The weeping
of the guitar begins.
Wineglasses shatter
in the dead of night.
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
It's useless
to hush it.
It's impossible
to hush it.
It weeps on monotonously
the way water weeps,
the way wind weeps
over the snowdrifts.
It's impossible
to hush it.
It weeps for things
far, far away.
For the sand of the hot South
that begs for white camellias.
Weeps for arrows without targets,
an afternoon without a morning,
and for the first dead bird
upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart gravely wounded
by five swords.

Black. Black. Black.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
OK, now I’m riding ******* on a brown horse,
a kindred spirit,
hugging its mane.
Take me to that meeting tomorrow so that I can
make that guy understand.
After that, I need to work out. Should I go for a run?

No wait.

Black. Black. Black.
I’m floating in black nothingness.
Each muscle relaxes in sequence.
My mind is blank.
I am everything and nothing.
Nothing? Shoot, I forgot to fill out that 401(k) rollover form.
Don’t forget that. Must do.
Man, I’m so glad I don’t work there anymore.
That place was a piece of crap.
Speaking of crap, there’s that presentation I have to do Monday.
I bet there’s a good Dilbert cartoon to illustrate my point.
I should poke around for one.
That reminds me of this funny song by the Lonely Island
that I need to get. I wonder if iTunes has it?
Must check iTunes when I wake up so I can listen to it
on the way to work.

Tunes. Tunes.
OK Enya, do your stuff. Make my mind blank so that I can forget.
How much time do I have for this?
Ugh. 5:30. So just enough time to fall asleep before the alarm.
Since I’m looking at my phone, I might as well see if there are any emails.
Yikes! Stuff is broken.
OK. OK.
People are on it. It’s not my problem.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Beep! Beep! Beep!

The absence of wonder in your eyes and sincerity from your mouth monotonously reassures the credibility of my contempt for casual communication with characterized ?individuals?
         My own iris has been stretched by my eager to expand awareness.

         I normally pity someone like this,
But your arrogant certainty shook my shadow to consciousness.
It told me to cast you naked into the glare,
         Maybe snip your eyelids out of spite. Its fortunate for you that I am not a slave to the fury.

No constructive change would come of my martyrdom.

A heart beats monotonously,
Like a leather-encased clockwork, a spring-wound toy
It ticks away the hours until the moment
When, with a silence like a stone, it stops.

How are things going? I desperately want to ask
But now I remember how I called you that night crying and desperate
“Sorry dear, I have bigger priorities,” you mumbled nonchalantly in a tone that cut
I guess what was important to you was your short silver dress which you had to keep tugging at
And your layers of mascara which smeared in the heat and the sweat
Maybe you didn't feel like being responsible or putting up a fight
Didn't feel like talking in the pulsating strobe lights
Where you drank and danced and smoked,
Your hands around the masculine men with whom you hooked
I wonder if you still would have hung up if you knew I was crying for you.

And one year later you still haven’t changed
You’re out of school and awfully deranged
Lying at the side of the road in a drunken stupor,
Stinking of smoke and giggling hoarse
Your dress riding up mid-thigh and your heels strewn across the street
Ordering McDonald’s, planting fries in your friend’s garden throwing fits
Sitting in trolleys in supermarkets at 3 am in the morning screaming at the top of your lungs and I
Miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you.
If I ever saw you again I’d bury my face in your long raven hair and whisper how much you meant to me, once.
I’d stroke your whiter than white skin, touched and kissed by fifty other men
Bruised by the very people you call your friends
And I’d cry in your chest and tell you to come back
If all you’d do is swig down a bottle of beer
And not look my way, but cackle cruelly wailing dear
I would die more than a little inside

You stopped caring about anything that was supposed to matter,
Like being better than everyone and writing beautiful badass essays about saving the sharks
(And understanding everything I never understood about myself and laughing at the things I used to say and pinning my name with stars on your charts)
You forgot your dreams of wanting to travel and petting kangaroos, carving out something of yourself so they’d remember you for your passion
and loneliness is the only place at which you’re stationed.

