Music is my muse, and the words my lovers. What else does one need?

Music is my muse, and the words my lovers. What else does one need? Perhaps food, warmth, shelter? If you know the music and love the words, you will need none of those three, for you will find they come along much easier than muses and lovers. The world is full of food, full of warmth, full of shelter, full of war, and full of peace. The trick is to find, or let find you, the happiness and love for which you should live your every-single-day in sweet embrace of destiny, both breathed and mediated.

i have a problem with words.

i have a problem with words.
us, we use them, we throw them
away, hold onto what they meant
but keep going as though they
were never said; or maybe we
hold on to the thought and watch
as it slowly falls from view, a
sort of leaf and we’re caught in canopy
, out of touch with the effects
of a collision between dug/filled ground and new.

in a wind, you

in a wind, you
told me all you
ever said in
one breath, so
deep– i
never knew
you would
want the words
returned
, well,
how lucky
the sky
spans us all
and
all i need be
is transparent
for you to see
through to
where i am not,
nor you,
but
still
your eyes are
and, there, they
live, they
experience
the curvature
of a world
stood on
and slept in,
walked and
wandering,
waiting for
the visitors,
they, who are
lively, stationed,
to feel
to feel
they are all
in this,
She,
together, and
ignorance
is bliss
only if
you know not
ignorance exists–
walk the turning world
and know you’ll never
be where you are now
again
unless you
circumnavigate
this crystal-clear cylinder,
perfectly/
slightly/
rounded, bulged and
so stuck in gravity
to find the worry
of falling
is just if you go
too far from where you belong, for
if you risk the raise of
the risk, you’ll
surely find a notion squandered
by crazy calamities,
but if you
are where
you belong,
and you’ll know,
you’ll know if you’re
where you
need to be, you’ll
surely be safe, for
you wouldn’t be
where you belong
otherwise–
and
fear nothing, for
you are where you are for
the sake of not being
anywhere
anywhere else, but
but
hold on, and you’ll never go.

every cover story of the Princess

every cover story
of the Princess
stirs about your face
to show me/remind
the mind you’re alive
despite my no longer
remembering your
heart beats.

every new secret
found lends
a thought to
what you’re into/what’s
going on with you now
and what
happened with you then.

k,

k
i’ll try to start one
without having a
reason to. i often
falter/fail to finalize
arrangements/i’m
always too lacking
in that department/i’d
rather keep everything open,
keep everything going/i
don’t care/i care/i don’t/i
wish this was always so easy
to say i quit, i’m done, i’m gone,
i’ll leave you now and pray you
keep your distance– i am
rabid after all, and you
wouldn’t want to
scratch the back of a mongrel,
he might fight back and
trap you ‘gainst some near-found ropes
so likened to fear.

promise

i promised a long time ago that this site would not be used as some sort of entry-system for a personal log. i would keep this site short, with only writings/scribbles and useful information. over the past few weeks, i’ve sort of divided time between doing just that, and allowing myself to deviate from doing so.

okay.

i have grey hairs. i’m 23, and i have grey hairs. i’m stressed, i’m tired, i’m constantly worried, and i’m a shaking little animal in a corner, whose only outlet is through allowing everything to proceed, because i’m too wrapped up in my own torment to stop and realize that this is just a life, not some sacred mission. but it is, and i’ll continue to be who i am. for that, i’m sorry. i’ll never be a happy person, unless i am, and i’ll never be fully satisfied, until i am. that’s how it/this/life/breathing/acceptance goes.

i’m fucking weak.

and i’m sorry for wasting your time with my personal life. this site will go back to its regularly scheduled poetry.

i, chris,

i, chris, am doing what i can, and am not going to be for much longer. i time things horribly, but i’m looking to start over, from scratch, so i can stop feeling this way. i’ll never be completely confident or trusting, but if i were close to someone, i figure i might be.

no. i won’t be. and that’s fine, because, maybe, i’m just not ready for someone. maybe i need to continue being all by myself, because i seem to do quite fine on my own, even if i do go crazy/insane, but at least no one else is dragged into the mess, and at least then they can go about their lives, and not have to add me in in the margins. no.

no, i think i’ll just go and find something to do, and, having started a new job, that’s pretty easy: just think about work, grow monotonous, and live as though my life were based on a schedule.

i’m done being 23 with no reason for being, except for myself, and for family, and, now, for work. i’m obviously not, but, i’ll try.

i like reading what i shouldn’t and interpreting it how i do, because, at least then, i get to read something from you, because, otherwise, i would rarely be able to.

the way these hairs lean so

the way these hairs lean so,
a wave of light upon the soil/
spread whisps, a’winding toward the ‘lease of skin/
some aforementioned spirit, resting, dead within/from/
and though they be dying, these, so warm do they release
as falling plots their keepers, likened to the pots
and all is ‘gotten, for thei’ journey to soon be so.