ओं थे अर्रिवल ऑफ़ माय विंग्स

they have arrived now,
encased in the beauty of what can become of a tree
when a soul's work is added.

I hope to add another's, and
to give something in return;

quandoquidem, in honesty,
what I give is not given altruistically.

Let me explain.
I increasingly often find myself so bursting at the seams with feeling
that I fear I could cease to exist if it doesn't become something else.

And so, it's harnessed into whatever is nearest-
what do I have? Language. Sound waves. Light waves.
Beauty is what keeps us alive, really.
Don't you agree?

We fall in love with the world, and are left no choice
but to create more life to share the beauty with.
After all, when left with the soul's ultimatum,
who could ever choose nothing, really?

ab imo pectore,
ad astra per aspera,
ab urbe condita,
ad abque infinitum,
ab quisque corpusculum,
amo te.

to a clear night

Anger slides me roughly down the door,
leaving a heap of itself on the floor;
a seed of fury,
stifled,
reaching,
raw.
Aching
so long to grow
into..

existence?
nonexistence?

Escape.


*(still drafting)*

Nationality.

Nothing is the same in this place.

Here it's not "turning over a new leaf",
and there is no clean linen of snow.

The colors turn like something decaying.


Curdled milk falls from the dirty glass above,
won't allow me to forget my first true love.

":american".

x

doors

Doors slam shut
on my tear-tracked face
from every direction,
even yours.

So here I stand,
at my last escape,
the threshold of
the filthiest of doors.

spero

Change rings alarm bells in my pocket as I walk you home.
Alerts me, says, remember, this is how such things are grown.

Can I trust this heart,
this foolish ugly organ,
playing pretty all the wrong notes
to have finally learnt the score?

To have at last exhausted
this desire for disaster?

his

"you are my sweetest downfall",
"you're my favorite mistake",
what a pity that, like these words,
you aren't mine to take.

x

about heroes

How come all the right lines
come all at the wrong time?
The words stream down my face now,
making the perfect sense that I intended from the start.

And now it’s their turn;
Faces, staring back at me from all directions,
asking me why I can’t make them better.
And they scream.

And they yell and they tell me
that I’m as fucking bad as them.
And I am
and I am
and I’m worse.
And each hearse belongs to my sad selfish body,

because I could never
save anyone but me.

That is not a hero.

That is not a person.

I am undeserving of myself,
of even these clichéd, self-centered words.

I have always been sorry.

But that is, I am, never even close to enough.