Now all you’re doing is living monotonously, “the *** life” you call it, your dreams all burnt up in the intoxication of the hookah you pretend to love and dissolved in the alcohol you swallow now pulsing through your veins.
Come back.

If, as they say, the cells
of the body are replaced every seven
years, then I'm a new being
since my sons were newborn.
I have died and been reborn
neither better nor worse yet remembering
feeding them while dancing to Moment's
Notice, as they attended with new minds.

Having died, as such, I find I do not mind
quiet living with the purpose of a cell
unbound by minutes or moments
as men know them. There are seven
deadly sins, seven ways of remembering,
seven stages in which to have been or continue being.
None of them recur after one's reborn
and none are known to us from before we're born.

Of the two young people to whom I was born,
one has lately died. I do not so much mind.
Although I do not, he believed he'd be reborn
and who can say what happened to his soul or cells?
Perhaps in Christ we continue being,
or with some other deity, as the churches claim monotonously,
      momentously,
demonically and deviously. It seems about as relevant that
      seven
rhymes with heaven and rhyming's a mnemonic device (for
      remembering).

But remembering
what? To go to the daily discipline to which you were born?
I fought seven forest fires, took seven
lovers, my sons are seven, and my mind
is the sole owner and subsidiary of these memories and
      moments.
Unless I am to be reborn
they disappear with me. Masefield's poem continues to be
the most honest and chilling assessment of our souls' and cells'

disbursement. I can imagine stem cell
research may lead to a cure for dementia, loss of memory
about who you are and where you've been.
If one's not been born
this doesn't matter. But if you're being reborn,
in the sense of "he not busy being born is busy being reborn"
      (Dylan),
then it is best and most correct to consider your last moment
of a continuum with moments endless and entirely in your
      mind.

The mind is made of cells and moments, seven billion of them.
Remember to be born and reborn, early and often.

A to B and A to B
Then back to A and back to B.
Monotonously making their way round the map
Taking Tom, ****, and Harry from A to B.

Oh, where would we be
Without the drivers who transport anyone that they see?
Enabling us to go about our lives no matter who or where we may be?

To allow old Mable to get out and about
Or old man Joe to leave the house.

To help adolescent Amy to see friends across town
And **** time for Doris by simply driving her around.

I know we complain that they so rarely smile
But think of how far they can take you, for miles.

I know we complain that at times they are late
And I know that the one guy made you miss your hot date

But think of that time you were saved from the rain
And how the bus helped you when your legs were in pain.

Think of that time you were saved from the exercise
Which we in 2015 do so despise.

This isn't ironic, it's a genuine ode
To the bus driver heroes to who I do owe.

I'd rather watch the unevenly tall grass sway in an awkwardly flimsy wind
Than watch Jerry Orbach monotonously crawl his manicured tongue to an acting Deputy
"There goes my beauty sleep."
Or watch Ricky and Bubbles scribble words in the air over **** jugs and cement a post-modern cynicism of the world as a great big piece of trailer trash.

I'd rather watch the moisture accumulate on the synthetic brown border between wall and roof in an overcast runny-nose rain

So I guess what I'm saying is

Television took my vision
So I took my vision back.

We'd halloo and then chase down the years,
for each step we took, 
our eyes opened to the changes,
how I hate those mulched  leaves
there’s a certain funereal fatigue inherent,
orange visibility workers  monotonously arrive
stripping those old houses,
but those Removal vans 
that just kills the conversation.

No monophonic masterpiece
Sung on a monorail
In monotone with MSG
That's monosodium glutamate
I say that monotonously
A monoplane monopoly
A monomaniac with monomania
A monocle for monoculars
A monograph of monogamy
Monocetyledons- plants with single seeds
A monolith that's monogramed and monochromatic
You know the monosyllable of monotheism as fact
There is no monomial for mononucleosis
Are eggs mononuclear?
Monoxide just sounds dangerous
I have a monolingual term for mono
It's bad so please don't catch it

