i keep putting these words up and out there

on the screen in little snippets and verses

but i dont think they truly convey what

i feel may be the hardest time ive ever had

in my entire life. I am an absolute wreck. And

I have so many people I need to be strong for

and am finding it hard to be strong just for

myself. i feel like a structure with no

cornerstone and a center of gravity

that shifts slightly every single day. I don't

want to be that pitiful guy trust me, I'm not

crying for help or attention. if someone close to

me would just put my face in their hands and

look me in the eyes and tell me that things

will change and get better, it would probably

do me a world of good.

every six seconds.

all seven traffic lights

in front of me turn green

in quick succession like

hanging dominoes

on a blue table

and the rain on my windshield

spells things out in other languages

a changing map of braille

wiped clean and rewritten

every six seconds.

the conversations rotate around subjects

that i feel neither comfortable or

necessary in the post of the day

and behind the clouds

the sun hides as if it did not

want us to witness it disappear.

wrap my hands in cold

and cloth; let them tell

their own story.

three paths gone

two blocks found blind.

somethings you just arent.

I'll be the grave. 

No one alive here

is ever truly safe.

in the cold space

keeping their shape

is the place where

the dead truly lay.

heat

from all sides like the

breath of a lover in heat

i can feel it sleeping in

the bricks with its eyes 

on the sky, opening up

and showing itself as empty

no clouds and no sun

its feet settled into something

with a little too much

give for comfort; i reached

into the corners looking

around for a familiar surface

and found yesterdays 

alibi crying and crying

into the leaves leaving

darker streaks of green

in patterns only discernable

by the prophets bloodline.

slowly now.

i sling my fists 

like fools gold 

and hold the 

heartache in 

high esteem, 

somewhere soon

the machine 

will beep and 

three words 

in the sentence 

will die of shock.

there are languages 

set in crystal cutting 

clean the sense of 

urgency; so when 

she smiled her 

dialect was well understood.

"in the sleeping past something waits; and its stories will smell like wet paper when told leaving the nightmares around your bed like traps."

swaying, swaying.

and the white shell sang

mostly to itself

its lungs full of my air

and its veins full of 

my lovers blood, asleep

in the sway of things.

the quiet ghosts of tide

and moon stood with 

their eyes closed 

in close reach of the song

avatar smiling with the shell

at his feet humming along.

he told me the talent

was in their bones

and in the marrow

like a copper conductor

the rosary beads bent

over his knuckles like

scars or lips parted

in confessional kisses

and when the song was over

so was the conversation.