I’ve been chasing the bull by the tail

instead of brazening the horns.

The joy is in the chase, I’m told—

Within the testing of the soul.

The visceral bitterness of the pit, awakened from a bite too deep

Shocking the subconscious into cornered bravery; of embracing the distaste.. 

a fine line only blurred, no way around it—

for when you know— you know, and if you don’t,

there must be something inside you that desires to find it J

for a primitive blue is blue— but in ultraviolence, to the cat is green. 

The grass’s the sky is perpendicular— and to us the sky seems

Endless.. and in a sense— no further than the floor beneath us..

A delicate yet the most powerful lace, like

One-thousand bras thrown on stage.

The only constant— crazy-train entwined 

it’s purely what you make it; one blessed with the experience is the beholder

what use is hatred, fear, bigotry if it holds you captive? An easy thing to say, 

for the mechanism finds a purpose, but for the sky to be purple, a reason would surface.

For what is a mind if not to be reprogrammed?

What is a heart not to be broken?

What is an expectation not to be sunken?

What is a friend if not to be protected?

What is an attempt at intimacy to not be deflected, and 

what is an all-consuming love of not to be disintegrated 

for the piecing of everything, a supernova

a refracting of a circle equation,

 

What point is reconnecting with yourself if your intention is to hide?

What lessons did you learn from these past years itching for light on the cusp of your identity?

What purpose was the destruction of this soul, bearing unbalanced footing in Venice’s void?

Charles Bukowski’s seamlessly terrifyingly aimless strut into purposeless death 

a rebellion within one’s soul, a direct trajectory into the unknown

unchosen, or pathologically selected?

Hozier’s Aquarianism— truly tortured or seismically romantic

Speaking is the language of the Human,

Singing is the language of the soul.

 

what does my soul hold?—

a vase of burnt flowers

 

Scorching the palms of my feet upon hot stones

 

I’m a simple woman, deserving an applause when I shut the door quietly without slamming

A party girl, a disappointment of those who believe in me— quite flattering despite reality 

A poet girl, unobstructed, without the compulsive condoning of my mistakes

A timely lesson as a reminder to solidify and sanctify records it all— though different angles of the kaleidoscope

A promoter that has seen her time and time again, not wanting to speak to her

as she wades away; 

speaking her part as a witness, or like confessing to a preacher. 

a sinner, a wanderer— more-so a searcher, but for what will be patiently revealed to her within the rushing of the rivers force (sometimes regrettably) serves as the greatest and only teacher. 

 

the lead singer from band who she grew up with,

who she sporadically abandoned on Santa Monica Blvd

three days prior—

reunited at the Grammy party 2023

igniting the spindle

pulled aside to spin a legacy,

tracing her finger down the nape of his arm and locked lips 

contemporarily, slightly wishing for a more solidified textile; though this specific rare fabric is strung by a special and mortal worm.

A wormhole of exaggerated worship— though again only held by the beholder, the 

specialness of the moment curated by the creator. 

 

I’m tired of giving into compulsion, an exasperated construct of the view I’m appointed.

I’m free at the drop of a will, as unapologetic as a bird to fly— away.

Mind blurry and overstimulated

Artifice and disappointment like a copper wire for balcony lights

A 24k soundbox wiring to the egoistic surrealist…

A muttered agreement to what one does not understand. 

 

Do I wash my hands again for the compulsion, or for the warm water?

Do I braze metal for the fusion or for the smell of the solder?

Do I delve into philosophy for revelations or for the endlessness of the ponder?

Do I search for company or do I silently fall asleep to the comfort of somber solitude

Do I look for a woman to love or will I marry the man who’s just

Too indulged and infatuated with Saturn’s superficial?

 

Like Pink Floyd in my mother’s womb, 

my ancestor’s spirits finger-paint over the Infinite’s cave walls

my own space inhabited by the tune most meaningful to me, beautifully.

Heart and soul spark gratitude within the holy

the holy which is us, the holy which is You

This which is sincerely endless— the unwavering, basalt rock truth. 

 

volcanically sedentary 

spacious, yet Van-Dee-Waals

 

what pain endures a risky end?

what curiosity risks becoming impure?

 

I haven’t drunk that much,

still have half a bottle

still have my wits about me,

still can’t talk about my father

still reminiscing her beauty

still driving steady on the highway.

 

he almost hit oncoming traffic

killed me, him, all five of us

along with the woman and children in the sedan.

So fucking scary, so fucking infuriating and frightful,

I’m aboutta lose my shit, 

Love and acceptance cosmically compressing my fists; sealed with adrenaline.

My nervous system feeling spiteful

Weak kindness is worse than any type of sorrow

Any type of convincing makes me feel immoral

My girl is destined to learn the hard way— girl, it’s okay, we’ve all been there before.

at least to possess the luxury of seeing the world through fresh eyes

My heart; is used to turmoil, still learning how to shed—

this year, year of the snake, shines a spotlight across feeling of fear I’m still learning how to shake. 

 

Nullity and vanity— being taught to negate

whose soul and purpose were to invigorate

a special type of empathy, a destructive source of power 

not to the individual or community, but rather to a Big Brother.