ANGUISH,
a wicked, deafening drum
synced with the brutal,
monotonously thudding rhythm
of my own jaded,
bitter heart's sickly beat
each throb of my
pulse rips savagely
at my seams
the wretched sobbing
of a crumbling soul
trickles and weeps out from me
and darkly cloaked
within the furthest reaches
of my disassembling being
secrets spun into silky
spider web strands
ensnare any shreds of light
holding truth and hopes
captive until they can be
drained to lifeless husks
****** to infinite suffocation
struggling with an unconquerable  battle
a war, the likes of which
no human has ever,
even just once,
managed to have won
there's no cure,
no remedy to mend
what's broken, breaking,
shattering all around

I'M CRYING and begging at
an unseen God to come
come to my rescue
pleading for an intangible,
omniescent being to
destroy the tower built by
my own sinful nature
my own deceit
praying to a Creator
whose very existence I
still can't help but to
question and sink in doubts
but for that miniscule chance
He's real and might
maybe help me...
because the very reality
of such mercy and grace
could bring this
otherwise undefeatable
curse crashing down,
down, down, down...

THE DRUMMING,
banging out its mad rhythm
of anguish
changing, changing now
changing its infuriating tune...
with the final
dying grains of
my imagination,
I'll shove aside my
terror; my unholy fear
of the relentless
force of disappointment
I'll indubitably feel when
I reach my finishing line
clutching onto a
hideous fail
such an asinine act,
this allowing of a bitsy
fragment of hope
to creep and crawl
inside the walls
of my mind
but I've nothing more
left beyond this
bleak black floor
sagging beneath my feet
and a hope,
regardless how quiet,
no matter how
pitifully dim,
could quite easily be
the absolute  final
spark of light that
my eyes shall ever see...

There are billions of words- yet there is only one correct word.

Whether in the fields of Oklahoma,
or in the deserts of Saudi Arabia,
writers know that one right thing to say.

Happy, elated, joyous, cheerful, blissful.

They all mean the same thing, but connotatively,
are worlds apart.

I was happy for his success.
I was elated over my success.
I was joyous at the party.
I was cheerful during the Christmas season.
I was feeling blissful during the wedding ceremony.

Without conscious word choice, the world would a very sad and monotonously gray place indeed-
rather than a beautiful spectrum of color.

by Federico Garcia Lorca*

The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target
evening without morning
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.

I'm in the white city.
A dense fog
Disintegrates all my hopes.
There are people dreaming
Of nonexistent worlds,
There are disoriented people
Walking on the terminal's sidewalk.
There are lights turning on and off so erratically
In this white city.
There are hidden screams in the night
Covered by the heavy rain sounds,
That rain falling continuously
And monotonously.
In this white city,
The victims
Don't understand that they are victims yet.
There are flowers,
There are fast food kiosks,
There are botanical gardens
With beautiful exotic trees,
And there are horror movies in the theaters.
As shadows emerging from the fog
Are the lost steps.
There are steps searching each other,
And there are steps that are separated forever.
The rain's sounds
Vibrate the eye of the windows,
Vibrate the burial stones,
Vibrate the dreams,
Those dreams
About better days.
Apparently,
Someone screams
In the white mist of the night.

Maybe he's the victim of an aggression,
Or maybe he's someone, who has lost his love.
Maybe it's just an echo...
I'm in the white city
And I'm searching for you in the darkness....

Naysayers gonna nay say, vacayers gonna vacate.
I like that I don't have to use hate;
so strong of a word to perpetrate,
this simple feeling of discord brought up on ones own accord.
Throw your hands in the ayer
if your a straight player
of the blame game,
taking in all the shame
like a flame that maimes
consuming and fuming

Get on some level
not on my level,
its reserved for those
dare devils
who can't care
or share
but want to.

cut that can't
or won't
*******.
just don't.
its a moot point and
It ain't fair
but to be real
its about the pair
that the universe designed
and that was meant for you
to complete.
you're a night
to some ones day.
youre standing in the spotlight for some one standing back stage.  
a yin to their Yang.
the turmoil
for some ones ecstasy.
or even being alive
while your other half dies.
you never know, but that's the way the world spins.
now
Steadily peel your skin, thin, kin like.
let's not succumb to the vast misunderstanding of human aesthetics.
one just can't belong to someone that needs anything.
to truly love someone or something you must first truly love yourself.
could you love me in this skin alone, walking around unbound by blood and bones and consistency and veins.
because I could,
would
and have done.
to believe you are a shell of yourself is like being your own exoskeleton.
having an out of body experience; lying there looking up at yourself wondering why you are here at this exact moment.
and why
did all events in my life culminate to this one moment of pure universal ebbing and flowing.
now read up on shedding,
that layer you just grew out of,
is unvieling this new glove.
rise above,
this is it.
feeling fit, feeling right.
3 am. weekday night.
widen your peripheral sight
its alright,
your slight change of might
may evolutionize this transition over night.
so its time to revolutionize our position for the right.

