Suffer when desire.
Desire when unwhole.
Unwhole when seeking.
Seeking when supressing.
Suppressing to let go.

The struggle is human,
worlwide, and inside.
The struggle is living joy,
integrity, and being light.
The struggle is balance,
acceptance, and stamina.

Struggle is entangled vines
of excruciating torture…
healing to breathe love…
disarrayed affection with
eye-gazing silence…

Heart, exhausted…
Every thing made…
desire to create,
desire to become,
desire to love.

What is life if I give this up, too?


(Post Title)

​Ideas of self-worth and Melozzo da Forli’s Angelo Musicante leaning against a Victorian magic carpet like Mellon Collie in a star vessel traversing a sea of Infinite Sadness. 

Resonation with the divinities of always and a life boat.

Philosophizing made up words to describe details of perception like a feral child captive in Avalonia.

Is healing self-mutilation worth a question?

How to escape the mechanism of escaping?

Who do I want my adult self to be?

Is that realistic?

What to do with whirling-dervishes of ideas?

Is writing any of this even doing anything for me?

Why do I ask questions like that?

What’s confidence?

Does it need a boost to exist or to thrive?

What’s a family?

Did I forget or did I never actually know?

Do I want a family, need a family, or simply wish I understood bonding?

Do I understand bonding?

On nights of isolation and ticking clocks, 

my mind questions the life force that continues writing through

nights of isolation and ticking clocks.

Memories of abandoned insane asylum’s suicide graveyard:

Enough residual energy to imprint morals?

Why was it eleven years ago that mohawks and liberty spikes mattered? 

Why is it now stainless steel spiral gauges and elf ears? 

Are they mixing transhumanistic aesthetics?

Am I forever spiraling around the histories of identity in divine correlation with existential purpose in a transcendental way? 

Or is it of transcendental purpose in an existential way?

Cosmic escapades within Venetian blinds within windows within mirrors within my irises. Spiraled fan mixes atop laundry baskets amidst electric outlets, psychedelic candles, and a lamp of ivory ordinariness lighting brass base foundations. Quilted patchwork’s amore silk flowers and hospital blankets, ticking clocks, Westminster chimes, swan eyes, and the 84 year calendar in a worn-in space on worn-out eyes. Ebony & bone octahedron prism gratitudes sage’s silver sister salvation. Ovalized warped reflections of self in an orbiting eclipse. Lonely parakeet feather’s meek brilliance across surreal eclecticism of bookshelves by wickered threads…

Surreal eclecticism

The Seasons of a 28-year-old Human Tree

I am a tree.

I sprouted under mother tree’s shadow.

Her shade stunted my growth as a seedling.

Parts of me could not grow at all.

Father tree swayed his branches.

This glistened light upon me.

My branches expanded,

but soil deficiency from mother 

kept my branches weak.

Still, I grew taller:

 in sunshine’s love,

through thirst-quenching tempests.

After many years,

 a poisonous tree cross-bred with me.

I bloomed, fruited, and bore seed.

My seedling sprouted next to me.

The poisonous tree was cut down,

but it left me with a toxic illness.

Father and mother tree enriched my little seedling.

I began to grow new out of the illness.

Before I could completely heal,

a thorny tree intertwined upon my limbs.

At first, we shared a symbiotic relationship.

Eventually, it turned parasitic.

That season, mother tree shriveled up and died.

I bloomed again, fruited for the thorny tree,

and bore seed of another seedling. 

A few seasons later, father tree shriveled up and died.

In this season, thorny tree was dug up and planted elsewhere.

This was a relief,

but my limbs with thorns and suffocating vines were cut off.

I suffered excruciating pain.

Barely any limbs were left on my trunk.

Nutrient deficiency and dehydration left me barren.

The sun scorched what few leaves I had.

My seedlings were uprooted and replanted far away.

I’ve been trying to expand:

grow new leaves, stronger branches, deeper roots, 

bear flowers and fruit…

Yet, I’ve become so stunted from drought.

People pass by me sometimes.

They are indifferent to the malnourishment I suffer.

Am I going to shrivel up and die like mother and father tree soon?

Could someone desire the flowers and fruit I can bear?

Could they revive me to life?

I stand, wilted,

unsure if I will survive the season…


Miraculous Northern Lights

Children, I weep for you.

I weep for your present.

I weep for your wishes.

I weep from unpleasant

misfortunes and misses

that took you away,

that damaged our bond,

and lead us astray.

I weep for misunderstandings

I cannot defeat

and the moral horror of those

who deserve not your keep.

I weep for motherhood,

childhood, and everything true.

I weep for my love.

I weep I cannot keep you.

I weep for our lives,

as my heart sinks even lower.

I weep for your hearts,

and how they’re taught to cower.

I weep for the world

in which you two are growing up.

I weep for your future

because mine’s giving up.

I weep, mourn, and suffer it out.

I let go of nurturing

that never came about.

I love you through tears

I wish were smiles.

I love you through fears

I wish would release.

I love both of you,

more than anyone else,

and wish you’re made stronger

through however much longer

this systemic insanity of severance ensues.

Good things, Bad things, and the physical plane of reality…

​It really seems like good things, comforting experiences, pleasurable moments, lovely tingliness only exist just enough to get a person through until the next fucked up thing, the next tragedy, the next dilemma, the next life-force sucking leech imbuing emotional malaise. If a person is disconcerted and pained to such an extreme from the previous tragedy, the previous dilemma, the previous predicament that they kill their self, then they simply won’t be around to even exist to tolerate the next fucked up situation. So of course the person needs that little inkling of a good thing to make it long enough to tread through the next shit storm. If this is really the way life is, and not just how it seems to be in my life, I seriously wonder if I would be better off severing my existence from the physical plane of reality. This pattern/cycle of brief intermittent comfort followed by condensed periods of retarded-dipshit idiocy and traumatic, horrifying, discombobulated hardship is going to send this space cadet plummeting off a mother fucking cliff if it doesn’t cease. Good has to be equal to or (preferably) more than the agony and strife for life to truly be worth living.

The suicidal mind is suicidal because the mind is so overburdened, overwhelmed, emotionally & psychologically malnourished, experientially flogged, and humanistically disturbed by life’s chaos, pain, trauma, losses, grief, abuse, disorder, idiocy, frustration, and failure that the mind cannot comprehend management, healing, acceptance, and multitasking to continue determination and incentive enough to keep going. The suicidal mind realizes the only control the mind has in its power is to end its cerebral functioning permanently to prevent further misfortunes from entering into the realm of the mind’s emotional subjective experience. When the heart is content, the mind lets go of suicidal ideas. For one to let go of suicidal ideas and suicidal ways of coping, the heart has to feel comfort worthy enough for the mind to be at ease to let it go. The heart has to feel there is more love, joy, good things and people that make remaining in physical reality worth it. My heart has to experience all the prolonged, painstaking, stagnant issues making progress, forming steam, moving in an upward and forward prosperous direction which reassures permanency, wellbeing, love, nourishment, stability, and success. This can seem very hard, utterly hopeless, near impossible when time demand after energy demand after responsibility after psyche-traumatizing scenario after scenario all condense together into the same old shit day after day after week after week until it’s been years of this experiential madness. 

This is not a solution. This is the bantering rant of a legally crazy creative depressive flickering a dim flame of light which shall be rekindled to brilliance or smothered out for eternity.