twelve homes & blue skies

Reckless, restless

these four walls that have consumed me, throughout

the threads of my own chaotic wreckages, i've been bound to

my whole life, it's like being whelved inside the creases of the ocean bed

stuck between the high waves and the collosal emptiness

the disheveled psyche of a maniac no less different than the rest

always trying to dissolve inside the cracks of a broken mirror

forged by the dysphoric swevens running wildly across

across my head, that's like a maze up there.

---

she had grown distant from the very world she was born into

i look at the sky, which rarely ever gives me a glimpse of the stars.

a different place, a different sky, a different me perhaps. but the same gnawing question that's rooted within my insides.

what feels like home?

being trapped in all kinds of places, stuck with the same kind of thoughts

the canvas i keep painting for myself - devoid of any color

devoid of any "spark"

keep counting houses, but none of them ever felt like home

and the same question that creeps in yet again,

what feels like home?

the deliberate smile, once in a while

the occasional hello, to strangers who walk by

the want, the need to just.. be

to just be nice, for just a while

not to yourself but to the mundane world

that surrounds you

the trivial uncertainties floating around

the rhapsodic waves that never drown you

the infinite space between "them" and you

between "her" and you

between "him" and you

the monotonous words that run wildly

across the maze u̷p̷ ̷i̷n̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷r̷ ̷h̷e̷a̷d̷

that make absolutely no sense j̷u̷s̷t̷ ̷t̷a̷k̷e̷ ̷u̷p̷ ̷s̷p̷a̷c̷e̷

what feels like home?

nothing, maybe?

nobody, perhaps?

c̷e̷r̷t̷a̷i̷n̷l̷y̷ ̷n̷o̷t̷ ̷s̷o̷m̷e̷ ̷p̷l̷a̷c̷e̷

you're stuck in a delusional universe

you think is surrounded by stars but there's no one around

to pull you out of your black hole

it's like you're blindfolded

a̷n̷d̷ ̷y̷o̷u̷ ̷l̷i̷k̷e̷ ̷i̷t̷ ̷t̷h̷a̷t̷ ̷w̷a̷y̷ ̷o̷r̷ ̷s̷o̷ ̷i̷t̷ ̷s̷e̷e̷m̷s̷

the cracks in your hands

the disheveled wreckage in your brain

the paradigm of "the edge of seventeen"

and your despicable attempts to be unseen.