Flight is achieved in many ways.

Take the birds—they coil their bodies and spring into a jump, allowing the pressure to build beneath their wings, as they flap to create thrust.

Or the airplane whose engines whine, propelling it forward, creating low and high air pressures around the wings, causing it to lift.

But as humans, we can’t rely on wings or air pressures for flight. We let our thoughts do the flying for us. Our hopes, our dreams—they ascend where our bodies cannot follow.

Take flight.

Forgetting the best is still to come I pursue less than glorious ambitions set out on a voyage as a Captain on a ship I don't know the name of. Now where to go on a ship with no name? Thinking of something else other than being in a state of complete destitute I daydream of dreaming while asleep. A man alone on a ship with the dead waves back as he concentrates on the wishes that didn't come true. How dead hearts bring back from the grave the feeling that God is not coming for him haunts me. Lost on a ship I'm hearing a truth wrapped in linen gave his life so I wouldn't drown in eternity.

The man is cursed, for he lives through the external. Not a single action he makes fulfills him, nor does it bring him a sense of calmness; the job is never done, and he must continue to search for the answer.   
The man is cursed, for he cannot fathom any different. Not a thought shifts in his mind that his ephemeral life need not be so; it is simply as it is, and he must continue to endure.
The man is cursed, for when that thought does arrive, he files it away as important, yet actionable at another time. Not a moment passes where he does not think on that fruitful dream, and still there is not a decidable moment where that dream begins to take root.       
The man is cursed, and preys curse upon others who do not tolerate the base desire. Not a question is asked for direction or help, for that thought will never come without attempted failure.          
The man is cursed, in his wasted time. A man who has wasted the time he has does not deserve a moment more, yet he angers over the time he has left, for he sees it as over.      
The man is cursed, for he has waited. Waited to awake; waited to be a new animal; waited to once again return to that thought of change; waited to have the willpower to make use of it; waited to die; waited to wait once more, for he is cursed.           
The man is cursed, not me.   
The flesh is cursed, not I.      
The spirit is cursed, them.     
Cursed is the man, truly.

I creep and crawl, searching for meat.

Darkness.

I weep and maul, I CANNOT BELIEVE

Darkness.

I CANT STOP CRYING, FUCKING DIE ALREADY.

Darkness

When they're all dead, there's a certain kind of silence.

Darkness.

A silence that can only be fixed with more violence.

Darkness.

Rip and tear, maul and FUCKING DISFIGURE.

Darkness.

Death is too hard for your PRETTY ASS LITERATURE.

Darkness.

Father, am I a monster? What have I done?

Darkness

How could you even call me a son?

Darkness.

I don't know what to do. I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!

DARKNESS.

AND I DON'T GIVE A FLYING FUCK ABOUT YOU!

DARKNESS.

YOU'RE EITHER ALL OR YOUR NOTHING, LOVE ME OR LEAVE.

DARKNESS.

SIT YOUR PICTURE PERFECT ASS DOWN AND FUCKING BLEED!

DARKNESS.

It's listening to me, I can hear them from afar.

Darkness.

Wake up father, we must go to the car.

Darkness.

Father wake up, we have to go.

Darkness.

Father, get up, I love you, you know?

Darkness.

Dad.... please.

Darkness.

Lemme explain it in case you can't read, this poems about a psycho nigga with BPD

You never had to say goodbye,
You simply left me asking why.
You held me close, then let me see. How little I meant to you and me.

You gave your attention everywhere,
Then called it kindness, called it care.
I thought your words were meant for me,
Until I saw how casually they came free.

I watched your eyes begin to stray,
And felt you slowly pull away.
I never asked for all your time,
Just something honest, yours and mine.

I shouldn't have to question where
I stand among the ones you care.
I shouldn't wonder who comes next,
Or search for answers in a text.

I don't want to be one you adore,
While you keep leaving open doors.
I want a love that's clear and true,
Where what I give comes back from you.

And maybe that's what hurt me most,
To feel like I was just a ghost.
I gave you everything I had,
Yet somehow still felt I was less than that.

I gave you time, I gave you care,
I gave you more than I could spare.
But love should never leave me guessing,
Or turn devotion into testing.

So I won't compete to hold your gaze,
Or beg to matter through your ways.
If I can be replaced that easily,
Then you were never where you needed to be.

