I long for the same mystery with the same agony in this bored bliss. I return to familiar mistakes they comfort me better than wine. Name his lies my favorite songs. Silence my saggy runny eggy mood. Turn orphan cries of floating ghosts above my head fade like vocals at the end of a song. Fade unlike that gorgeous pink light disappearing in the horizon welcoming the dark the stars the full moon.

Waiting for the pressure to make some diamonds like those in the sky so I can finally reap what I sow instead I sleep on on on. Turn my dreams on but I keep them a secret; guard them like my first toy. I am psychotic in my stability. I went insane because I am sane here— all is claustrophobic when I am not on art. Not exactly a rare animal I want to live on my own terms mental like Sinatra like Frost. I am made up of the roads I haven’t taken. Aimed at marked resurrect.

I don’t know what I’m having eyes closed it is bigger than my body bigger than the world, smaller than my heart— I can collect dreams. I watch an arsonist burn my old self before I learned the word safe. No risk means dead dead dead. I need to get high on a beautiful distraction like flying. Whether I have wings or not I can always find out later. No risk means dead dead. Hell in life, heaven on earth. Horrifically ecstatic journeys with a clueless beginning exhilarating.

I choose to treat a foggy mind a blurry vision like a test Rorschach— all I can see, dark dark butterflies ready to escape the paper and fly in ink on air free as a bat. I am that bat aggressive in my ease, this peace I didn’t earn was shoved down my throat I should be grateful for all the time I could devote to my art I am hiding behind closed doors closed MacBook Airs closed notebooks crossed legs shut mouths. I babysit my survivor’s guilt mourn all the art unborn while I mess around and round ‘n round time leaks like a melting candle. All those selves I kidnapped to silence to tame. All those cross-words I call my poems but they never turn into the blue butterflies I imagined. They remain dark stark in their caterpillar bodies moving, sure, they don’t fly just yet— mere letters waiting to blossom into pulses into tears.

I mistake my face for an hourglass everything I look at faces, animals, leaves are leaking fading in some dimension called time. They are all torn in between the psychotic and the stable, the laughable and the sober. I am no wire-walker, I know the taste of fire clouds. Fallen countless times only to bounce back like words snappy.

I looked for thunders in love in men to feel something electric I feel laughable a drab struck by lightning. I could only see for a few seconds before I was blinded. Those flames you threw in my direction while my heart drowned elsewhere did not reach me. I’ve read all your messages before I blocked and unblocked to block again. A long story I choose to suffocate. The past is a distant land I am off.

The night of— a lot gained and killed like my unfailing trust now resting. Not in peace.

Like this script drowning in dust in my drawer waiting to be an immortal nothing but some Rorschach blotches pain meds mixed up to make a fragile girl an invincible woman— on paper. I buried a lot of art alive now I weep leap reap; mimic zombies call it sleep ‘n creep.

Drifting while on air.
Feed on art ablaze when high;
Low skull electric.