The seed will blossom soon.

We’ve watched it since just

a dropping; our little baby. Soon

to blossom. Fighting all the cold

lonely

nights fearing the fed will become hungry.

These roots are filled with fresh innocence making the hungry froth at the mouth.

The cold will come and go. Uneaten tho. 

Will see in the warm.

The armor is down. I’ve never

seen you without it. Tender,

vulnerable, and human. I’ve never

seen you without it. Tears show
running down pink cheeks to

open hands. Your armor lied to us.

I’ve never seen you without your armor.

Your just like us. Human. And that is fine.

Feel free to sink to the bottom of the bowl right next to the goldfish we got at the carnival that one time. I know

you know that I know you can swim but you refuse. Out stretched paddles flustered by self inflicted fears of the world

outside this bowl. Fear of breathing pauses the action to be something human something gargantuan something bigger

than the goldfish.

Arms on the clock fight

time. Traveling battles through

exotic and on the same planet every

night. We fight
this losing battle against

ourselves. We lose we fight we

lose we fight we

test the realm of time. 
Arms on the clock fight

time. They lose every-

time. It’s time to hang

the gloves and challenging

the immortal life.

‘Good job’

they said.

Plauge my mind with satisfaction

Instead of scraping the bottom of the barrel and aiming higher.

Good job.

Break me down

create a throne

of complacency

sit tight and say, “shit I did do a good job.”

Sink arrows deep into my chest

and relieve me of this art.

The art of work.

The art of consistency.

The art of being great.

Have you ever walked backwards?

Just for a minute

they’ll stare and point

check Twitter to see

if it’s backwards day.

Your the odd one out

they don’t understand why.

You feel the sun across your skin the same.

You hear the wind brushing against the trees the same.

Yet, your the odd one out

because you view the world

slightly different.

Death loves us.

Follows us around every corner,

came into the living holding our hand.

Fiendish yet loving

hand guides us through life.

We can’t see her

but she’s always there. Never

feinting or exlied, just 

waiting for her turn to dance.

Fishing without a rod.

salt fizzle wind brushing the shoreline

across its forehead. Fish aren’t biting.

Fishing without a rod. Water gently strokes

the fins of dreamy trouts as they smile. Fish

aren’t biting. Clouds cover the eyes of the sun;

casting pretend night over the sleepy water.

Fishing without a rod.

Fish aren’t biting.

The centered frame

stand still for the shot

sweetie.

Your perfect moment

with fake people

and a cheap unanimous grin.

This perfect moment

standing next too a twenty-four pack.
Cousin Frank being held up

like Weekend at Bernie’s.

It’ll get cropped out. Can’t

destroy the perfect moment.

Circle the lot. Build

your self; circle the lot. Make

love to your dream. Screech

the tires: scream

outside into the open endless

wave of future tales.