An hour or two just to sit on my bed,

and let all the intricate thoughts in my head

run free.

A moment each day

to just sigh and say,

"Let it be".

A day where I can smile and think

about things that are from the brink

of eternity.

MyChainsAreMadeOfMoney

TheyAreBoasCrushingMyBoneandSpirite

TheyAre

Weights

Dragging

Me

Into

TheRiver

TheyAreSmokeBurningMyLungs

TheyRattleWithEveryPullKickAndShake

IfThey break I'llSwim

IfThey break I'llRun

WhenThey break I'll

Fly

The Portable Walt Whitman

Read the cover of the book

My, what a funny title, the Portable Walt Whitman

As if one could carry the great poet stashed up in a purse

With half-chewed gum, crumpled up receipts and pens with lost lids

Or take it to the toilet seat, savoring – at the same time – words and nature’s call

Or prop it up on the bottle of ketchup, unashamed, on a breakfast coffee table

As if he’s a genie in a magic lamp

Hanging from of one of your backpack straps

A rub and a shake and a tiny puff of smoke,

Out – here he is! – comes uncle Walt!

But giggles aside, it is a desire of mine

To have myself as portable as well

Into pockets, packs and pencil cases

How wonderful would it be to have my proses and my verses

Looked at as often as a toothbrush is?

“What do you desire?” asked the Devil.

“Nothing,” I said. “I desire nothing.”

“Come now, yes you do. Every human does. Tell me, dear boy, what burning want do you have? What is it that you crave when you lie awake at night? What does your soul ache for?”

I shrugged.

“Is it love?”

“No.”

“Fame?”

“No.”

“Glory?”

“No.”

“A companion? I could whisk from the air the finest canine or the mightiest lion to stand beside you.”

I shook my head.

“Then what? There has to be something.”

“I told you. I don’t want anything. I am nothing. I can’t want anything”

“That’s not true. Everyone is something. Even the smallest of men is something. So, let me ask again. What, my dear, do you desire?”

I sat and thought for what felt like eons. The Devil sat and waited patiently.

“I think I’ve got it,” I told him.

“Tell me.” Flames danced across his charcoal eyes.

“I want to watch the world burn.”

Sometimes I chew my own guts out,

The picture of you laying down with somebody else sends pins and needles down my spine and my eyes burn to red,

I can’t feel my fingers and my soul grows heavy,

Nobody can touch you the way I touch you.

I’d damn my soul if I couldn’t get what I want.

My eyes would grow weary with my rancid remembering's of you.

My mind will never fathom the idea of you with somebody else, for it inginites a deep flame, roaring to be released.

For you have elegantly wrapped my fields with purple, kissing my knucks on the way,

Lilac waves flow through my veins,

Our sea is shades of cool rain,

And your eyes hold the most daunting truth.

No matter what, your soul yearns to unlock mine.

To indulge their sea with the lilac waves.

And to hold my heart at bay ,

for then we may feel the cusp of a new beginning gnawing at our feet.

Open the sky, blow aside the clouds and engulf the world with your lilac light , for that is all my heart may desire.

I want a love like

Trump’s Twitter: loud and misinformed

in that whoever loves me finds me

perfect and screams it over speakers,

even though they’ve seen me

misspell coffee and separation

when they are easy words to spell.

I want a love like a witch hunt

Trump won’t shut up about:

a burning, never-ending, ruthless

search that upside-downs the town

and pursues me with aching soles

until my darling is suspicious

of everyone who has a heart.

[]

nerves on constant fire... irritation

anxious twitching

fingernails tapping against the wooden desk

I’m not angry _ it’s a mood, a feeling

a rash that I just can’t scratch _ do you know that motion?

it starts in the body, it tenses so badly _ but starts in you $%^&* soul

I’m not angry, I’m not

I’m furious to my last piece of s c r e a m s , body loud

can’t let go, wanting to hit something

it will pass, I know it always does, trust me I know

Broken glass makes a delightful sound, it speaks to me

it says “letting go of it makes it possible to breathe”

I’m not angry _ it’s a mood, a feeling it will pass, I promise

but I am irritated, fine you win, I will give you that, but only that

nothing else, just accept it

I desire air between my fibres, touching serenity with ease

and touch it, I will

[]

There is something unsettling about not being able to relax. Like a ticking bomb that just keeps going. Tick, tick, tick. You can’t stop the emotions, you can’t stop the thoughts, you can’t even stop your bouncing foot, as it moves up and down. It portrays your inner feelings, how anxious and uncomfortable you are, and it’s impossible to stop. Almost impossible. The only thing you want, you crave is peace. To just be still and content in a moment. But peace, it doesn’t come. Instead it grows more desirable each and every day. And so, the best thing to do is sleep. Sleep is easy, sleep is peaceful. Yet it’s not. There’s something unsettling about sleep, knowing you will wake up again, and peace won’t be there to great you in the morning. Peace, that is what is desirable.

I desire a temporary death, something I can test drive before I commit, just a taste to see if I like It. To explore where I’ll go when death retrieves me to see where my life will take me at the finale end, I want to see if my end is good or bad, but only for a little while, I would want to come back if I don’t like the end, and I would try to change it, but if the end is nice I think I’ll just stay.

I am completely empty inside,

most day's I feel numb.

I want this to work,

but i'm scared i'll look dumb.

I want to smile so bad and let everyone see it,

but it's hard and I'm hurting,

so it's come to so be it.

I want to live each day with passion,

be genuine, and strong,

but most day's in this life,

things feel so wrong.

I know that happiness is out there,

so sweet and so pure,

and I am going to find it,

I will find the cure.

I will be happy.