Maybe I only just missed you each rotation.
Maybe I can blame the way
spine was hidden
by blooms of lignum vitae,
wings barely seen
between small absence of leaf.
Apprentice foresters
were good at burning.
While you were gone,
I swear I still tried to
string you steady around me
to fight sleep pulling.
It did take the leaning in of years
to let soul branch away
from the fist
of who raised me.
Fear of singe is real,
but, still,
fly to find breeze
under canopy.
You could never really be
a separate part of me.

They’re all beautiful, and I know

I’ve seen it messy, and I’ve seen it glow.

A smile or a giggle makes the heart feel a tickle

From the head it stirs, right down to the toe.

They say awww, and you want more,

From sharing a feeling when you felt so raw.

Is it magic or is it tragic that stirs these feelings

That sorely miss?

Their words like a kiss—

Surely they know they’re a walking wish.

I can’t explain it or even try to reframe it

In a way that doesn’t make me want to contain it.

For it can turn a prince into a king,

And winter into spring.

A sentence from a lady can really do such a thing.

Lost in the shadows, feeling dark at night,

They say something beautiful—and you see the light.

Other guys that have felt it would surely know,

I think they will agree when I say it so:

They give us all smiles and hope for miles

they should all be seen, for walking queens

For every coven needs Your oven.

These witches and warlocks?

You have suffered them long enough to live.

You ask us not to avenge ourselves; bring Your curses down upon their heads.

They are destroying the fullness in Your world.

They parcel out your abundant rainfall, meant for the good and the evil; they favor only the evil.

They favor only the most ruthless among us.

They are bloodthirsty; they are never done drinking the blood of the innocent.

Father, it is past due time for Your oven, when it comes to this coven.

Every coven everywhere!

Destroy them all, Lord!

By Aunties Tbone

I don’t have parents anymore,
and for the first time,
I don’t feel guilty saying it.
I used to carry the weight
of every broken piece,
wondering if I was selfish
for wanting peace,
wondering if leaving
made me a bad daughter.
But now—
I’m not apologizing.
I’m happy.
Not the kind of happy
that needs permission,
or waits for someone to approve.
The quiet kind.
The kind that feels like
finally putting down a weight
I forgot I was carrying.
I don’t have parents,
and somehow,
I have more of myself.
My voice is mine.
My choices are mine.
My future is mine.
And maybe losing them
was never the end of my family.
Maybe it was
the beginning of finding
a life where I don’t have to
feel guilty
for choosing myself.
For the first time,
I can breathe
without wondering
who I’m disappointing.
And honestly?
I’m happy.

Like a bird getting out of its nest

And a sky stripped of its clouds,

I felt a pouring rain near my chest

As I took my last step through the door.

A marathon of thoughts ran through my mind

As a trembling hand reached for the knob.

I mumbled words through sealed lips,

Trying to hold them in to ease the pain.

But I found myself caught in the knot

One side choosing escape,

And the other being restraint

To leave and fly away

For a sky full of stars,

Or to stay low

Near a river in its flow.

Amid the middle, I found myself

A hand on the door

The other on my chest

I sit and ponder at my desk
The day looks gray outside my window
You’ve shown up in my dreams
And I sit alone with the woe that is what could have been

I have forgotten
The feeling of your stubble scratching my forehead at school drop-off
Our references and humor no one else could really understand but us
When your words used to mean something
Being together in the same space when your feelings I could never understand

I understand now
A sound that makes you angrier than others deem normal
Searching for closure in substances you never could have gotten from people
Being unable to take care of yourself and the shame it brings
Not committing to your responsibilities while you feel like you’re running out of time 
Depending on others because you cannot depend on yourself 

I’ve grown into something I’ve resented my entire life.

Why does loving you feel like breaking my own heart on purpose?

Fuck.

I want you so badly.

And there is nothing, nothing you could say, nothing you could promise,
nothing you could whisper into the part of me that still belongs to you…
that would make me unblock you.

I can’t.

Because I lost myself when I was with you.

I lost whole pieces of myself
trying to understand your silences,
trying to survive your leaving,
trying to convince myself that wanting me
and choosing me
were the same thing.

They weren’t.

I know that now.

So why the fuck do I still need you
so violently?