Enveloping this
eloping of collective consciousness, knowledge and intuition,
is the slow mellow bass of the  monks on mountain tops or in monasteries;
chanting as well as enchanting beautiful sweet moments of life and strife alive in our NOW.
carrying monotonously and steadily with mellow vibrating chords this unknown marriage of the cerebral bonding of these simple words.
for they are the key to your light and might and tight nit click.
get it?

I'll slow my roll for the roll call of my souls haul and ma's tall story of how worried she was  for her curry eating potato favorite
with some bone marrow on the down low.
she may be sad; however she will be had when the cab arrives.
its funny that he thrives off her drives and my strives for money.
I hope this makes sense, but if not get some intense metaphorical pretenses
up in that co centric dome
let this be known, and let the flowers of a new era be grown upon the previously sown, drones
of past scone munching, baby punching, number crunching, people at luncheons.
who needs that mess
we've got free press
and I'll address
what I think needs said.
so go with it, go against it, either way your thinking about it.

and when the truth is spoken
you will always have your token person,
who thinks their outspoken opinion has never been a
'not to mention'
and needs to be mentioned
but the tension isn't right
because they lost most of their night contemplating their own contribution rather than
what was the plight of the group as a whole.
they may elude the **** and bareness of the truth
but when truth is exposed
all doors are closed.
one can see the hosed, declothed and opposed inmate
for what she really is.

lady liberty and me, we're a lot a like as is, but to be on some other plane **** she ain't on some plain ****.
justice is her forte and the order of the court is death by a journey to sanity and back.
we have continuously for decades been doing the same things over and over again with the same results.
by choice...
this is the opposite of the definition of insanity which is only expecting different results. we have thrown ourselves into a will full suspension of disbelief and it will be our downfall.
who was the deciding factor in this big meeting where they decided how humans would lay out their lives according to a 'normal'.
but wait, justify that.
who can, just sayin, cause she nor me can but blame on any man, woman, can can dancer or politician that has the freedoms of any human being. yeah there are morals and ethics;
but what about those reefs of coral
and jungles full of antibiotics that laugh in the face of illness. who will stand for them?  
Ahem.
we can't say one thing and do another, oh wait.
that's the human resolve to almost anything really.
we don't recall its involvement in our lives, however we let it govern this encampment we have pioneered along the edges of our souls.
Oregon trail for minds veiled seems to fail and impale the true nature of the creature ruled by outside elements all the while toiling and searching for the yearning that it may quench with only the comfort of another being.

any situation, reveals that
there is unlimited potential in this gradual change we are experiencing.
a change for the bettering of humankind.
its provocative and emotive and natural and easy and thought provoking and beauty evoking.
but I'm smoking here and its bad for me but that doesn't stop me from poking my free will into this
while I sit here and am continuously choking on my own words I can't get out in the sequence I desire.
while making what few pointless decisions I get to make in the scheme of things.

why do I get to do that?

why must there be anything else. after all, if all that we are is not spiritual but physical, physics.
then wouldn't my purpose be to completely oppose another force within this environment equally and with as much force as it exerts on me.
something like an equal and opposite reaction.
or
a completion of a pair.
I'm out to find, define, refine, get in line, make mine, and waste time with my equal and opposite reaction.
please take action,
in any case, situation, point, or debate you come to find yourself placed in at the moment.
if you don't
then don't.
I can only dream and hope for a better world for the moment.
at least until I can get into this one deeper than I am already.
those of you who don't understand this I feel for you and hope that you come across some sort of super explanatory device because I'm never going to get it out right on paper in complete thoughts all nice

