He's not a mess.
He's a maelstrom.
But if you sat with him
Staring up at speaking stars
Eyes slowly lidding
Put under the drug called life
You'd see a bag of bones
Held in place by starlight.
Clear skin mapped out
To show the deepest wounds he's endured
Streets of veins swirling through
As if his whole body is a universe.
Constellations twirl in his palms
Patterns of regret and life
Fading and changing
He cries shooting stars.
His tears fall through the space
Surrounding a wormhole heart.
Science travels his acres
Yet can't understand how he exists.
People gaze at him
Looking for the signs of life
Staring at the freckles on his nose
As if they were the galaxy in which
Their stardust falls.
See
There's so much space
Between the thoughts
And the starry picture
He displays.
The lack of life
In his midnight eyes
And the passion for life
Wrapping his soul
Are like supernovas
Sharing energy
Drawing power
Just enough to keep him functioning
Coffee for the stars
Fuel for the galaxies
Coated in silky frames
Shrouded in miserable beauty-
He's not what he looks.
There's so much more
And all it takes is someone
To explore deeper.