and my spirit has already traveled to 50 cities

my mind to several people

and my heart to one door

I think of knocking but I wait on the steps because I’m barely breathing after making it this far, I wouldn’t mind if you walked a few inches out to me.

I button my coat. It’s chilly this evening. Before I left home I fastened my heart upon my sleeve just to make sure it’s still here, I take a glance every minute or so. It hasn’t hasn’t died…yet. But I hope you let it in soon for I’m afraid of it turning too cold; I don’t know if any warmth I find afterwards will be sufficient to thaw it out.

My heart is strong and steady, at times far too faithful. It’s no surprise it’s still warm.

It has jumped over train rails

thrown itself before wolves

swam through ice cold rivers

dragging me along with it.

So if my heart died, I would too.

But it hasn’t stopped beating, maybe it has something to live for. May be if I used my last breath to turn around and lift my knuckles to that door you would know I’m here, you would open up.

and if I reached into you

would you reach out to me?

It’s night now

are you home?

please hurry, my heart is getting cold

                                      it’s thumping slow

                                                I am dying

                              quick

are you home?

himynameisntben:

If your heart beats
But does not feel,
If your mind thinks
But does not comprehend,
If your hands stir
But cannot touch,
If your lips move
But cannot kiss,
Then are you truly alive? 

I know I suck because I haven’t been on much. But I’ve written about three new pieces and I have a couple old ones I’d like to share with you.

Stick around?

creating medication

out of my own

tribulations…

onlyanotherhuman:

I want an adventure of great,
not the ‘want’ composed
in modernity’s
callous self-indulgence of late,
no.
I want a human escape,
a tale of sound and fury,
which an idiot once told;
does this make me the deviant,
or the bold?

I want love,
not the ‘love’ formed of need,
in…

pidginology:

writing texts
is like preparing
bombs and you
don’t know in
whose heart
they are going
to explode.