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Written by Tabata Young
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there’s a nocturnal vivid
ness to be witnessed if
one’s eyes are open thick
receptive to the sky’s naked
ness the malfunction is not in
cellular make up if one
melts down to the root
and discards mental fabric ation
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Written by Tabata Young
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it’s blue out of no
where in this cast
of shadow (ing) s
and the burden
of bearing a cross
reveals the rose cheeks turn sides
to the blueness of
nowhere to belong knowing each o
ther, conjoin (ing)
frees the centerless and azure becomes
the big bang before
you and I were made existence then blazes
forth without consent
to a saviorless axiom
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Written by Tabata Young
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maybe I was deserving
of the trap I walked into
as if the punishment
would defend the actions
it took miles of courage
to reach the destination
where I now stand from,
stranded though I chose widely
my path, from the very
beginning and was sure
I knew best but the truth isn’t always
clear as day as many claim
and perspective is a man’s
best enemy maybe I was deserving
of what I reaped from
my own sowing, as they
guiltlessly claim but it doesn’t take miles,
it doesn’t take ages for
one to see the mistakes
once made the irrevocable is now
annihilated and all is
left to regret, though
for once, is it too late
for apologies Maybe
I was deserving
Of the punishment
Sent by airmail
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Written by Tabata Young
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born like this
into this
said Bukowski
but i disagree i disagree, i defy
i say we are
born of this
from this we are not
born into
any less than
our own perception;
we have conceived this
and are born of this
creation
from this
formation from the collective
unconsciousness we breed
from the collective
corruption we breathe
from the collective
ignorance we spread wide
from the collective
intolerance we provide we are
born of this
from this and Bukowski,
my friend,
you have aided
the masses
to fashion this. but at least we can agree
we are dying
like this
into this
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Revelation of what is not to be |
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Written by Tabata Young
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the gun, you left loaded once
aiming at what I believed
could be destroyed;
by the darkest hour I shed
tears, I bled, I begged
till I learned you cannot kill
that which is
eternal. love is
still
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On the dissatisfaction of loving you |
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Written by Tabata Young
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withered heights we climb
anxiously speeding
through slaughtered
dreams
and retention. milestones collected
expose weariness
and yet we
persist tormented. dimming emotions
we struggle
to control
but the eyes reveal
the nakedness
of our souls, the truth. strike 1,678 and the
heart grows tired
diminishing
grace and will. heaven is escaping
and we watch,
exerting
it
away, far
away.
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