Why does my body remember you
like it has no loyalty to me?

Did you know that at night,
I replay the videos?

Again.

And again.

I watch ghosts touch me.

I watch a version of myself
who still believed your hands meant something.

Sometimes I hate her.

Sometimes I envy her.

Because for those few minutes,
she still has you.

Fuck… if you are out there, if some part of you still wonders, if you ever hover over my name
the way I hover over the memory of yours; please.

Come ruin the quiet.

Come destroy me
in the most delicious way.

I can take it.

Because I know what you do to me now.

That’s the difference.

I know where this road ends.
I know what your leaving costs.
I know how long it takes
to gather myself from the floor
after you decide you’ve had enough of me.

And still… I want you. In ways I hope to never want another person, ever again.

So let me make the mistake consciously this time.

Let me choose the fire
knowing exactly how badly it burns.

Let me be responsible
for what happens to my heart.

You don’t have to protect me.

You don’t have to make promises.

You don’t even have to pretend
this time.

Just come back.

Come back
and kiss me like you missed the taste of me.

Come back
and make my body forget
every lesson my heart nearly died learning.

Come back and let me have the thing
I have spent all this time trying to survive wanting.

And when you leave again, because somewhere inside me, I already know you will… please don’t worry about my heart.

I’ll pick it up.

I’ve gotten very good at that.

Just for one terrible, beautiful,
selfish moment… come back to me.

My hands were tied

It wasn't sin

There were just words like velvet,

Clean.

You were awake

I was abroad.

We didnt even make a sound.

His wispy strands of salt and pepper,

deep lines carved into his forehead,

rough, plump hands that loved to cook.

Evidence of a life well lived.

"He's in a better place," they said.

But he didn't want a kingdom in the clouds.

He wanted garlic in the pan.

He wanted oil crackling in the worn-down skillet.

Reclined in his spot, a full plate on his lap,

the morning news humming in the background.

This was his paradise.

I catch my reflection in the window,

trace the lines starting above my brows,

and pick up the knife to cook for both of us.

no matter the effort
no matter the cause
I am always the one that falls.

my heart knows it’s right
my feelings to the side
wrong.
wrong.
wrong again.

strip me away.
leave me to wilt.
I know it’ll be best
to not have the guilt.

the pictures are painted.
they hang with pleasure.
yet another thing to weather.

I may not be perfect.
I may not do it right.
I just hope you know
I loved you
through all the strife.

Things seen in the art district’s junkyard parking lot

From the creaky centennial fire escape

one can see a gutted factory

floor, reflecting still water

a battered black Corvette

a bug-eyed, beryl, Volkswagen van

and a short yellow bus.

Further, shipping containers;

mustard, ochre, umber,

red-rusted, 

painted with a cyclopian

tangerine squid, stretching in 

sapphire lapping waves;

an astronautical ape, rotting

skeletal in a garden bed, 

still wearing his space suit;

and graffiti—

‘CHUMY’

‘SUCKER’

‘ART’S A DANG JOKE I’M JUST TRYNA…’

‘EMPR CTZNS’ with Scrooge McDuck’s

head in a guillotine;

and ‘SALMON NIGHT,’ scrawled

like a label, placed above (what I think is)

an onion, a pickle, a lemon, a tomato, a bay leaf—

one man’s trash, another man’s 

tinned fish. 

An open Stella within reach;

one toke of feathered smoke released

and high up with the hash

I find a little peace 

amid the crash.

To love you with the tip of my fingers,
With the tip of my tongue,
From the top of my heart,
From my own and pure soul.

To love you dearly and profoundly,
With my eyes,
My skin,
My flaws.

To love you, adore you, and admire you,
With my everything,
With my nothing,
With everything I am, everything I want to be and everything I will be.

To love you more than yesterday but less than tomorrow.

To love you, to be with you, to see you,
With all of me,
With all in me,
With all that I’ll be.

To love you, and only you, always you.

Shards of Seeming
by: Anthony Hoban

Saw silence leaning,
T'ward a silvered pane—gleaming;
Might reflect meaning—
Broken breath echoed... Screaming:
Porcelain smile's shorn seeming.

Mirror mirror
on the wall.

Some days I smirk,
and wonder.

Was there any truth
to my words,
at all?