600
My lifeline peaks
like a mountain,
through the belly
of this sky.
Its stability is
threatened by too
many screams.
It may avalanche
into itself,
the finest shout outs
are just delicate
goodbyes.
Often I just
want such a
world to leave
me for dead.
Without minding the
departure.
My grave shall
bloom an ugly
flower bed.
Inscribe upon my
stone,
that I grew
better as an
author.
To live is
a cliff hanger.
You either strengthen
your grip,
or free-fall at
the fault of its
danger.
I guess i'll
just hang here.
Morning resets what
is to be
reality.
Even when the
late night freeway
of my thoughts,
takes me elsewhere
repeatedly.
Day is dragged
on by workforce.
Like the hairs
of dirty mops.
Reducing quickness in
time,
while not regretting
making clocks stop.
I'm a dishwasher,
with this hot
mess on my
plate.
So I lift
it off.
But can't deny
that these dishes
are more deserving,
of a clean
slate.
Hours I've spent
being the controller
of their fate.
Jealous because it's
a hundred times
harder to wipe
this filth,
encrusted upon my
life off.
Mostly that jealousy,
results in pouring
my heart out.
Onto this white
emptiness known as
a page.
Please worry less
about these constant
spills.
Much touches my
soul,
sounding off the
keys deep within
feelings.
Let me become
appealing.
As the pianist,
whose fingers step
in practiced melody.
We will tune
out this world's
madness.
Die as daring
artists.
Only to give
a living to
the dead canvas
