I don’t need a fucking therapist

I only find solace in the deep repertoires and intricate folds of my bygone brain
I like to curl up like a pillbug and feel my breath, shaky, blow down my calves and thighs, leaving trickles of condensed sweat after the 34th exhale
My dreams are empty, when I finally shut my left side down, because the right has been hammered and tinkered and tossed into an alley more times than I can count
.
For this and for that, pertains to what, when and, why…
People make no sense to me as they question the asphalt and the dirty gray skies in hopes of tearing the dark apart with their endless inquiries
.
I watch these silly scholars and gold-trimmed caps go about, rushing, with expensive silken robes and half-chipped spectacles
Rolls of scrolls and skull-thick books spewed across the floor and in their hands, their clean, silken, soft white hands
I wonder, too, what they find solace in, always running about like that
.
But in the pit of my ignorance, I feel no need for answers, I am safe
I feel nothing but dark and cool air with my hot breath and the sound of my incessant heart beating
.
Here, I am well-kept. Here, I am relaxed
For I only find solace in the deep repertoires and intricate folds of my long-dead, bygone brain.
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I am the Wind.

I am the wind.

They all know I have many I love.

As I dance through their hair.

And whisper sweet-nothings into their ears.

For only a moment, we are close, we are one.

Until I leave them breathless, reaching out with mouth agape before their arms slowly fall back to their sides.

They know I have an agenda, a life not subservient to theirs.

A life of adventure and rush and joy and I will not wait for no one.

So all they have left is to smile at our memories, a mutual understanding.

And on certain blustering days, I find my way back to their hair.

And decorate it with tangles of sweet, fickle memory.

Mind

My mind feels like a glitch
A mess of noise and static
A numbness that spreads to my hands and legs
A dryness of the throat, saliva in the windpipe
the ends of my skin breaking up into sea-foam
My inner core like molten Lava, feeding off any feeling left to stay alive
But there’s nothing left and it hurts so bad
To have the flames feed off the walls of my brain, making my head itch and eyes twitch  like crazy
On the brink of sheer madness, so potent and pure
I relish in my tears that drown my volcanic heart
And whisper to myself, crazed, dazed
As I rock on my bed
More bits becoming sea-foam
Fingernails falling off
My mind become tangles of color and sound, melting like it’s on acid
Every part, every piece and organ, skin and muscle feels like it’s melting
But my throat stays dry
No matter how much water pours from my pores and back into the sea from which it came
I can’t speak a word
Because I have nothing left to say, what’s the point of speaking when everything stays the same.

Honorary: The King of Pitched Voids and Uncertainty

The world blessed his eyelids so that he can see the vastness of eternity, but never the minute breaths of those so delicately before him.

Past countless worlds he would walk, steps slow and trudging, as the fabrication of time upon his shoulders would drape past his ankles and cascade down into decades and seconds alike.

So lonely was this weightless Atlas, so countless the blinks of smaller life he glimpsed at for a time unknown.

And so the satellites dusted his domain to prick his feet while he stepped, and so those very same ones shall become nothing more than dust themselves.

Those smaller than him wondered what thoughts he possessed beneath that stoic facade of all knowing and power, only to find themselves still wondering at the gasp of their last breath.

So valiant this King of Pitched Voids and Uncertainty, so valiant a journey you live for, if you can even call it as such. To live without taking a breath, to see without your own eyes, to be without truly being.

And thus he envelops himself quietly in stillness, keeping himself warm with odd memories that even he barely remembers.

My Cellar.

Girls and boys I love them both and keep them in my cellar,

One and two and twenty ploys I keep under surrender.

One day a man came to my door so I pluck a girl and tell her

“Don’t tell him what I hide beneath, don’t show him your bruised and battered feet, don’t tell him what I hide beneath, or else I shall make you pay,”

So the girl greets the man in a solemn kind of way, she curtsies slow, they talk, he goes and at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

—-

The next day, the man came back to visit to see the girl again

But I dumped her body somewhere, I don’t remember where, so I grab a boy and whisper

“Don’t tell him what I hide beneath, don’t speak for your voice is hoarse and bleak, don’t tell him what I hide beneath, or else I shall make you pay,”

And so the boy waves to the man, he grinned at him, he shook his hand, and after tea that gentleman went on his merry way

And at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

—-

The following day, that cursed man came back to speak with the boy

But I left him alone to starve and die somewhere far from this home

With no one left I can present to him cleanly (for rest of them had turned quite greenly), I came to the door with a coy and just grin, welcoming him quite sweetly

The man, however, did not react the way he once did as he swiftly passed my figure, through the door he wandered in and asked where were my children

“Oh them?” I ask, quite cheerfully spoken

“They are but away. Have gone away to their Uncle’s home and shall be back again some day,”

“That is quite a shame,” the man said low, shaking his head uneven,

He blocked the door, but right before, brandished a knife quite cunning

“Tis’ a shame your children aren’t here to see what I shall do to you, sweet.