I fall passed out on the bed.
The world swirling around me.
Absolutely colorless.
That doesn't mean its black and white,
Those are colors
My world is blank
empty
Like my vault of emotion was robbed
and they took everything
they left me with blank empty sorrow
although...sorrow is something...
I have nothing.
Why? Why me?
I cry
Although...to cry... you need tears...tears are something...
I have nothing.
The raw heat ****** even the last drop of water from my frugal body.
People say they have the same feelings.
then they don't understand because they have feelings... and feelings are something
I have nothing.
They ask me how?
How do I cope?
I smile and laugh.
"you get used to it"
You don't.
If they looked, really looked past the flowing giggles and locked smiles.
They'd see.
They'd see into my monotonously wistful microcosm of nothing.
Of nothing.
De nada

I am one,
In a trillion,
Significant enough,
With standoffish movement of air,
Of any velocity.
I will furnish you with an upchucking sensation,
In your solar plexus,
And move your heavy head,
Round and round,
Round and round.
Outdoing the darkness,
Above and beneath,
I will emerge cold-eyed;
I will emerge cold-eyed,
And hit the strong,
And bold,
And black boulders.
And sprinkle moisture droplets on your pale face.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Vying with my facsimiles,
And similar ones,
For reaching the untraced,
Unknown,
And unfrequented coves,
With puissance,
And robbing the possessions,
I will recede.
I will recede,
And submerse everything with me,
And what awaits me,
On my way.
Come,
And dunk yourselves,
Thinking I will wash all your transgresses,
Come,
You puny creatures,
I will,
But wash only your grimy,
And filthy bodies.
Advance farther,
And you will be another meal,
To me.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Significant enough,
Roaring monotonously.
I am a wave,
In a humongous ocean,
Busier than a bee,
Rising and falling,
Forever,
Growing old,
And working harder,
Than ever.

the vivisectionist comes to call
when I am separated from you
his palsied incautious hands
removing the hours from my body

one

at

a

time

dragging his dull rusted scalpel
across my psyche
in his leaden deliberate pace
whistling
tunelessly
monotonously
in my ear
he will have no truck
with anesthetic

I am bathed
in the sanguine gore
of his butchery
which others mistake
for sadness

This clock smokes a cigarette and tucks itself into the nest hidden inside of my jaw made from the sticks in my eyes and the branches in my brain. They act as a memento of all of my cherished and celebrated flaws. You know, the ones that to everyone else seem deep and emotional and artistic and cool, but to me seem just seem clinically insane. These branches are pawns from Fool’s Paradise calling to me—I can see them floating idly above my head like tiny taunting yellow birds from my memories. They try to make me forget whether this is a wedding or a funeral releasing these doves from my nest into my heart. They flap their wings in my chest monotonously and obnoxiously; a tireless taunting heartbeat. You’re a modern desolate suicide with your heart filled with fearful and uneasy pesticides, poisoning all of my beautiful birds of Fool’s Paradise.

They’re teaching me to fly now, making me too exhausted to even lose it anymore, and too exhausted to think I can choose it. (“It” being the toxins making me dizzy and Ms. “Miss Me Please”. Pathetic.) This restless clock stays awake and is impassively beating a tragic ballad like a phantom of my pallid heart which silently screams. It’s foolish and hushed and timidly invalid. The rhythm paces past pit stops searching for the sound of silence but never stops to eat or for a pick-me-up when it’s lasted this long already. You’re a modern romantic suicide wringing out my heart with your rigid hands and hanging it out to dry.
Sometimes my heartbreak will abruptly brake and snarl at me like a moon exhausted at daybreak refusing to hold itself up for the world anymore. It’s as if it trips and stumbles across its own canvas in the sky, collapsing into my nest weighing me down into the deepest of these one-hundred thousand lakes of solitude, making me a drowning anchor at best, bringing the whole **** ship and crew down with me. It’s as if your shiny poisonous soul blasts my shaded nest with lasers from a science-fiction fantasy with all robots and no magic, and the necessary darkness needed for dreams begins to fade. Your sparkle is surfing and effortlessly riding the tsunami of my mind, unaware of the sharks with razor teeth made of my pathetic emotions. How are you so charming and rustic, and yet so piously unkind?

