I had an awful lot of trouble explaining just what I felt in my shoulder and my spine,
This is easily the worst it's ever hurt and I'm trying not to consign,
Choking back tears till they feel like bees that sting a tongue chelating in brine,
I'm fighting back this fucking urge to rip my teeth out till the roots drip like crimson vine,
Can you see why then, when it reached my neck, why I was rendered speechless? Without a line?

Pink Cloud

The second, third, or fourth time that I hit the old pink cloud,
I stopped myself from feeling dread and simply laughed aloud,
Knowing full well I should be ashamed; I couldn't help but to feel proud,
And I may not have boasted to everyone but I sure did amongst that crowd,

Because there comes a point, a place in time, where I'm just glad to have survived,
To have caused as little damage and maybe in some ways thrived,
I'm not some hopeless, hapless sap needing constantly revived,
I watched my head in shallow waters every time I dived,

I won't defend a way of living that I wouldn't recommend,
I can't begin to tell you of the things in life it brings screeching to an end,
It costs a pretty penny too, one you probably shouldn't spend,
And eventually taking all that risk demands that something to either hell or heaven send

I'm only gonna say this once- so it get it through your head,
There's not a thing I wouldn't do to block the voices of the dead,
Not a spell or sin I would omit to charm you back to bed,
Because every second without distraction is one I'm overwhelmed with dread

But the stressors are what drives me to speak and act this way,
I use their presence just to justify what's done to get me through the day,
And to show I might have purpose still- despite the fact I'm gay,
Despite the innumerable messages that tell me not to stay,

There's still substantial bits of me that believe this all can stop,
That since I wasn't always like this I might still halt this drop,
If I'm lucky I'd feel just a bit of my old yearning for the top,
Become the man they all want me to be- initiate some cosmic swap,

But fighting hard against these bits are the bits who want to drown,
Who yearn to ache and bleed all over every memory of this town,
The part of me who justifies anything to not feel down,
A withered crooked clandestine creature with a ring of smoke his crown,

To me the part I struggle with is I can't seem to confront,
The people close who look at me and see only what they want,
Their facetious feign of ignorance like poachers claiming not to hunt,
Saying nothing, merely praying I won't pull another stunt

Mutable Signs

There comes these points in space and time where something has to happen,
When God calls on the ones like me to make the bonds unfasten,

The solvent to dissolve the glue- to undo the firm adhesion,
While mankind screams in agony as we expose each wound and lesion,

Without this form of torture you would never get to grow,
You'd never get to germinate the seeds you seek to sow,
To cultivate the garden that can tell you what you want to know,
First you have to thaw the frost- you have to melt away the snow,

No decision that was difficult was ever made in comfort's space,
You have to make them burn or bleed and long for some other place,
A sharp and crooked knife threatens to scar  their pretty face,
Evoking fondness of the time before the moths came in and chewed away the lace,

Don't think I'm saying there's not value in the fixed and cardinal ways,
They establish the order needed to carry out the passing days,

Oh, misunderstood and mutable, accused of chaos bringing doom,
Will any of you realize Cosmos is who builds your resting tomb?

Fair Weather

When you live in a world with such few limitations,
Hearing any excuse is a waste of your patience,

It leads you to wonder how much time that they've wasted,
Looking for some common ground to feel their deeds reciprocated,

But I've never found trouble with any endeavor,
My friendship never turned fickle for inclement weather,

Through perilous journeys I've always commuted,
For business or pleasure- neither duty refuted,

That small car has made it on journeys over an hour,
I guess a sense of work ethic equates to some hidden power

Perhaps that difference is why I get paid in six numbers,
In the time that excuses leaves them aging in slumbers