Stare into a mirror long enough, it won't be your reflection you stare at any longer. It'll be every aberration in your soul, like the chips and cuts lacerating the mahogany. Narcissus is within us all in semblances of marks incising an idyllic past set ablaze along the decomposing surface by the absence of a voice, only eyes to watch the flame kindle in the night, and ears to hear the mind's whistles ululate to the grievance, whereof it only exacerbates with time, and leverage. It's become easy to see the foibles beneath my exterior, my body but a weathered tabernacle, a plate of armor of which I toil on my back, but a needless burden nonetheless.

All my life I've been a glib gladiator, a heart-feigned logomachian whose hid behind the shield of his sphere of influence to create feigned connections to his own volition, stubbornly latching his gnarled fingers & unkempt nails onto the notion like pearls that all things that are valuable require reciprocation correspondent to said value, and, without it, there was no validation in growing those true friendships. There was no reason or room for change. So.. I faithfully let a lie sit there festering with the pus of malignancy.

The conjoined faces of janus harness time in assemblage, spurred by the moving of lips, the passage of the soul - one pair, as stirring as the confluence of inlets amidst a tsunami; the other, as breathtaking as the coruscations of pops and crackles as fireworks laminate the skies in tenors of extravaganza.

So why by an hour in, when the saccades in my eyes have slowed and my attention's eroded to the acclimations of my head, can't I help but smile?

Maybe I am going crazy.

Hope lost as fathers fall short of response, silence betrays conviction.

A home in shambles, the only ensemble is holding hands in dereliction,

It takes a man to teach a man -

You can’t afford to commission commitment

And buyin' your way to interest just a hoax, you only find your passion in real admission.

Sat myself down, inclined to the truth behind my reflection -

3 Ms in repetition;

Money, Murder, Mistress -

3 Ms, in reprehension;

We think skyrocketin' our profit gone heal our conditions

But ain’t no handouts on this earth,

Only crime, time, and repentance.

Sprawled free from the webs, I rose

Metamorphosized my foes to see the greater image,

Accomplices to caustic complications,

They use drugs to fill the void as an instance.

Goodbyes provide riddance, Cerebral wrought by the storms,

Lost in the intermittent -

In their heads, they was just at the courts,

Chillin'

Smokin'

Playin' scrimmage.

But their forefathers once carried the weight of dread without jurisdiction,

Juries like presidents in the safe - unbridled reprehensive confiscation

That mean they take souls like Ronald Reagan, babies cry to the crackles of the stove - ol' momma ain't cookin bacon

Cyclical pain, they need to find a way to escape the road that caves in

But that’s a decision, and it's imperative to keep narratives written

Shit getting too vindictive - only smoke in a chest full of conviction, light the ignition

Never was one to lie for attention - stoke up the pen with oxymoronic concision

They unjustly justify to help us transcend our grounding submission

Would be the one to evince the truth - but who am I kiddin?

blinds fold and tongues tie, submerge the eye

conquer in silence,

neutralize what we reprieve

world runneth cold with lies, truth in truce'll get you scrutinized -

and she know I can read between the lines..

so do she think I can't see it in her eyes?

heart full of shame, she almost started cryin'

nearly started wipin tears away

real ones they hard to find

our love was supposed to take center stage

elevate to you and I

but I feel it when our hearts entwine - you've been with that other guy:

why can't I satisfy anymore?

Do you know how it feels to lose faith in ya conscience, to lose all discernment, voice on empty — senses eggin' you on to toss out the pen like it ain’t ya greater purpose? Like are you really worth it? Or just another purchase in earnest? One splurge away from church bells, tenors and altos, sermons surround the curtains? That's just for instance, not for certain, as time flies, comprehensively surmount burden, the allurance of learnin, star crossed hearts cross, reserved thoughts apprehend, whistlin leaves in the current, avert the breeze, diverge from all the chaos, the converging currents, strewn memories click in the absence of light, even the fireflies know the future's nervous; emcees extort for fortune, stolen phonetics and syllabic hearses, brittled in disingenuine, hands and feet need plea love peace and refurbish, no rites (rights) of passage in service, abort a child to bury the childish mistakes in emergence, then settle down with a clown because he turned the bed to a performance: remember the curtains? - chain aquatic, built like an urchin, corals clappin in the chorus- bezel weigh bout half a burkin, out here lookin like a tourist- sellin tidepods out the v - powder lined up on the b - rollin' down the window, earthy breeze - gain in his pocket blue like sheets of detergent - blunt fatter than a roll of bounty - they'd get so high they'd do their savior a disservice, no more askin for favors i see a bridge and i burn it, timmy turner - imagine if i wished for the burner, wit a mind sporadic and chaotic like souls trapped in an urn, so when shit get paranormal I pick and choose like waitcha turn.

