Writing: Retina Burn

Eyes meet eyes daily. Stopping gently to embrace, sometimes the ground, sometimes the sun, sometimes a ying or a yang, sometimes a soul with no name. Wandering eyes meet in shadowy places, meet in daylight savings, with no purpose but with freedom. Closed eyes fight to stay alive, when opening up becomes too hard. Eyes press eyes to see what the other holds inside, sometimes askewed, sometimes opaque, sometimes dry. Wet eyes make sunrays black with overcast. Winking eyes keep secrets, but so do closed, when the closing is merely seeking temporary refuge from the pressing of other eyes. Eyes kiss eyes, when no one is looking, but everyone sees. Bloodied eyes are drugged, drunk, pulled through the mud, and tortured by cimcumstance. Eyes make other eyes smile when the kaleidoscopes and blackholes deep in thought align like planetary phenoms, or lunar eclipsing. Eyes eclipse me.

Writing: Busy Bees Make Yummy Honey!

Busy Bees Make Yummy Honey!
The whole world wants you to give in, and collapse into lethargy, standing still weeds grow wild, up your stumpy legs, vines entangle the hair below your kneecaps like braided weaves, with tiny flower beads, skin turns green with photosynthesis, and your lungs slow shift to exhaling oxygen and inhaling carbon like a true life form should, you've never felt so alive in one spot before in your entire life, due to the rose growing in front of your face, her fragance sticks to the filaments in your nostrils, twirls and lingers its aromonic way up to your brain and down to your heart, each new petal that reveals itself like drawing curtains to a private peep show, makes you long to touvh her soft, soft lovely layers, you reach to notice hands are tied back around you, you're almost there, back to where you sprouted from, captured by encapsulating beauty. Let the earth take you in and love you to death. It will be out of your sweet nectar that Busy Bees will Make yummy honey.

Writing:Sorrow is Beauty

Eyes open, close, whisper to see, be forcibly blinded by truth... my boyish hands become balloons to float me away, I can feel the extension... ribcage collapses inward to encage the heart as it blips out secret messages in morse code... Not knowing how to interpret this dot dot dashes, I lick the sodium from burning crimson pupils... and swallow hard. Desire builds in this hollow vessel to separate itself from the material world, where lack of risks and courage, make us endentured servants to our indecisiveness, where ice cold blades feel warm against coats of painted pale flesh.

Sorrow is Beauty to Jaded Happiness.