I’m [meticulous about self-improvement.
I’ve given up all hopes of becoming a millionaire.

A muse is a single divine instance.
A moment before satori.

This man made existence so poorly imitates reality, I’m getting withdrawal from that which I’ve been born into. Our Earth is no longer blue, brown, and green but black pavement, grey sidewalks and dark blue cigarette smoke, ashes on my hand replace the dirt from digging in the garden. Trees once towered, but now office buildings, banks, prisons and churches loom like monuments to the human habit of unnatural construction.

time is wrong
24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, it’s just a lie. time isn’t mechanical, time doesn’t stop and start like gears, time never began and will never end. time (like all things) is natural, a natural progression, like a tree growing. human technology has distorted time to fit the whims of an industrial based society the same way that a tree is milled from its natural form into a slab of timber, a 2 by 4, a table, a chair. technology is the sickened root from which our misshapen system of time grows. our false time ticks by so sure, so precise, so inevitable.
don’t be fooled by the clockwork.
our system of time is unchanging, giving no room for growth or decay. we even ignore the fact that we must actually fix time every four years. Time grows, expands, contracts, it sheds leaves and grows them back, looses limbs and has new growth each season.

Sometimes I feel as righteous as an ape of god, others I’m a robot writing poetry, Sometimes I’m numb enough to brush the scars off my back. Sometimes I’m strong enough to stand up, others I’m just smart enough to stay down, and avoid the conflict that creeps around corners and around my closed door. I’m immaculate grace, I’m watching the crucifixion in time square. I’m looking into the future, and I’m not there.
Automated dream-life sets in, and I see that I’m not sleeping alone.

Wrist to finger tip twitches like high voltage, we are singed and knocked over and over, just for the memory.
I don’t want her to turn into smoke and ashes, soul and skin are much more enticing.
Just keep me from the creeping emptiness that slips beneath the door, no matter how well I stuff it.