Perch:

My fingers tap tremolos against the side of the monolith.

I flap my arms loose and frenetic.

three poems, nine hundred cut words,

four minutes of recorded music and four hours work,

I’ve become the blue-hearted tactician

Who wishes to peel the muscle from their backs

And shape them outward to turn to wings.

I scale the vertical antagonist in myself,

Frequencies ascending with every boisterous, desperate step.

If I can take two steps up stairs, why not three?

If I can take three steps at a time, why not four?

It’s always only a matter of how far my limbs are willing to extend,

And then becoming familiar with that strain.

I’m constantly changing, a walking acid trip with wings I can’t keep

Frequencies so exponentially upwards and unstable

That the lines holding myself together quiver like Rick & Morty pupils.

Every day I rescind a little more of what makes me human.

The ascension’s robbed my eyes of their vials unless I hear something I deem

Worthy of aspiration.

Emotions are too slow,

And nobody can handle them when I try to ease the brakes.

It’s only okay to cry at the picture of one day making it there.

But after the achievement, the aspiration is tossed aside

Like the scraps of ugly old habits that found new habitation.

I’ve found human routine in inhuman matters.

Every step upwards is a step away from more people,

People I love become familiar faces that fade into greetings practice.

The self-proclaimed judge of frequency I play as, determines how to spend my time.

Who in the world gave me the right?

My eyes climb further to see colder

And narrow their gaze into squints I believe capture what I need to know.

My heartbeat hastens- Time exits my sweat glands from the inside out

And I devote myself to the love that doesn’t waste time with conditions.

Every step forward is a step away from the people I love.

Music, writing, and Osbourne are what take up the space of my love

In a place tens of thousands thick with people able, deserving, needing

Love. I don’t have it right now.

I don’t want to deal with flaws if I’m not helping remove them.

But where do I draw the line in my personal crusade?

I want to be the bird that perches on the peak and scans frigidity across the horizon.

How can I be  when the height alone frightens me so much?

I can see the fall.

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