And I could tell you that you’re not alone yet, but you would never believe me. And I could tell  you you’re far too ******* yourself and too ******* me and too ******* us and the catastrophic hurricane we’d be lucky to be, but you would never want to believe me. I could tell you that you’ve got your heavy crown all tangled up in your hair filled with twigs and branches but I won’t because I know you won’t dare to care.

But it’s true, you’re not alone yet. It doesn’t matter what you’ve been through or who you’ve been through or anything we’ve been through . It doesn’t matter what you’ve seen or who you’ve seen, these sentimental knives still seem to lacerate your brain, I know they have. I’ve acquired my fair share of daggers—please let me guide you through the pain or at least pretend to if you’ll let me. You’re not alone, although I know you wish you were. I’m sorry.

So leave me be when you’re not alone. Let’s both abandon me together so you can be alone. Give me your hands because you’re staggering on this uneven floor. Let me hold your struggling heart still because it’s beat is staggering. Let me be alone with you because you’re staggering… but I’m a chore.

Sometimes I feel like there is a balloon inside of my heart that is deliberately deflating to a point where my skin can’t stretch far enough to protect it anymore. Sometimes I feel like there a minuscule puncture in my heart that is so small that nobody can even see it. I wonder if I’m the growing void, or if the void is growing inside of me.

The delusion of you lurks in the corners of my brain and I’m so ashamed about it. It’s like you sleep in the underbelly of my eyelids that keep leaking because there is no more room for them without you living in there. It’s as if you made a puncture in my eyes so small that nobody can see it but they can see the streams that used to snuggle up in there.

You make me feel like I’m a speck of ******* that gets left behind on a dollar bill and spent on a pack of gum.

Sometimes I feel ready,

To surrender,
As if God, or mother nature, (or whatever you may / may not believe in, I'm terrified to offend)
Would just take me off this Earth,
And I'd be okay,
Knowing I've lived more pain than the fullest of lives, at "ripe"...18.

Sometimes I feel ready,

To surrender,
Like I'll forever be a servant, that I'll spend my days making everyone else happy,
That I'll never speak my mind again, because when I did, it didn't make people happy, and, and,
And I'd be okay,
Knowing people wouldn't hate me, that I wouldn't have this pain.

Sometimes.
Sometimes.
Sometimes.
Sometimes.
Sometimes.

Sorry, I lost my cool there for a second.

Sometimes I hope,
I hope someone comes by soon to save me, to see me as who I am, and to love me for me,
Because I just got crushed so badly by someone who told me they loved me for me,
That they always would,
Telling me they loved everything about me, the true me, who I am.

Sometimes I believe,
I believe the above is true, but the truth is, that nobody should die young,
Be it the kids getting high or the kids being beaten or
The kids whose minds withstood,
The types and masses of psychological cruelty usually only reserved for killers.

Sometimes I believe,
I am not a prisoner, that I am a free man, that I live in a free world, that I'm allowed to be me,
But then those beliefs quickly fall because I am not free
I am restricted, kept away,
From the only thing I ever wanted, the most amazing thing to happen in my life.

Sometimes I realize,
I'm not supposed to surrender, but I still want to surrender, the kind of surrender,
That makes those people smile in their last moments
That makes people happy to end their pain,
But I know certainly, suicide is weak, because the living hate on those who seek death, as if they know.

Sometimes the above stanza,
Is how I am when I'm weak, but I realize, I don't want to die, but I don't want to live,
It's such a crazy thing to not want to die or live
The feeling that you're wasting space for ever existing,
Like it would have been better for you and the world too if you'd just never been born to breathe the air.

Die or live
Die or live
Die or live
Die or live
Die or live

I repeated that for hours monotonously one night,
When I didn't want to die or live, because I really wanted to live, but I didn't want to live this,
But on the flip side, I really wanted to die, because I didn't want to live this,
But then I stopped, I stopped my crying,
My arms, hands, face so numb from hyperventilating.

