The Art of Anxiety

Anxiety breaths
in fear
and exhales
doubt.
He is married
to the art of
apprehension.

His mind
is a chaotic
disaster
of colliding
ideas,
crossing through
screams that could
drown out
the yelling
of time.

He hides
his eyes
behind his hair
(the kind of hair
that is the product
of the quick clipping
of shaky hands
and kitchen scissors)
and nervously
runs his paintbrush
through the mass
of not so timid colors.

His stress
stains the canvas,
leaving behind
restless splattered
words.

"I wish I could paint the world in beauty."
he whispers,
but his insides
are already speckled
with the dark colors
of suspense
and lost time.

Human Minds

We mutate our memories
and mix them
with moments
of the moon's grin.

Is there really
such thing as growth
when it only regenerates
the distruction
of our disappointments?

We capture moments
only to sever them
from the minds
of our children-

As this
broken-down globe
collects dust
in the corner
forgotten
amongst
our lust for life
and the collection
of lies
we continue
to count.

Some Words Are Not Ment To Be Whispered

Now,
each night he dreams
of her.

The same way
I had spent my nights
dreaming
the betrayal
of the one-winged angel.

I understand.
Sometimes peace
is the color of blood,
and not all betrayals
come from tinted minds.

I'm conjuring
countless memories,
only to constantly
shove them away

The world told me:
"We must forgive
the things we cant forget"

But what if
I want to forget
how to forgive?

I'm tired of living in loopholes.
Can't we just hunt monsters tonight,
and tell the wind to stop whispering his words?