reach
Before she met her fate
And again and again
Those eyes met hers
But those eyes saw right through her

All she knows is chasing night
Waiting for the day her aura would consumer her
So that she could rise as nothing more
Than a flint

The rumbling flames take her soul without vengeance
For they don’t know what they want
Or why they even bother
So caught in the mundane
A flame rises to meet a flame
Seemingly burning
Infinity wow
It’s all the same

They and their selfies
Eyelashes wafting up sand
For a moment here and now
Soon then and then later
Or maybe never again
And again and again
It goes
So it goes

We exhale the heat of something burning inside us
Every breath a memory of what came before or maybe after
And we spin like this in stasis
Until our bones provide carbon
Rotting for the lush green pastures
The realities of the “otherside”
If only we could’ve crossed that fence for ourselves
To know, or at least release delusion from over taking her grip
Like she does
Like she did
Like indiangrass latches onto decaying skin
Drink it in
Take a breath
It’s just oxygen

On writing poetry

Mmm WordPress. I’ve been writing essays, reflection, nosing up to monochromatic figures embellished in beards and bodies presumably opposing to mine. Ahhh philosophy. I’ve jotted down lists lined with squares formed by memories of the Chinese OH Ohhh check one two. I’ve jotted down ideas, epiphanies, quotes to remember myself by on whiteboards on notebooks on computers on phones on hands on thighs. I’ve etched out plans, for moments here after and after that too. I’ve captured dreams of waterpark wonders, apocalyptic haze, country western glaze, and snakes that know me by name. I’ve done everything, so it seems, but remember that my words, mental imaging, descriptive references, perspective, perception, periphery– Persophone speak in poetry too.

So here I am, a break between words too perplexed for a Thursday evening after a bedlam of invarible frustration, a heaving over academic feats, roommate poppycock, birthdays approaching, love encroaching– spring, what a thing it does. She really be springing.

I’m not entirely certain why WordPress, why here over my notepad. Maybe my hand is tired from the strain of inking miscellaneous thought-bubbles from textbooks or maybe I’m too heavy-handed of a writer, in general and in the traditional sense. Or maybe this is just where my poetry goes and has always gone. I never use to write before I did, in case that wasn’t obvious. Well, not like this. Before, is reflect on the nature of things, people, society, reality, myself. It’s unclear as to why the subjects beyond myself came before inquiry on myself. One might think I was born a narcissist but I tend to see it as more of self-hate than a self-love situation. There were for more pressing matters in the world than in myself. My worth was second to all. Not noteworthy.

I feel differently of myself now. I see myself as equal to all other issues. Just as valid of exploration and question, criticism and praise. Ever learning and wondering why and that’s fine but why then and how then and when then and which of that this and the other. I’m still disturbed in the sense that I have grandiose insecurities and nowhere to put them and no way to digest them in one bite. Even nibbles are as if I’m sinking my teeth into something fowl and not meant to be touched. As if without the foundations of these beliefs I’d be unspun from my entire identity. I think that should be quite alright as I’ve morphed myself several times over already. But all evolution takes time and I’m not one to disrespect time. As it is, unfortunate wisdom, I have no control over it. I can make time by understanding time and all aspects of which it requires of me, but I can’t make it in the way I make a signature vegan dip. And even in this case, much time much be allotted.

Anywho, this has turned into more a journal than poetry.

Untitled

Left to bear the brevity of dreamscapes
sweeping through my perception
resting on the trigger
husshhhed ….

remind her.

Realities push and
pull through the needle
narratives webbed by sword
strings of lightening
between my lips

I’m ashamed of the worlds
I constructed in my fear.
The doe eyed mistress
resets between blinks,
the siren’s song skews
thoughts into sensations.
Dizzying the mind
in a sigh,
in a smile,
in a cloud

– don’t make her come down.

Empathy melts memories,
I wish I could stay.
I regret being caught in insanity.

Stripped bare, I know not what I am.
Uncertain of my own reflection
but aware of those I chased away.

As if you saw a ghost or a monster,
a maddening freak, crazed in her decay

no

I’d like to be remembered as a warrior
and I’ll will it that way.

beyond the grain

the soft plum sands rolled quietly
down and around the mattress
creating a desert prism
desolate of any charm or wisdom
each strand of cotton told
a tale of a million grains
embraced by a love
she embellished with glitter glue
poking gemstones in between ticks of time
and imaginary streams of moistened memories

each grain had an aura
of self importance, as
minuscule details often do

the sound of soggy tubs draining in a vast sky
reminded her of inventing stars
to escape from the blackening night
as light pollution filled her heart
with distorted candle dances
the flames throw more than likeness,
they place existence of shade
and the mirrors would describe her
breaking them for knowing
the grace of her own reflection
but she was innocent to their touch
just as much as disco balls try to remind us
of dizzying delusion and a midnight rush
to the suitcase, to the car, to chicago

imagine if she made it that far…

fortunately her mind is glued to these sheets,
cast in concrete, impersonating desert heat

she’s dried here, frozen
like the gravestone she hopes
one day he’ll come to know
because he never chose
to get to know her.
and it’s not as if she’s dying
it’s that she had to kill something
inside of her. something she can’t replace
something he’ll fail to recognize
or come to know in any time or space.
it breaks her heart to say it
but she’s had to let go
so she could reach for something,
someone, tangible. someone
who will let her know
who they are,
what they hide,
all the secrets that they keep
because she needs to share hers before she thinks
that she’s the one made of concrete.