Sykonist

When I lift my pen, words freeze like I'm pressing cold steel blades against their throats then chase me with confessions as I'm running away, so they say talking about the weather is too forced and cheap, I beg to differ. Because every time I swear how I can't feel the sun anymore they run for shade, excusing themselves: "So I've heard it's supposed to storm all week." One day my heartbeat will overwhelm the silence eavesdropping when I have the floor how big of a deal small talk is for me, an eyewitness to people turning heads to avoid eye contact when I was trying to tell them how I can't bare to look at myself because: "Can you s

She settles like dust in the valves of my heart sifting sands for the prettiest of seashells her accent of sweet talk, stillborn in brain grooves how she synchronize swims through my troubled mind when gone, seasick, up to my neck in boiling water holding her is nothing short of smooth sailing how she carries me away in gentle bobs how I get lost how the best part is she looks up to my horizons for safe haven, memorable sunsets into moonlit skies, shimmering surface of humble seas we wake for each other into newfound sunrises cuddled in harmonizing smiles her boo boos are my fetal position her potential eyes, my trail less traveled, where I

We both carry this premonition that this will all, eventually, sting like hell Love is blind, he traces my braille with the tips of his fingers According to science, it's because that's where our nerves end but if you ask me there's just not enough chemistry and, well, I'm just smiling crooked in his fear of the unknown If only he felt this way through the rest of his days he just might conquer the world There's even times he lifts me on top of the world like when he tells me goodnight like a broken record of my favorite songs before he finally disappears with the body language of lovers saying their goodbyes at an airport or when he rummage

If love was a choice, perhaps we'd decide not to love our unrequited loves like how we choose not to touch heated stove eyes but precisely brush our hands above the boiling pot of water, careful not to get steam burned I had to learn that I want you your crust your burnt edges your crumbs today loves you even tomorrow wants you have you ever felt like all the poetry in the world has already been written and it follows you like lava in your sweetest dreams? You see, I wonder things like why no one can stare directly at the sun without temporary blindness but we can hold a staring contest with the moon and win

Every now and then, I take an aggressive bite out of my tough exterior, exposing my soft inner mush Velvet skin, pocket lint throughout my bone marrow, Bloodlines and bonfire my veins, barbwire independence Good days, bad days Align like lattice that I can see through, yet serves as a gate, splitting my smile from my intuition of freedom Horizontal lines, dimples Vertical, dysfunctional self esteem Self image, practiced in foggy mirrors I take out the garbage, water the flowers, remembering, no, feeling the sting again Of grudges in a rainbow Of roses with thorns In a junkyard Plastic voices Not mine, wicker baskets, cradling my soft

I don't know what to say, I'd probably Unfold it like a tattered, flowered comforter anyway These memories I wear like freckles, they illuminate Beneath the sun, rest assured in the shade, my curiosity Is fool's gold for the future, it's all about The texture of sentimental value I cram all materialistic doubt, airtight Like a can of sardines That way, it's sure to carry a distinguishing stench Making it easier to discover Myself In nothing but sweet aromas Of pineapple confidence, blackberry patience Careful not to move or disturb One sore muscle