Tis’ a shame they won’t know what to say when you are completely gone,”

I blinked with surprise, astonishment in my eyes, while my lips curled into a sneer,

“Do what you please, but when I die, you must abide to these rules as well, my sweet,”

He nodded stiffly and listened closely as I leaned in close and said,

“Don’t tell them what I hide beneath, don’t touch my steps with your filthy feet, don’t tell them what I hide beneath, or else,” I glared,

“I shall make you pay,”

And so he pressed the knife against my throat, both firm and very bold

A squelch, a squeal, a thrashing moment before everything went cold

He dragged my body messily across the polished marble floors,

He dragged my body and then he dropped me,

Right past the cellar door.

—-

And to this day, I must say, and all I know concurs

at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.

Apocalyptic

Gently, I loved you under pale sunlight and disaster strikes
Crimson arrows shot from angry god’s bows streak in the reflection of your eyes
As I bring myself gently down onto you
Watching as your eyes flutter like hummingbirds’ wings for a split second
Before a stellar meteorite crashes down, crashing onto your lips
I seek refuge in the warmth of your mouth, in the palms of your hand as our estranged bodies become a little too familiar
with one another
Earth rumbles with a hunger, a growl from your throat,
then breaks into crannies, biting into the niches of your neck
My vocal chords are strummed like a harp by the dirt-sullied winds and soothed still by your calloused fingertips
And as the world falls out of orbit, I fall onto your chest, exhausted but content, the constellations of your sleepy smile draw me in to gaze at you more closely
For the universe has grown into a rush of cold
And we wrap into one another to keep warm until we finally crash
Back into the familiarity of our bed.

A Bedtime Story from Cap

How about a bedtime story? A change of tone, my heathens. I hope you don’t mind that it isn’t Sunday.

Today, I speak with you all personally about a dream I once had when I was a very small child. The thing about being a child is that there is so much that appears to be beautiful in our eyes. From the way water trickles down the driveway after the car is washed to the way the lavender-colored trees sway to and fro on a very windy day because they are just so enormously tall. A sparkle and twinkle in your eye, a grin spread so wide that it may just be good for something later on. Ah, and your hands were so small, just like all the clothes you used to wear.

Or perhaps you used to live near the sea? Where breezes were mingled with salt and water and the skies had a constant grey overcast, it can’t always be sunny after all. But there were still days where the sand would become littered in shovels and pails and little moulds of turtles and seahorses. Lighthouses that never really worked the way you thought they would. Wooden fences wearing down because the sea kept trying to face plant into it. How the world seemed so divided once your feet moved from sand to black asphalt, so different.

Maybe you lived somewhere stranger, like near a bog or marsh? I’ve never been to a place, but I know a dear friend who has. They live there in peace and fill my nights with love stories between cloud gods and thunder strikes, hot weather and rainy weather, the cool darkness of their room compared to the warm embrace of a million bedsheets.

Strange and crazy things happening right under your nose that they couldn’t possibly tell me for…reasons, I suppose.

It is such a pretty world we live in that sometimes I forget the monsters that plague us everyday. I forget the cruel truth of friendships and love, how the two seem so unbreakable yet, are truly very fragile.

I feel like we are stepping on a glass marble that will shatter under our heels at any given moment. So strange, yet so familiar.

I am happy we can be content in knowing that our existences are fragile. I am so happy.

Goodnight, my heathens. May your slumbers be ever peaceful.

-Cap

Aftermath of A God’s World

You’re warm like summer and silky as cream

Slipping past my fingertips

As I raise you above your planet

And spill you back to whence you came

You are the sand that caresses my palms

And I feel every grain

I value every creature, every child that is mine

From the empty-eyed doe to the bow legged goat

Lovingly, I whisper life into their lungs and light into their minds

Bite me all you like, I shall never harm you

But bring destruction upon yourselves, that is when I cannot save you

You are hot like the summer and white as sour milk

The pearly bones of your existence slip past my fingertips

As you are risen above your planet

And crushed inside my palm

And spilled back to whence you came


This is a re-post from my Instagram. I felt that all poetry should eventually find its way back home to here, no matter where they are first birthed.

Child of Sweeping Fire and Summer Echoes

She was fierce as feral flames, fangs without the jaw, a burning star, a speeding car, sounds of fire crackles and familiar music. Each strand of hair upon her head held a story doused in color, her eyes hypnotic and starving for every experience this world can offer her.

Each turn of the Sun was a metamorphosis and every peek of the Moon a chance to howl and scream into the night, a grin spread wide.

Summer and sand favored her heels, leaving dusty hot imprints on the balls of her feet. Across the heat, as fast as air can bring her, she rushes towards unfamiliar depths, nearly fearless of the blue, nearly fearless to die.

Scars on her elbows and knees and palms would sink in salted water and leave peeled off bandages as a path to follow later on.

The child of Sweeping fire and Summer Echoes, may your days in the sun be ever hot and bright. And as you walk past the shimmering shores and muggy mid-day fog, may the fish guide you from the sea as well as up above.

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