Is there more to life

 I put the seashell to my ear, the echo simulating crashing waves. The seashell is hollow like me, formulating a fantasy of freedom among an encapsulated moment in time. A hollow seashell and crashing waves, all within reach but only one tangible. Is there more to life than fantasies echoing against hollow existence? Does love exist? My thoughts are perpetual like the crashing of waves against a shore, short lived but never ending. I used to think love was real but now I think it’s just a rationalization of sex. So we form these fabricated realities as a maladaptive way of coping with things out of our control. Is love real or do we need a reason to fuck one another? If I fuck you, do I even have to love you? What if love is God?

Come and Go

 The world is ending, help!

I need to tell you how I’ve always felt

I like you more than I’ve let on

Can I kiss you during Armageddon?

To hold you like a final breath

My last wish is to love you to death. 

Bird poem

 How fowl of you to leave me with a flightless bird 

While you soar above the sea

So I regurgitate a written word

Forcing you to think of me

Is it me or God to blame

For wishing to play a lover’s game

To see me in a way he never saw me

Sinning like cardinals, folded like origami

Bored :/

 Fragments of thoughts trickle onto pieces of paper, or digital tablets, because we are iPad Kids that grew up and couldn’t afford a house. I find homes in people. I tried to find a home in you, but you wouldn’t let me in. It’s okay though, everything happens for a reason and I actually believe that, unlike people who regurgitate the cliché to give them some sort of purpose to the adversity they endure. I regurgitate verbose like vomit chunked with virtual word puddles, making way for seamless slimy syntax. Metaphysical poems materialize like tapeworms swimming in carnal canals of grammatical morphemes and sentence structure. Hello words, I am creator. In this word I get to be God. In this world, you chose me. 

 

Be a body

To be. To be me. not me, but to be my body. not my body, but to be your body. not your body, but to envelope yours within mine. To consume and devour like man in his destruction. To build and breed like God in His creation.   

We can be men in Hell with flames as our Holy Light

We can be men like evil eclipses and only know night

We can be Gods in the heavens with our Holy Sun

We can be Gods but I won’t tell you which One

sunset sonnet

I was staring into the sun today 

the same sun that gets to look in your eye 

so we can share a look from far away 

But am I a burning sun in your sky? 

Like the moon dreams of the sun from afar

it's lunar love that I anticipate

To love the way the moon can love a star 

even a star that won’t reciprocate 

But an eclipse waits to be uncovered

to create and destroy by kindling fires

My cosmic cravings cannot be governed

Heaven lives our burning suns and desires

A phase I cannot say is done yet

until we can share more than a sunset.

Poem I

impressions carved in brine 

fibrous fossils preserving the past

Induced identity and compulsory change