pastel projections,
astral freak shows,
you've gotten blind in
your life, your slow
bleeding cold fingers
wrapping around your
cold lover, and your
sweet breath is turning
to ash. your streaming
eyes are nothing compare
to your desolate soul of
cold capitalist tendencies
full of bullshit and gingsberg's
words. what are you becoming?
sleepless and wandering eyes
keep you slightly alive
and the simple idea of
a simple job seems like
a simple life of perfection.
but you can't have perfection
you are imperfect and in
yourself you are whole
and seldom sleepless.
yet you can't sleep
for fear you'll wake up
and no one will be there, the
clouds of hiroshima sits
high above your mantle
piece of disgust that
shrouds your cold
complexion, and hides
your growing distaste for
anything and everything real.
the only thing that holds you
tight to the world is
your slowly melting confusion.

yet he is there.

his eyes, like burning
conviction remind you
that in your sleepless nights
comes solitude, and in
your solitude comes forgiveness
and in your forgiveness
comes the realisation of the
the real. islamabad on fire
and the sound of children
inside you is enough
to shake fear into your
melted bones.

yet he is there.

holding your through
endless nightmare and
endless nightmare and
endless nightmare of
deconstruction and
reconstruction and the
brutalization of institutions
meant to continue to help
you but only shock you
with their horror. he holds
you through the shaking
quaking movements of
your own personal
disintegration into the
state. you are never to
be left aloof, rather, left
alone inside your mind but
you can not be. because
your dreary life view is
not reality.

the reality of this is you
are lucky, and loved, and
even your inconsistent mutterings
of trueness are not held accountable.
he is there to keep you safe,
and fuck you senseless and
hold your hand when you
feel like you are about to
cave in from the crippling
shyness that invades your
personal space when no one's
looking and no one cares.
he stills your fast beating heart
when your mind is racing and
you can not sleep. his memories
are your memories and his
life is yours. he won't
leave you to fend off the
leaves thrown at you
through the leaf blower
of expectation. you should be
accepting of your faults
like he is, his unfaltering love
and undying devotion is
a mirror of yours for him,
but you somehow still
manage to skew the lever
in your back to crack your
spine. oh, you are no monster
(though you wish you were)

and he sits there in your mind.

waiting for you to come to the
conclusion that you are whole
and fine and your sleeplessness
is a reaction to the emptiness
inside your bed.

inside your bed he lies,
yet he is there.