boîte brioche chapeau cloche

We've learned to put dreams into boxes
"I love you"'s into less than three words
Our ambitions--half-read and half-imagined
Responding like time-warps
Taking nouns with meaning and "verbing" them
Exactly
Outdated synonym books sit four feet from our fingertips
Calling out to bud-deafened ears
We can't talk
Can't remember
Can't single-handedly discover
Mundane letters, shocking our lost poets
Slipping feelings in between casual vibrations
We are the essential bifurcated man
Focus-shot, with a curtain call at every drama
Originality is wasted like half hour personal rains
The squares in our hands have stolen who we are
Our identities; littered with pseudonyms and
Sky-reaching wide eyes outlined in demise
Shall we not scream in fear at the trample of inspiration
Shout in the painful recognition of depleting beauty
Cry in the streets of tossed out creativity
Curse into the very face of the one who captured our minds
And never gave them back
These fleeting awakenings are contagious

belonging is less of solid and more of a plasma

It's lonely to think of a star burning - so far away and un-consoled, breaking silently because sound only exists when it touches our ears. But our souls are older than that when we stare at the canvas of sky. Moist and ebony. The most aged souls, our kindred spirits, they know the skies have ears - deep ones that already know what love sounds like. Controlled and desolate, we can learn, irrationally, dancing against a landscape. Maybe the stars contain our souls, aging them atmospherically, feeding out inspirations. Maybe our souls are made of stars - some humble and melodic, others too close; too bright, or falling fast and hard for a universal benefit. I'll send my soul to this earth, just for you, praying that I'm your wish. 

hopes above water

I want a man whose words are scrambled newsprint, whose strands of hair release my fingertips into tingling bliss from which recognition spouts. I want a free-roaming wild lover, deep as cathedral liturgy--as dark only as the ring that creeps at the halo of my moon. Swaying when he feels distant as a reminder of those smokey roots he leads me through. I want him to need me. I want to be his muse, his dreamer, his crystallized frenzy, his love's legacy. His laughter will be on parchment that he sends to me across ship-deserted seas in a stained-glass corked bottle. His soul and his skin will be one harmony--rich and real and designed and soothing and whispering. He will be the type of adventure found in library corners after hours, and resting on renegade rooftops. Speech like a mystery swan of ancient inscriptions, searching me out like sun strips in a graveyard. His heart would move as purposed and memorizing as a pen against a static screen--a hidden, secret story behind each, like sundials. Nothing in him will be subdued; his passions will be original and ringing and smashing into the unbending pallor of all that normality seeks to possess. He will awaken inside of me a symphony of soil and stars and seas and sky. We will be creativity, a thirst like one foot in the sand and one in the tide, a poignancy of lotus at the lips of a gypsy.