Handfuls of air

trying too hard
to be myself
when what i am
is not hard.
softly spread thin
and losing substantiality,
this coarseness requires
an acquired taste.
such grit kneads
loose regard.
debris tickles
fickle fingers,
to which winds
pull grasps.

Special

i’m not special.
i was never told i was special.
i was told to do my best.
i did.
i’m not special.

An other to another

i’ve said this before,
but i’m fine with
touching myself.
why disappoint another?
besides, i know what to expect
and this pleases me.
we know what we like,
so why expect another to know?
i’m not desperate for physical contact
because i’m well within reach.
of course, if i’m dissatisfied with
myself, then i must seek validation.
hold on a second. why find another
to feel whole when they feel what
you do not? shit, nevermind, i may
just be breathing a rhythme
hop, skipped, jumped
by a majority who disagrees.
your hands are foreign,
but i appreciate your effort.
i shouldn’t be so harsh,
because i am an other
to an other.

Many hands replicate

why do lines,
drawn between points,
connect more when
many hands have
traced similar stretches?

Waiting out a future

i guess we should
just continue sharing
time until we can
decide whether this
future is one that is
sustainable.

Stasis spun out

cyclically spinning,
a rudimentary redundancy.
traps unavoidable,
unless…
stop.
that which revolves, will
that which doesn’t, won’t.
spinning oneself sick
absolves not a thing.
in the end,
you just have
a mess to clean.

Jello shooter

running on empty.
a loaded gun
filled with blanks,
jello can’t pull the trigger.
gelatinous grip caves
in upon itself.
it only has
oneself to grab,
and even then,
that’s questionable.

Lemonaide

i saw you
and you looked
happy.
could i shame you?
no.
what i gave you
left you sour.
i didn’t know how
to sugar coat
lemonade.

Speak past the forward.

i apologize
for the groove i ride.
i drive eradicable.
i jam to a butter
smoother than myself.
the nuts portrayed
are of a crazy thought,
stronger than what’s felt.
i think a crazy
normal felt.
speaking my listening
is deaf of logic,
counter to my knowledge.
i look forward to a hindsight
speaking relation.
forward movements speak
of past attempts.

My mind is an ashtray

looking down the
barrel of futility,
scurrying those
of achievement.
negation of being,
present complexity,
counters our ancestors.
i accept the debris
of that disposed.
treasure found amonsgt
the discarded.
gold shines upon the eyes
of those who see.
i walk blind,
generally,
but specific light,
illuminating what’s been missed.
this luster emanates a bias brilliance
my intellect cannot fathom.
i speak what i feel,
yet what i feel
does not always speak.