I find confidentiality and reality mix to paint a perfectly purple picture— blue hues of an outcast turn red, mud in the mist, blood in the mellow rivers, and if you paid less attention to the pit and more to the precipice, you’d leap off the edge, collateral of gunshots and broken mirrors,

Redemption verbs repetition been living that sentence in reverse, I fear that this shit ain’t rehearsed, its repentance, way I murder, they gone have to go and give me a greater sentence, the way that I flow in these ripostes I guess it’s just a penchant, propensity for poetry, that's not to mention, ensemble diggin' solace (soulless) graves no matter if you sister or brethren, sometimes I can't say if i'm supposed to leave an imprint, sprawl out to new beginnings, but even before I could walk I knew I never born irreverent.

You think I imagined I’d be here  years later— in a jail cell, lost without recognition? I’d say it was a figment of igneous, unbridled rage and sadness been the pigment,

all they could find was blues and Cs in my imprint.

Still kept the carbon in the coat, bringin it up to height’ll have him recycling breaths in an instant, oxy and gin wit tonic hoes, we poppin moscato like some misfits, curiosity like Mike - one swig of the punch’ll get you hit quick,

I skip intermissions-

If his brussel sprout, bullets peel off the skin like it’s an artichoke - grabbed his attention,

Gave him a reason to listen in, like, "cmere and lemme teach you a lesson:

When shit get hectic watch where you steppin'

Ain’t a 6 you can mess wit",

Passion in my eclectics get toxic & septic, and this mind of mine’s a mine, could go & blow up any second, that senseless selfless shit a benefactor, get caught hook line and sinker if you factor out conclusions, 's why I'm resolution prone - been seen the slope like it was impossible to miss it, but we live in the ruins of a world of hubris, them x(ex) and ys(whys), remind 'em all the time of the life they been choosin, like ain't it about time we stop hangin' our lives by the noose, and is it right to grab the scythe from death and hack away till he’s oozin?

Few years later, born a new man, far from a nuisance, julius ceasar clause, I’ll ball till I fall again

Autumn my leaves, they match the leather

Polar bear with the timberlands,

Restitute constituents, amicably symbolic of the hard times we been cursed in livin in

Stars on the porsche (porch) collide on any day or date,

Could be the presidential or the Michelin.

Tantalized by the mirage of utopia, we scavenge relentlessly, chipping away at our sanity as we nibble on gold and clutch liquidity to our chests. It’s a tragic reality, really—this compulsive drive to outshine the competition until we find ourselves in a stratosphere of own own making, within a sphere of influence that is both finite and volatile. They say money is the root of all evil, and forsooth, it leads us down paths we’ve been warned against time and time again. In the end, you’ll surely become a hollow husk, a mere cadaver strewn along the shores of your own wealth, disillusioned by the stark realization that everything you’ve strived for amounts to nothing. You can’t take material with you when you cross the bridge between life and death — none of that will matter.

Society seeks to govern your every thought and action. Through the omnipresent reach of mass media, they feed you the illusion that material success is the pinnacle of achievement, the ultimate endgame. But this is a falsehood—a carefully crafted narrative designed to keep you ensnared in a cycle of consumption and competition.

Simply put: do not let them dictate your desires or your destiny. For, beneath the dimensional surface, beyond the noise, vibrations exist—energy, exists. Subtle yet powerful currents embedded in our nature that shape the very fabric of reality around us, whether for the greater or lesser. Your vibrational consistency, the resonance of your true self, is more important than anything they can offer. For destiny is a cylinder, & fate a sphere.

I had opened my mouth to speak — that was when she

struck with a cobra’s sly impetus.

"I MISSED YOU",

"I missed you..."

Her fingers were a conflicting alternation from her voice - gentle at first, caressing the waning sillhoutte of my visage — then I felt. They coiled around teeth with a corrosive touch that turned them bare and brittle; she then began tugging away at each of them — starting from the very front two. I remember drooling like a madman halfway into the torture, a mouth pooling with blood.

Inebriation inhibited my reception of pain —but the warmth the couplet rivulets of blood streaming down my mouth radiated could almost be called comforting. As if I willingly volunteered to get them pulled, to be in this appalling state of psychosis.

Once she pried out the final tooth, I awoke in a panic.

