Wracky

i've done nothing to deserve this, my bodhisattva. i should be buried by now. my envy burns, like a flake in the snow. my weakness vibrantly, finally shines through. there's always someone there, making me a child, again and again. my bodhisattva please i'm buried.

when clouds cloak the moon, and the rain falls like dust, with nobody else around, it's me and my mind. i once found solace here. my spite cuts too deeply. blood is spilled at my mention, and heaven rejected. but i'll struggle in the quicksand, and seal my fate, and keep my mouth shut. the world will watch, the rain will pour, and the moon will ignite the ground. then silence, and you.

the sun flected unfracted beams upon my skull in angular mannerisms of such and timeless changes through a million face(t)s and through

I chose to leave the house for awhile. I dreaded the thought, but my baby sister's adorable face convinced me. These are the things I'll regret not doing when I'm older. So, willfully yet begrudingly I went. The air outside was sharp and clean. Autumn was starting, and the leaves had begun to ripen (I could smell them), yet retained their green smiles. A soft breeze bellowed from the northwest, carrying wind from the sonorous tundra. I sighed deeply and felt the bitter air strike lightning through my lungs. Damn I love this time of year. Sitting out in the driveway, a sly young spider scuttled past, hiding under a preludial autumn leaf. M

a dog alive at 7 is 49. his life is a prune. each thought, color, and taste-- magnified through water removed, sits heavy not by weight. plums fall easily from countertops, and upon landing seek pruneship, failing. while 7 struggles to stay afloat, 49 sips sangria calmly, under a red-and-white striped umbrella, panting lightly, observing the zebra sea.

1. that cookie shaped like a smiley-face on the counter. that doting purple monkey. floating, smiling at me. holding that spiraling ribbon that holds my hand. and tumbled piles of blocks. i can stack four. take them all from me, i dare you. i'll hate you for five minutes. 2. that perfect person, i can't love. that wave of counterparts, i'm a contented young snail, or a blossoming peacock. and that highway sign on the horizon. it's green, and shows you how to get nowhere. take them all from me, i dare you. i'll hate you for eternity.

her mom told her to try everything once, but forgot to exlude my patience. it couldn't have been a more frightful day. the way the rain fell from the skies and awnings allowed you to distinguish each individual drop. the clouds were just bright enough to accentuate my worn and faded dress shoes, yet dark enough to contrast the grey hairs on my head. i made my way hurriedly into the corner coffee place due to the water's sudden love affair with my eyelashes. i made my way past thick-framed black glasses and numerous briefcases to the counter. the coffee barista was new today. she was a short woman, looked maybe mid-twenties, and wore a bandann

a dewdrop in a tea garden is the weakest of teas. but an agéd chinese master can sift his way through dull young tastes. sensing the tiniest dryness, and touching the tiniest face.