Poet, Recording Artist, Bassist, Photographer and Publisher Brian Anthony Hardie
The more I learn the more enraged I become about how I’ve let the system leave me for dead when I could have fought but because they knew I had not done my homework and did not know the full extent of my rights and the laws against what’s been done/is being done/has been/will be done to me, shall I stand up for myself, as I have been shown.
This has nothing and everything to do with drug addiction treatment and mental health treatment. It’s all fucked. We are fucked.
Ashamed of healthy practice criticized Slam silence heresay hatred for me virulizes I’ll stay hidden until I’m unknown and annoying to her only now barely let on by any and all that was tried but though still dues I just dont believe I can forgive what she doesnt know that I know about. Broken cigarettes lit Shame for abandoning and failing and confused. Public health degree decrease in the hope for love in life,
It’s not why. How. And why, when…? Who does this? I want to abuse the hero when I am unwelcome hidden like an Ann Frank post modern romance. Death will happen just before it couldnt have ended the way I watch from the bleachers of desired life relapsing nicely into the veins I guess
Check this out:
Without anything that can be saved will it fade the anger inside the oceanic vanity reflecting in my face dripping blood onto white carpets and far off the edge no pledge some fretting pace is in violation of the done with which I had said was dead betting lies hidden under as I sleep this! Death
I’m sorry for
Missing the seat,
When I vomited
Earlier in the
Gas tank lightning
Protesting the beauty
Of what now
Is just all
Of it just
The whole goddamn
Way Shit is
Now that I
Wish I were
Able to finish
My thoughts to
Simply speak, softly.
Stir fry sauce
Moldy maggett hunger
Desperation so much
That yummy apparently.
I’ve got a sigh and a soft reflective fuck that is the box my emotions were stored in. Suffocate the remaining any of that which left there has been as always. The poet named punk music the poet make way for a poet, once. Applaud his second hand outfit. Outmoded jade to being liked.
The poet stabs the closest to him because they were mocking him. As a poet my job is to not spell it out in cheap dry concrete wheel burrow stirs of a slurpy shit stain tongue flutter.
Flutter is retired now
