In wanderlust

In wanderlust I still suffer and I want to run away from        everything that encircles your taste, your face, your ghost           and the songs that sings out from your lips,  I fear that I have to reveal my hidden secrets upon your listening ears, and when you stand so close to me         like thick foggy asthma,  I can’t breathe easily while I hear you like the birdsongs up from the green and violet trees I hang my courage on these lips           trembling with questions the fear of losing perpetually sinks in,  I am a defeat,  so I distance myself from the recognition it’s funny that I still         find myself, liking you every little thing about you.

Good morning.

There was something— promising and preternatural in the frost that did away  with the laces of her smile, stitched by morning’s declaration of staunch affection and the easy cadence of  the throbbing bluebird’s chest, when she confessed  to all the sins that had lined the acres of the night.

You know you’ve finally found a name for the nothingness you fear when you’re screaming into silence and silence is all you hear When you see the sickness rise in clouds from the masses on the streets and the things from dreams come closing in but you can’t move your feet When the gently smiling faces say it’s all within your mind (you never see the madness it comes sneaking up behind)