Lord, the pain… I had to press my finger against my teeth while writing this just to feel a smidgen of the agony. It was as if a stray football had jetted straight into my teeth , toothy detritus shards flying out as I take a sharp jolt back. I ran a finger along them: but even that hurt! I nearly hurled out swears to the sun! Those aches continued for almost an hour!

And yet, this was a pearl in the harbor, an unpleasant experience garnishing some food for thought - mostly in the sought of meaning behind the dream; if there had been any subliminal significance behind it.

Our conscience is an intrinsically artistic pallette of intricate interpretations of our lives, illustrated by the subconscious in REM. In a way, it can be your brain's way of descrying into the future by analyzing your current situation and portraying them in a sort of picturesque nuance - when dreams turn to nightmares, they often entail more than what meets the eye.

Analogous to their antithesis, it's like life’s way of sitting you down at that business table, aggressively pointing at the lower-most data point indicative of the most recent sales, and telling you, “If you keep this up, we’ll be packing our bags and closin' down business!” — change is needed urgently, lest the consequences be immediate, and, at times, devastating.

I was in a 6 year relationship - on and off. She was my heart. The core of my soul. But somewhere along the line, juggling trying to pass senior year with flying colors, helping people with peer-specific recommendation letters and personal essays, and becoming more proactive in my community, simply became a burdensome, at times insurmountable task that required my full attention. In other words, having to take a few steps back from her. Despite all the memories, all the promises in hopes of a future together - behind closed doors, she initiated things with another man. This dream had occurred but a week prior to this discovery, encased behind a white screen and blurred lies...

That was when it occurred to me.

This was no nightmare. It was a blessing in disguise.

It was an interpretation of my current vulnerability to the precepts of deception. It was my conscience telling me to introspect, to dive deep in the pool of my problems, and not run as it undulates.

I needed to stop worrying about the pain of loss and start thinking about the joy of gain. Not every pebble you throw will skip, so don’t drown in the thought : don’t overthink, just do. She needed to be displaced out of my life entirely. Had I remained, I would have lived an absentmindedly cyclical life of complacency, a thought that rattles my inner core with anxiety, and, at the time, a sort of cynicism. I am already prone to sloth and procrastination: a work in progress. Remaining in that relationship would have only manipulated me into wanting to re-tie an untied bond, and kept me entangled in a need for constant closure.

And yet, the entire situation also made me realize something else: had I not been bogged down by the fears of loss and doubts of depreciation, I wouldn’t have honed my grievances into passion, and passion to art.

Out in the multiverse, there's a version of me who never put pen to paper, and never found his dream.

That could've been me.

I should’ve known seeing you that afternoon wasa sign of the times to come. Like a bird’s wispy sermons at the peak of dawn.

You made my day.

Your hugs, always lukewarm; your hands caressing my back with a tenderness that spoke of unspoken love and overbearing loss. In your arms, infinity felt infinitesimal, thoughts blank. In your arms, I felt like I could breathe again.

You made my day.

I still remember.

Weathered asphalt, permeating with the smell of fresh rain; somehow, the light would glint off the road, and rainbows always coalesce along one of the walkways in its direct intersection. Devoutly, I saw it as a reminder that nature sprouts its roots to even the most gravelly, rugged places, like a rose rising betwixt the crevasses of man's cementation.

Head east, and every step past that led to steep, brick stairs in triplet, before leading to the apartment complex's main door. I used to tell my father all the time - I didn't know how to speak what was on my mind at the time - "the floor looks kinda old", to which he'd explain you'd been living here for over 20 years... It was only when I grew up did I observe & absorb enough to know almost every complex is built out of brick & concrete. Insipid. Yet, the patterns from the brick layering were always able to swaddle my eyes from the other things going on around the block. Nonetheless.

Ringing your bell and hearing your voice leap with a gaiety I could never get used to... I loved it. I loved every moment.

You used to tell me there was something different about me from the rest of the family, that I was special, level-headed, and cerebral. That you believed there was more to me than I let others see. You were the first to tell me to strive for a legacy, to leave something behind when my fleeting trial in this world had run its course. I hold that lesson close to my heart to this day. You were as selfless as you were strong and independent. And it sicks me that it was only after I saw you on that hospital bed, with the gurney disheveled and your eyes so red they seemed to cry blood, did I realize all those years I spent falling to my knees in defeat should have been spent uplifting you in your time of peril.

Your last hug was a glacial reminder of my own inadequacy. I was too weak. I've always been afraid that I'd never become the man evoked in phantasmagoria. That "Golden Child"; the one to uplift millions doing what I love best, all while nesting a future family. And, honestly, I'm far from it. A caricature, if anything. Yet, Grandma, without you, I wouldn't have learned the value of taking every day one step at a time, and speaking to souls one breath at a time.

