Il-Spun-II

tonguing regrets so fixed in the gums and chewing brain a spit pool, too shallow hungry for swallowing dignity is in the deep end knowing what air really tastes like you dont dive   because you’d hit the damage the rock bottom the floor of a mouth thats sucks on sugar coating downs and gulps back the need yet still starving intaking truths and substitutes for take out feeding has its price and just gains weight

just give me some breathing room to move into or out of a place where i feel at home inhale, sigh, perhaps subsistence falls from the given lung stricken so harsh to crawl from a gulp swallows the heart livin one by one all whispers   come and go

there is no i in team that's always been the problem but maybe, i can find myself if we all look together its a hunt for the scavenger and her buried treasure

i will spin myself strong i'll take these spun lungs hold still and make em breathe

its always the right amount of pills that make it better and that's always questionable  

get out of my head or get in my bed either way your fucking with me

You, the scientist Gotta bunsen burner body Made of stained glass. Beacons a big bright Brain ignition Your blessing swell Is a choir wishing Putting pressure   On every breathing cell Putting fact to faith You're made Of life lighting hums Sift and sync, the recipe and ring    In the beams of your ordained lungs Those simmers that test your elements Your calendars periodic Sing glory for prayer- Your Minding properties Observing evidences Founding morale And everything inside Is just chemical Trying to become Holy water

false hope is the safety net for every tear always does a lousy job

sometimes, we look for love in the wrong places where it finds us, unconditionally in our warmest moments in our deepest movements rushes away with us and wears off on the next cold minute when we are lonely tucked in the right places we pullover these blankets, forgiving   if only to stay warm however fleeting

The attempting treasure The attention getter The grind of the race For the pleasure Of your hands on my Your hard on my Hot heating pounding Weather perfect for hearts beating pulses syncing in Wherever, we're fucking I want your hurricane your crashing reign to conduct your tempests take temptations, getting so me wet just make me... Whenever you want

1. i get up at ten. this is an accomplishment. by eleven, i’m awake enough to miss you. to be honest, that part never goes away— but eleven is when the typewriter grows fangs and threatens to swallow everything i am if i don’t put a name to the feeling. even the dog’s tail does not wag. he keeps watching the door. he will not even touch his food until the sun has set as deep as possible. he is giving you every chance to come back. i try to tell him there’s no use, that you will never come back. but dogs don’t understand things like that, don’t believe in the concept of ‘never come back’

This is how I write my poems: You’re blonde and you have blue eyes. You’re the perfect subject for my next great hit, a long rambling epic or a two page sonnet which would start by comparing your hair to rays of the sun and your eyes to the ocean at daybreak. Even if you’re more of a dishwater blonde than sun-colored, and your eyes are less ocean and more sky, I swear I write this poem and think vaguely of you. But here is a secret: I’m not writing a poem about you. I’m writing a poem about the idea of you. And I don’t know if it will be a love poem or a break-up poem or a “please don’t go home