Some more stream of consciousness nonsense

Flowers grow

From fever dreams

And I crawl into your vase

To find comfort 

In the cushion of 

Your ability to see through.

My head sinks 

My thoughts leak

And dissolve 

In the fragrance of your words

And the worlds that they create.

Sorry Shrida, I could easily call this Mirrors or something but who’s watching? Hehe

There are no mirrors

In this house of glass

Reflections are mere shadows

Slivers of life on every surface

Reminding me

In an attempt to not

That

I am only singular

And self-contained

Maybe mirrors can teach me

How to look again

This one’s called “F”

Fistfights for finality 

Fitting Food for thought 

And forced first-letter formations

Like this one

Lie in their graves 

Only Fickle fantasies.

Like fertile fires

On fertile lands,

Forbidden fears

Fester under

Fellowships and followings and

Fingernail fashion magazines

Pictures of food

Fast cars 

And other feelgood fairytales

Father our expectation

For failure. 

Here’s one more, I haven’t done this in some time

The scabs on your feet

fade away 

like rust on rainy days

burning all bodies 

with time

there are no right answers

only directions

for you and I to go

sometimes we collide 

sometimes we do not.

I’m sick of titles

The mountain calls out

For shapes in the sky

A breeze takes you

Away from the mist

Your nights are full and bleak

You’re all wrapped up in sheets

Hair raised eyes closed

Swallowed spit upturned 

Widowed birds uncurled

All your life you climbed

For this

Maybe you made a bluff 

On a winner

And folded

Thinking you’ve lost.