Stagnant.
In a room with four walls.
Someone once told you that there were only three.
The fourth one is discretionary.
Like your income.
And your words.
They're always spilling out of you
  in an urgent attempt
To fill the vast distances
Between your miniscule existences.
But considerably more puzzling
  is the true purpose of your storytelling.
Vowels and consanants strung together
Wrap tightly around your indefinite spirit.
Swaddling it up as one would a newborn baby.
Leaving you stifled.
Mummified.

Sleeping is optional

Tell me about the intricate patterns that weave your reality when you're drifting off to sleep. Swaying from consciousness into a world of infinite possibility. Are you alone? Do you think of her? The beautiful woman who once promised you ten thousand lifetimes of everything. She promised to hold your hand and steady you across the stepping stones in the river of consumerism, to the glistening quartz crystal home you built together on the other side.

A haven where brightly colored threads dress the walls. A tapestry of the hardships and the challenges you endeared; together. So many quiet nights by the fire where you braided miles of this yarn, creating an irreplacable showpiece that you hung in the living room as a monument of the trials and tribulations you everlasted.

You promised to laugh at it later, because these struggles seem so miniscule now. On a sofa dressed in compasses. With a design of yellowing maps, and a scarlet trail marking the journey that you suffered. She placed tiny brass push pins to mark every spot along the riverbed where you consumated your love.

Sometimes one pricks you in the bottom when you are readjusting yourself in your blanket. Your eyes close, and suddenly you're there again. With her, and she is flawlessly illuminated by sunlight. A painfully marvellous statue of fertility draped loosely in a white sheet. Frolicking in a bed of lilies as she kisses you on the forehead and tells you that you are her universe. This is the true meaning of our existence, she whispers.

Unattainable.

3 Legged Race

You may find that my eye is a one way mirror.
I see your soul,
And it's reflection is projected
Softly back at you.
We connect in my gaze
And you fall in love with the reproduction.
As we grow to become one,
You never knew I existed.

Silent Predator

Perched upon my branch, the universe becomes my playtoy. A heart becomes mud in my hands, easily manipulated. I can easily bend distort it for my entertainment.

Irrelevant addition:

Offensive words from my gal pal Courtney Love:

"Slide me open and suck my scars"

Guns Make Small People Feel Big

When did the abstract get replaced with concrete? Don't dream; invest. Don't explore; achieve. When did we decide that real life encounters could be duplicated in front of a blackboard? How did quality of life become based on income? Don't love; succeed.

"How do you know that you're really alive?" - Jim Morrison

Just bein gals

Sand Won't Make A Home

In the battlefield of broken hearts, in Pacific City, the earth pulsates with it's sorrows. And we're all in it together, but we just can't figure out what each one needs. We all melt into her but everything is not just so. Everything is aching but we just can't manage to keep warm. And, paralyzed by fear and self loathing, the only thing we feel is her pulsing admiration. And every home we've ever made was already broken and leaves us. Everything will one day leave us so we push it all away. And nothing gold can stay. But here we learn that we've never known true love, and she hands us a second chance at life.

DONT PUT SUGAR IN YOUR COFFEE!!!!!!!