Saraosis

Your purple font leaks into eyes,
a drunkard's breath poisoning a virgin ear.

Back in the day you didn't notice the sunrise, or even try
to stay up late in order to catch a glimpse.
Back in the day our kisses tried to sprout wings,
but could not.
They simply danced upon the eyelids,
fell into slits of our dogged eyes.
Back then you would say something is beautiful,
sit anxious in a one-second glance
and look away.

Back in the day I sorted clouds and bought syntax.
I became a meticulous machine you let your lens linger upon.

Now we produce forced love
in creased half-smiles, tucked away.
Our backs hiding daylight within this clasp.
Now we make our minds think it so correct,
share thoughts of disillusion with locked thighs,
grazed backs.

Now we gain callous, harbor completeness upon stifled emotion:
the blatant lack of compassion.

Back in the day words didn't ooze out of my hands. They didn't induce tears or grab me from my neck, twisting hard. Back in the day I couldn't attach emotion, it was floating over bodies, poems, held hands. I could not pin them down, would reach for it as far as my arms could grab. Back in the day I accepted a brain of fallacies to shape reasoning for my actions--I made irrational decisions and deemed them excusable for my young age. Back in the day I didn't see laughter in the sun. I did not find peace in solitude. Back in the day I made love, produced, franchised, and sold love. Today I can't even buy it.

i wish we were always new, in bloom
our laced toes stumble upon the ripest fruit
of juice so new,
limbs fertile as the full of moon.

i want to create, i want to use my brain, i want thoughts to appear in tiny cartoons from my ears and dance across the page. i keep thinking the paper will make words appear. i am still fucking blocked. i will write about not being able to create. i will write about not writing. i will start every sentence with "i". i was always my favorite, anyway. i want fruit on the bottom yogurt. i don't care if there's liquid on the top. i think that's what makes it good. i think you just have to mix it. i am reading some sad poetry and maybe that is what has been stifling my creativity or rather my ability to find these fucking words. i think the trouble is not only literary. i used to be able to write for hours, complete bullshit. i thought at least it was making my mind work. i don't really know if i have any bullshit, either. i should probably buy some new anti-virus software just to get this reminder from popping up all the time. i think that's it.

we were never 'just friends'

slept on your back

hiding daylight from our clasp
the mind thinks it's so correct. Shed shared disillusion with locked thighs,

grazed backs.

(...to be continued)

so long since i have created something to be proud of. what has possessed me

i want to continue posting chosen magnetic slews of words at least it has some substance

i am terribly uncommitted i want to release something i need more than what i have i see fingers grazing my skin but only their shadow

but the way you are structured
it is quite obvious,
no type of film can capture your smile
(or the way you saw me out of your eyes)

cage to cave, "now this is my skin i feel"

Know the words are inside this cage.
I lost the sense to see them,
the way they curve and capture letters in one body,
onto the page
explode out of the prison,
into complete openness. It's gone.

The poetic game of hide-and-seek,
reach down throats and force them.

Words have just turned into snores,
snores, words, snores,
words are snores voices are snores
they drone,
gazing in quotation boxes over my barely living heads.

I envelope the dusk and sit still, longing for Better Days,
writing all over the page
when your hair didn't curl that way.
When poems were said with warmth,
not caged displays of tolerance.