HUMILITY

soul is sequestered.
hanging fruit, in a forest of giants
praying for atonement or a holy alliance
molding my bones. soul seller solely uncensored
sling to be highest bidder, sold to goliath
liquor bottle pried in my fingers. corroded and weathered
like sewing a sweater, stitching holes i’m developing
linoleum tiles.
alone in his centerpiece, exhausted, and smiling
phone ringing. moment of silence
calloused fingers, punching the rotary dialing
show me a sign, show me these messages
but show me something,
worth something more than im fretting for
patternized moments wove into metaphors
tethered alignment into saturn skies orbit
were all enraptured to die
for worse or for deserts. for better, I’m dying
choke in the sandstorm that envelops the earth
lying in dirt. drenched in his own recollections
pirating strongholds, storm in depression
hurricane in a teacup, hold a blade in my teeth
for someone so verbose i hardly say what i mean
that’s what’d you say to me.
footsteps loud, like a mouse, but barely a peep
bestial morphing.
don’t know if I’m abnormal or still repulsively mourning
who knows
apex predator stuck in a matrix. his cage is lead proof
have dreams of your tombstone i never payed respects too
every morning at three id pray at your feet. go rest for awhile
heard nothing but echoes. stretch moment denial
heads closed in. labyrinth threshold.
side-thorn, blood shot. gigawattage electrode
eyes sore, daily. is there anything left to fight for
python bite force, venom poisonous psych ward
joining through the nylon nervous system sidewalks
bicep tendon, symbolism. combination ice cold
thromboembolism. narcissism. it’s hard to paint the right tones
existentialist grave digger. ghost hunter. face filter
illiterate author.
conspiracy factist. fascist stuck in francisco ascaso
conjecture gets harder. the lesser the gaudier
the lesson: contemporary. your protector. your guardian.
preparation delirium. procrastination is lazy
injection paste into serum. like they did to blacks in the 80s
reincarnations a bitch. face in the stitches you gave me
perturbed with no purpose, let’s give it a pause
and stop for awhile, the resentment is awful
statuette in a costume, baphomet with a cross
sometimes thinking I’m crazy. always thinking I’m lost
seeking fulfilling things- small cause, far from colossus
never thinking I’m right. confused with humility

a letter to no one, or a letter to whoever i think i am, or was.

fulfillment is neat. it fills you up, inside, and out. your skin glows, you say hi more often, and sometimes the sun shines brighter than average. not, sometimes, but more so all the time. even on rainy days, you can see the sun. its hidden, but you know it’s there, and you smile and the sun reflects light off of those pearly whites. you ever have a sudden jolt of energy, not like coffee, or stimulant, but just because you’re happy? that’s it. at times, I’ll make the most out of my happiness because I know it’s short-lived. so i’ll drive around, ride a bike, do push ups, tell people they’re beautiful, and make sure they know i love them. when it goes away, then well; they’ll have to wait till’ next time. when you’re fulfilled, this isn’t even an afterthought. it’s just there and you use it and you don’t have deadlines or restrictions for happiness or smiles or kisses or dreams, hugs, wishes, desires, considerations, love, or companionship. you don’t have an hourglass telling you your times up, staring at you like the abyss. waiting till you slowly regenerate parts of yourself. now, I’m not wholly telling you the requirement or prerequisites for fulfillment and the goodies that are thrown in its path, nor am i acknowledging that it comes with everything listed. but, what I can say is that put your foot in the door; dont let it close. dear god, don’t let it close. that’s why my nails are short. outside there’s light you can look too, there’s a reason; whatever that reason is, is up to you. i used to think my happiness would stem from helping others, without helping myself first. i was brought up on a self sacrificial code of conduct, and to use my body and mind to bring fulfillment to others, as a vessel, partaking in nothing to rejuvenate it’s slowly decaying prized possessions. depreciating in value, with very little to offer after it has served its purpose; recycling bin overflowing with afterthoughts, asbestos and what couldve beens. wrinkles forming in the creases of my forehead, and ridges generating throughout this soulless visage. beautiful calloused hand carved depreciating asset, slowly falling apart, marble chipping off, corrosion taking its time to break down what the sun has slowly created over years. what light provided, in the beginning. in this statue you see a boys eyes tearing up, you look away and back to the statue again to see if what you saw was real. can a statue cry, move, feel? “i’m but a dying star” engraved in the rock. memories of a fallen hero fading through people’s memories. flickering between oblivion like broken conduit in a old warehouse. but we all disappear eventually, right? who am i to be so arrogant to believe i have a purpose? i used to think. apathy engulfing, and rage entrenching. miscommunication, and over analytical thoughts, negative emotions like envy, doubt, shame, fear, grief, guilt, frustration take their place on their pedestal and reign over barren wastelands, where verdurous pastures becomes obsolete. you need to kiss yourself, my dear. tell yourself you’re more than a brain in an armored mech. you need to stop allowing the furrows near your cheek to keep forming, for streams of tears from depression carve their way in them. you mustn’t let this happen. turn on your supercomputer and let it work to your advantage- falling into a pit of monotony isn’t what you want. it is your worst nightmare. and even though you slice through kudzu vines that grow around faster than you could chop away at them, you love the challenge. you pride yourself in temporary conquests of behemoths that soon use the seeds of brooding hell to spring back up stronger than before. using your i5 your i7, your i8, your i10, your i15, until your supercomputer can’t process anymore. it can’t keep up. please allow yourself to speak up for yourself without having to look at the floor in distress. counting molecules with x-ray vision, trying to ward away the anxiety. stop using your fist as a hammer to crawl out of shawshank. allow yourself to be vulnerable for two seconds before your masterpiece marble statue becomes a toppled piece of history no longer accepted in today’s society. allow yourself to bloom like the flowers you plant, and the plants you water- the ones you sing too, and patiently clean dust off of. dont allow yourself to hush yourself from crying so that no one hears you. i’m so sorry this happens to you. don’t look for the impossible because you want to feel human. please help yourself exist, you beautiful person. be star-studded. shine, glimmer between the edges. breath in death and exhale pollen. watch landscapes grow before you. i want you to do this, look at yourself in the mirror, and take a deep breath, learn how your body moves when you take that breath, tell yourself your flesh and bone, and not metal and programming. tell yourself it’ll be okay. it’ll ALWAYS be ok. even when it isn’t. you’re okay. i love you. its okay. don’t worry. it’s okay x20. keep saying it. touch yourself in what you think are your least beautiful parts. just dont give up. just do it. everybody knows you can. there is a man behind the machine, behind every mech that has been adopted by the belief of self-deprecation and abasement. let luminosity be a guiding force. sing twinkle twinkle little star, hum it. look up, and..thanks