Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
Edgar Allan Poe

Garbage Crown

My water bottle shoes
they should not come as news.

It matches just so well
with my tin can lid belt.
Do you too, think it’s “insane”?
When you see my trash bag mane?
Though I’ll admit it really itches
wearing pigeon feather britches:
I prefer my trash can dorm
to observing social norms.
So don’t wrinkle your nose and frown,
when you see my
 Garbage crown.

– ?

End our bias

When the lagoon gets frozen over
The ducks are on their own
Can the truth still set you free
If it means feeling all alone?
Will the sober heart find peace
After being intoxicated for so long?
Perhaps one day I will stop waiting
For things I do not deserve

Mine,
R

Gate

Gate is a strange name for a boy, and perhaps even stranger for a man of modest proportions and a misty gaze. But that is the name nonetheless. It goes without saying that Gate goes without saying, and his name accompanies him without ever being said. Sunlight keeps constant and sole company in wanderings about the island of a dwelling, with Sand and Stone who never leave the inaccessible sea-shore blanketing them with unloving waves of turquoise and hissing foam.

It so happens that Gate has come to question both the name and the existence thereof, and will soon ask about the purpose of a name which is never spoken.

“It is useful”, says, “to have an address to one’s self.”

But you see, Gate’s not a man.
It is just a metaphor.
Though it’s surely not of haste,
I’m not too sure what it is for.
Here’s something that say I can
here’s my heart, you’re at its fore
There’s no treasure worth more than,
being with you on our shore.