all flowers flourish.

my head rests in a particular state;
upon a beach wrapped under twilight.
transient hopes boulder onto my conscience
in a flash of light.

a dreamer who wishes for nonchalance.
i am left a withered,
melancholic fool.
my life is death as a young child.

i am wide awake.

revert to 10 years old,
disengagement to everyone.
i lie reclined on my back, face up to the blinding sun.
blades of grass kiss my back in their infancy.
blonde hair reeks of summer youth.

but nostalgia is futile to me,
memories left hidden in my tongue.
it tastes of bitter sweet.
those splinters still stick in my sides,
an attempt to mend them into origami shapes
marks dissonant with their structure.
sequence events in my head
with a collection of still frames.
the advent of youthful serenity.

would you pass me your face on a blank canvas
so i could paint you with blemishes?
your painted face put side to side with polaroid photos.
they don't match up.

maybe we'll all stop breathing stale air,
revel in our cerebral thoughts
but that leaves ruins untouched.

and wounds shine like diamonds.

where people reek of near death,
smoke cigarettes and set off hand grenades
to the days of youthful adventure.
and to retreat to a comfort zone would be a safe bet
but it lasts as long as your candle to a burning match.
i often find myself in a state of denial for days
hoping everything would turn back.
but our clocks are manual, and turning them back would make
living lose it's flow.
we put our heads under water to obscure voices and their
expressionist tone.
i'd like to think my mind is so clean you could eat off of it
but days of endless TV advertisements and listening to people's phonecalls
have left my brain dry and seized.
dirty minded from even the most prestigious of their words,
it pushes me into a vegetable life,
like an ice cube,
sitting there melting away.

swans.

aspiration;
oppressed by those who bound us down,
raped only by our sole interaction.
it's the last vestige of drawing your eye.
i'm blind to loneliness and regret.

upon this tabletop was when i first cried;
a soul left to wander amongst spirits,
all united in the chant of
"never enough".
i slept upon that table for days in a seamless dream;
swans passing in their infancy,
the sun slowly kissing the clouds away.

scenarios reek of youth,
where hours are spent in a daze,
where my slumber is scheduled,
where the mind is not impeded by the world.

and this is where i ask,
why can't i shake the hands of God?
our creator is not shy.
we spend forever traveling to his garden.

schizoid king.

saw the moon on the water
and all that surrounded me was reflection.
am i here just for existential reasons?
are my dreams just another addition to 'unfulfilled'?
my body and mind are not compatible -
they always reach for different finish lines.
but i grab onto something nonexistant,
like clinging onto precious ghosts.
you feel them, but they are not there.

and clarity seeps in with the sun
but the sun leaves at the end of the day
and euphoria fades into confusion.

and in the end,
maybe we could stop living like ghosts
and be human.
maybe you will see that your
beauty is art.

conceptual nautical.

breathing solitude,
i descend the rocks and kiss the ocean bed.
wax poetic upon the tempest, retreating to
set down upon thee place of rest.
i would forsake today's sleep
but days swim by in delicately placed intervals.
there is no time of sleep,
no time for bridal engagements.
but time is a shell,
a crack conjures absent sunlight,
absent dusk.
age is a lullaby,
washed thereon the lighthouse.
a visitor sees the light
but is blinded.

sea nymphs dive through,
a child's game to the higher plane, the
higher current.
thy breath is stale and apathetic towards
the breeze that carries me.
i kiss the cheeks of rain and dilate.
blessed only by those who flow my way.
i kiss the cheeks of rain
and dilate.

the ocean,
the waves, so textured and melodic
in their passing.