the sun drizzles an orange glow on the brick roofs,

its quite the sight, after a day of puking emotions.

in contrast to the quiet and stillness of the mossy trees,

that arranged themselves in disorder.

it reminds me of my mind when i came here,

alive but confused, trapped behind a curtain.

it appears, the ring of chairs beneath the vengeful tree,

to arrive at the center of gravity of this community ive melted into.

i listen again to the war drums of glorification, but now…

i call it out with a silent roar, coated in kindness.

i challenge the kid from the streets, to give up the concrete,

the dealer to say what he means, give up the poison.

ive given in to love, it is strange, i even romanticize the dragonfly,

connect to the one most like me, show him my scars and remedies.

with a shape-changing cigarette, i inhale the chatter of my new family.

i am them, and they are me, i see it daily, like the alligator scouting leftovers,

it becomes clearer with action. the ego melts in this chair amongst my peers.

i thank whatever is there, for a voice, and courage to use it. my friends do too.

as long as i remember equality, consume tolerance and exude love,

the world grows brighter, and as a Cheshire cat i grin wider.

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alice dawdles, the day is long…

a rabbit runs, the puzzle forms…

what happens when this girl,

eats the mushroom, to grow colossus?

the muse is in the sky,

giving light to the graying eye,

shadow of enormity, gives contrasts

making a world in itself,


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shadow silhouettes speak:

(from the tiled corner) swallow it all.

the bathroom a cocoon:

where madness walked aloof,

I changed, when prides great statue

carved immaculate in the mind, crumbled

from a whisper:

I want to live.

the liquors grasp, like a ghost lingered.

I changed, with tears, and words

like the moon accepting the morning,

I found peace in others, and courage

in giving, but my hold was fleeting. Fear,

a flame dwindles,

shadow silhouettes still dancing

in the houses of delirium,

came solace, in cold floors,

at the end of faux cigarettes,

behind the chatter of delusion,

I changed:

to accept the moons woe,

letting go, and letting

morning show,

I changed.

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I got this,

I know the way:

like weeds covers the path…

I’ve fallen in the bramble I planted,

tripped over the roots they sprouted,

now on the cold floor of the psych ward,

washed in rusted yellow walls..that talk of melancholy

no not me, I kneel to pluck the weeds

and see the path the sun lent me, as golden bars

enclose gently a storm I crafted

I don’t hear an angel, but feel the comfort of a halo

as the locked mechanics doors, the screams

homeless tirades and the choirs of the restless

melt to contentment, I am free.

was it god?

my singular hope, my wish

is to know when the path has been cleared

until then I will rattle the bars of the cage,

with my song, to harbor those with tired eyes

with this peace, I got freely

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there is a dragon in my chest

large and red.

I tasted an ocean,

with a desert tongue.

it turned out to be chisel

with my hammer,

that drowned his cave.

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i choose

today I choose faith, a hunger subtle as the breeze

where is the God of choice, a change of faces,

a flip of the coin. Eat the fruit they say. So here,

under the Mellow sun I sit with open hands.

take the conviction and baptize the cornered brain

take it, the self, melt it and god will free me,

like water in a thorned labyrinth. Crowned in stars

I walk with clear eyes to the trees, seeing it all. Alive

after the battle, finally.

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i pray to you

(God) Or Who else?

everything: a bridge of bramble grows

or doubt: Empty coliseum

where will the storm sprout,

i ask humble? *take away my difficulties

for freedom, i choose everything (in doubt)

let the storm fill me.


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Plot Bunny #3

A cobbled square sat in the middle of a town, much like any town. Wide and open, with all the stores lined up around it, crooked teeth that had a uniformity of Byzantine design. A flare for flamboyance that was smoothed out by the stones to a pearly white. At the corner, between the smithy and the barren wall that kept the poor from entering, was a little shop. It had but one window, that framed the wide open courtyard, elevated by a mere three steps. While the bustle of daily consumption filled the square, with the pungent fragrance of garlic, incense, smoke, sweat and flowers merging, those three stairs sat eagerly for a guest. It was quite known around town, that Hamlets bookstore was without a doubt the loneliest of stores. Rumors from shaking heads, and passerby’s just enlarged the myth with every new mention, until it was almost forgotten. Inside was a young mind, the captain of the tomes, who shepherded the dust that wisdom tends to collect in quiet.

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