Hope Dies At LastMoths; fluttering ghosts of dreams long gone dead and passed – and past. They ache for the love of light but their blind groping for the truth Burns them.In the end, all moths die as Icarus – as infantile projections of our innocence as hope too, dies at last.
People don't changeburrow inside a trash binstamp outthe little lives & thedead-end streetsthe heat against the windowpanesthat leaves us weaker than i recalljust wither away:cheekbones and no signof a way out frustration to-- the concepts:man and natureman and man--alternative title: the anti-architect --Sometimes you just have to be brave enough to admit you just don't know anymore. --It snowed in November. What. Wut. Waht.
poem for borderline.if i could concentrate overseven hundred thousand eyesthumpingat the roof to the numbers steppingfrom the nicities & rows to go backrecoilto the shattered surface& the ripples beating over the hanghalfway between shallowand shore biting lips. maybe--noshe couldn't have known that it takes a whole three minutesfor the lungs to well, maybe she who, oh well oh wait the white; the haze--the booming overthe spume and spray stop changingdisturbingme get out of my head just pull up the shuttersstep outsidemy tongue the weight to talkit out but that's all we'll ever be:a match burning itself out forfununder the backspray of someone else's wheels--sometimes i think those goddamn mood-swings are a little too extreme. can't focus. been thinking about drowning.--attention whore, that's