youre all breaking my heart, perhaps mine isnt i suppose strong enough to deal with the cold civilization i walk the streets of. i know poetry is usually written by sore bummed fucks, but, well…
the trilogy of soul mates, as still the first will always bring tears, no matter how much therapy, or substance, or trying to forget. i might be seeing things, but being things is what i’m trying to be. i have a woman. one with another man. late to see me. back from florida, where i am scared to go. because, never mind
what do you want me to say?
i know i havent been right. I know
but dont kick me out for the night
my open eyes are looking at you with open arms not a soul wants to embrace
the work i have to do on my self, i kind of dread, its been hard, and getting harder.
dealing with the real problems, problems i know are already too late to apologize for
the trying time and only time of cleaning this vicious stain.
almost believing you over this time that couldnt forget, surprised its like, ‘are you kidding?’ so close to the key that covers my death attempt. playing for permanent keeps, you know right? i love you. you know that. is there a misunderstanding? a mistake like standing in the rain for hours, you know i have been waiting. i dont care if you were there, you didnt find me, and i even went to your house. in a high melody i voiced a frustration of misunderstanding. still sitting here trying to believe you. its just the truth that i cannot break down, you will see me as something that you decide to see me as. but not how i want you to. and there is nothing i can say. but i still speak in the wake of you throwing it all away. so something tells me inside, that i am dead.
i was alive, you know this right?
I have pretend potent holes in my arms, fake track marks crawling in the rose gardens clotted thorn amazement prophecy shaped domination knits my pillow to a petite curving seal
loud symphonic orcha
pleasure mind republican
i draw a line in the sand between spinning boredom and office lighting makes everyone a zombie
children waking up face down five a morning at the edge of the dock in thick fog hot pan grease caught my soul bound fast to splash into brown dishwater suds
producing one of if not the most
horrific noises that sound I heard that I had ever heard now i know the worst thing you ever see you hear god says not now, for you are too perfect to the one waiting for me please stay seated, i’m just entering the mall stoned monk like care free and this will be when?
An Oregonian. I couldn’t believe that music brought fruit flies to my brooding bed black sheets with burns from narcoleptic cigarettes going out instead of killing me a brand new woman below me I heard uttering cute little grieving whimpers as I placed a rose at her doorstep next to her little shoes that she removes before entering her feisty abode I’m getting off track, I was just on my way to get a coke but I also left books of Neruda love poems hoping she would catch the clue to save me from that alone thing THIS! yes and books on art and notes just on my way to change my laundry hey ask her to marry me i heard a twelve year old girl covering her face say that it was better to die than to live with sorrow tonight i did
carry and cherish my vanity for the weight of the holiday season, I’ve been in Busted busted in two for two weeks
weeks in a row! Time Magazine calls me and my friends person of the year! What! oh ma, y’know, times are tough rite now, with all this stress i put on you, can I borrow a twenty?
I often try to relate to Zeks
because I should be one
fuck you hip scene, fuck you because I am jealous
the spilled fluid is getting closer to the edge. I want to kill these fruit flies the music brought. It was an Oregonian neon square sign listening to the dancers in the neon ballroom, aware but aware of my pre-any everythings that happened and will will still continue to happen; i was born practicing a life of surrealism I always question the real value with real episodes of selfish motives I have a gone a day or two without whatever however long remains the same in many guesses against a note my grandfather wrote me when i was 7 that said “war is bullshit” so i looked to the book shelf for a piece of paper, and at how The New Kids angled their microphones how time flies thought to every miracle is something i resign to figure out its the feeling that gets people up in the morning, the feeling that puts me to bed at the sight of morning light, have a nice day, wake me up into the dream how to end is simply this
(lyrics written for a sad song)
still too soon for us to speak?
ever be long enough?
or always too late to…
ever forgive me?
you know that i know
what i did, but
you know I loved you, and
that my heart broke
into pieces when you left
though i let you go
let y’ leave me low n’ lone
i’m imperfect, human.
and letting you know
i really do know
i let myself throw
you away, and i would give away
anything including my own life
to have you back
have you back
to have you back
have you back
I have been hearing lovely verse
and I like the fact
that they the words
read like voices of songs
i dream to write selfishly alone
fathers throw their sons
in boot camp boarding school
where they crack the whips
to the limit of their time
until we are free to be thrown
into jail by our fathers
for trying to get even
eleven year mark park shark
for the next two years now
I cannot make them angry
anger drives their decisions
i do not care to explain why
my relationships with women now…
i slept all day again why cant you be what i confide in you about?
the beautiful body wrapped in skin so soft it softens my heart
especially after anything you say? why?
where are you?
bird flue is back