I’ve always said that I lack self-control
Can’t make a horse stop to drink
Can't get my thoughts complete
No matter how much I think

I try to think my morality is a compass, but I’m scared,
That this is only true if someone needs me
To navigate, I don't know where I’m going
So what good is a compass to me? I don't want

To go places, I just want to go
With people, and if I can be with people
I’ll think of myself a guide, a mentor, a helper.
But riding on the whims of others is no form

Of Discipline, the kind our parents gave us
Wasn't real because discipline isn't something
Given its something found inside yourself,
And I’m still searching because Im weak

To my own desires as I am to others
And I’m even weaker still to you
I didn't even need to be with people
When I could be with you, it scared me.

I’m a Grandfather clock floating off the seaside
And every hour on the hour thoughts of you bang
Through my head like piano notes, starting few
In the afternoon, Ring, Ring-Ringg, Ring-Ringg-Ringgg

You sound in my mind a dozen times every midnight
And while I flow above this Green Sea, I see a light-
House, Shining Pink-Orange at me, but theres a gray
Fog between us, not gray ash, but blue-gray, like Chartreux

I checked your spotify today, I'm sure you can tell,
One of the bangs told me to, and we both know
How well I say no, But i'm glad it did, because it
Let me know, that you feel the gray too, and maybe Pink-Orange as well?

There was a boy who hated cops,
Cow-faced, pig-bullies, power-drunk hacks.
Racism, raids, and traffic stops.

And maybe, like the boy, if they weren’t attacked,
Hadn’t gone to work expecting the worst,
Maybe they'd have had their community’s back.

But life’s not that simple; some wounds are cursed.
They made him mean, like a shelter cat,
Born into pain, already immersed.

He was a boy who never fought back,
But luck still left him, too early, too soon,
Born in the stick season, raised in the black.

How could he know that all fields bloom?
When shown only malice, one cant help but stare
Facing down evil, missing the good in the room.

Lucks for the lucky and life isn't fair
But no orchid's less beautiful than weeds just
Because orchids need more love and more care.

I think he's there but
I can't be sure.
Can anyone be sure

Of themselves,
Or can they
Just lie convincingly

Next to one another,
Two boys lay on their chests
Fingers blooming out towards

The Others. No contact
Their heads averted
They lie, as mirrored angels

Unshifting, so they don't spill blood
From their backs
On the snow

It's easier to be near someone
If you don't have to look.
You don't have to feel

Blue snow on your wound
Or red hands in yours
Or the relief that feels red-black

Like the color of your eyelids.
closing my eyes
And looking makes me feel

The closest I can to seeing inside
My mind, and it's all bouncing dots
And swirling pink-blue-red-black-white.

I want to be a flower
Because they don't have eyes
To close. I want to be a flower

Because they need only be open
To the sky, and the sky loves them.
The sky rains when they are closed and

When they are blooming, the sky
Shines light through their petals
And says,

I love the way you glow.

White sands pile to form an island
Before dissolving in a deep cinnamon sea–
Dark and infused

The village, where I bought my first box
The gold, from the streetside, accenting
The steam, like incense on the bedside
And the mug, that you got me, for my birthday

Tea will always remind me of you,
I make a *** each day

You showed me paths
In my house, I didn't know existed
And now there's no space

That feels complete without you-
r touch. Every house will feel
Off kilter, every bedroom will feel

Too cramped, too empty.
Every garden path too jagged
And every living room too dead

Peace is to harmonize with your environment
And there's no harmony like you
Wind sings through spaces you create

And comfort flows like water.
So please put your artists gaze upon me
And make paths for us in this room.

Paths that lead from me to you.

You’ve rattled my world and broken me open
Adoration and obsession flowing red hot like magma
The end of the world for my sensibilities

Dreams of us shift tectonically in my mind
making tremors in my soul
And shaking me down on the page.

And in the vast sea of my thoughts
You make tidal waves
And raise islands, unmovable

I don't know who Richter is
But on any scale I know
You’re a 10