Losing you tears at my soul every single day.

But I know your love for me was as certain as it was unconditional. A son should never have to bury his mother. A son's son should never have to watch his father replace the moon at the hilltop as he picks up a shovel at the brink of night. It should never be that way. But a face can tell the tragic novella of one's life better than words can... as can an autopsy.

So I always think back to that afternoon, where, after almost three years of purgatory, I got to see you again. Your last words, once bringing a smile to my face, now only sending a rush down my spine and a churning my stomach.

You made my day.

You made my day.

You made my day.

Hm...

I'm stuck in a loop.

I write, fervently seizing the moment like a gladiator descrying victory unveil in the most opportune moment to strike.

But somewhere along the way, I stop. The flickers of the pen cease, a ballpoint voyager crusading through the flux of ink with seeking strokes of desperation coming to a crossroads. I falter to its wispy sermons, the pen; a cattleman to the thoughts. The instrument used to muse spirit into the reprisal of word is the same instrument used to consume the all-looming despair in insouciance, until life is one daily dose of a placebo - growing indifferent to what I write not due to its contents, but because there's better out there.

This is when I dissipate into the husk of obscurity, as a neural response to the nigh infinite mental affliction of my own sub-doing. Soon after, I lose traction, cease to gain momentum, and, ultimately, fall short of expectation.

But perhaps, therein lies the paradox: the pen, that relentless cattleman of thought, must also be the architect of its own liberation. For it is not in the perfection of the stroke, nor in the unbroken momentum of the hand, that true creation is found, but in the very act of wrestling with the void, of teetering on the precipice between brilliance and despair.

To falter is to be human; to rise, divine. The cessation of the ink's flow is not a failure, but a necessary breath—a pause in the symphony where the next note awaits its birth. The indifference you feel is but a shadow, a specter born of comparison, that fades when faced with the light of self-acceptance.

I say this to say: write not to conquer, but to explore. Let the pen wander through the unknown, tracing the contours of your soul, where the greatest work lies not in what is perfected but in what is revealed. Embrace it, for it is the flow of thought that matters more. All that rise must fall. It is only when you rise back up again that you realize you’ve never truly fallen to begin with.

I don’t know how I got to 22.

Or rather: I don’t know how I’ve gotten so close to 23.

It’s like I blinked once and suddenly transmogrified from a helpless boy, vicariously searching for his nonpariel in the trove of his idyllic life, to a man with real issues and even realer responsibilities. There’s no longer the time to explore the horizon when the ship should’ve sailed years ago. Up until this point ,  I’ve indulged in a life of impetuous consternation, shunned to a brooding discomfort by the same devices I muddled through.

Conversing with others no longer feels productive. Instead, it’s turned into a game of “are they being disingenuous?”, and I’ve always gotta be the host… I used to believe the ideal weekend for me was smoking a few blunts and hopping on the game with the boys. Now, it all feels like we’re scraping time away from the clocks of our mortality, utilizing the already sparse free time we have to “have fun” when the fun’s become restricted in intervals and moments.

Abstinence is to subsistence as eating is to drink water, and a pleasure that is no longer ephemeral becomes an addiction. It’s an easy lesson to learn whilst difficult to evoke without some sort of internal backlash.

It’s as though I’ve been running in place, trying to reconcile the boy who once believed in endless horizons with the man who now feels the weight of every passing second.

Will they ever thread the distance?

Is it love if the arid ravines careering along my heart no longer quaver the same tune, yet yield the same bittersweet harvest I’ve grown accustomed to?

When every breath is a caustic sigh woven into the fabrics of their mercurial essence — heavy & repugnant, like chainsmoke, yet refreshing, as the ethereal beauty of spring?

If every moment is a weeping breath in a billow of their broodful temperament?

You hurt me to no return.

Even then, I admittedly still craved you by my side -tugging at my pillows, caressing my stomach - enamored by a deep yearning of your presence...

It's as if every night my heart still finds a way to heal the gash you left behind; as if you're still in possession of a key you didn't deserve.

I miss it.

It takes a strong soul to forgive. But it takes an even stronger soul to justify and rationalize; to sift past the manifold of possibilities, and unearth the layers of disillusionment, arriving at a reasoned conclusion.

I still find myself tracing over my lips at the thought of you.

One fault, one mishap, one screw up, could never outweigh or outclass the you I’ve come to cherish...

I just need to get over myself.

But I fear I'm running out of time.