I stopped, I mean stopped,
I stopped wanting to live, wanting to die, wanting to not die, wanting to not live, wanting to not not,
I got up to grab a glass of water to chase down the freak show I'd just watched and
As sipped my water, I stopped.
I stopped to stare,
At nothing in the dark,
And proceeded to cause new feelings.

Now I walk almost with ease through these nightly rituals
Disconnecting as much as I can from this frenzically speeding mind
Always the same.
Monotonously I wade through the murky waters of this devilish playground
Just enough energy to swim to the top now and again to gasp for air
Their seas of haunting chants is suffocating
Always deceitfully encouraging me into states of panic and despair
Always the same.

I have danced this dance many times before
Yet their persistancy makes it feel infinitely longer
My body aches from their puppet strings, holding me up before slumber
And my thoughts are disheveled from their constant trespassing.
But look here in my mind, that despite inconveniences still prospers, unstoppable.
Their manipulation, you see, although practiced in the mind, only hinders my brain and body
And is shrugged off every day as I wake from sleep,
No, no, it is not the same.

She’s a bone-clung loveless girl,
pillows and comforters of wanted love
suffice and supply her with the stardusts in the night,
along with the ebbing and flowing waves of her sailboat dreams.

And he is a wanderer of wanderings
with eyes that are ready to take over and under the world;
packed with all the innocence and bottled-up love songs,
with the boyish playful smirks in the curls of his smile.

Then, it just so happened that the world shifted.

They are souls meant to be.

It just so happened that two stars collided
and a magic-bag spilled all over the place.
It was a constellation pulled in threads, needles and bobble pins.
The universe was never the same after that nanosecond.

And he’d look at her
with decency and yet with batted lashes
of course, with all the guts he could muster to put up for her
as she still suffers in uncertainty
treading on thin, thin ice
caged heart, skinny love and knotted locked heart.
Puzzle pieces perfectly fitting and filling
the gaps and holes and blotches and emptiness.

Two worlds smeared with the colors
of radiant red, pastel blue and hope
lost-and-found pair of hearts
that are far apart
yet entangled and tied and bound
by the red fate heartstrings,
never ceasing to tug monotonously
on their constant constrained heartbeats.

They are souls meant to be.
And souls meant to be.
And souls meant to be.

In my mind, I was
Prepared for your presence.
As if you would illuminate my world and
Tear down my mental fortress;
I was prepared for everything to be
ok.
So these preparations became the most daunting of dreams;
Wonders and hopes of everything
Actually
Being
ok,
And even after you monotonously sauntered into my physical world
And everything hopelessly remained the same, if not worse,
I kept dreaming.
Months after, I dreamt.
Prepare? More like pretend,
Pretend that you, in fact, never did
Physically saunter
Into my monotonous world.
That you, somewhere, existed
In a consistent aura of love and affection,
Or even in just the sense of an ability to love would've been
ok.
You had to exist somewhere because,
For god's sake,
It surely couldn't be here;
This surely couldn't be the you I had dreamt of.
And it wasn't, it was the you that was irrevocably you
You were as good as you were going to get.
And I was the same.
Indifferent.
Incapable of loving anyone,
Let alone you.
This was the "ok" that I had so long awaited,
and I was certainly not
ok.
So I dreamt.

How long can one continue to dream?
How long until they off themselves on the realization of the inescapability of hopelessness?
How long can one lie to themself?
The reluctant truth is that every reachable
"ok"
Is really not ok at all.
ok is miserable and impossible and
ok
Ceases
To
Exist
Amongst those who are miserable enough to admit this reluctant truth.
ok is putrid and a liar because
I'll never be ok.
And I'll always say I am.
And you'll, from time to time, saunter back into my monotonous melancholy of an "ok"
And I'll never be happy.
And one day I'll off myself on the reluctant hope that there is an
ok
Existing beyond you and I;
Beyond everything that I've dreamt of.
Because none of that was ever ok.
It was only a dream.
And all I've done is woken up.

Forget what you know.
Forget about the saying:
"If they love you , they won't only share the good times with you"
Love , true love is not a feeling or an emotion its a power , the only supernatural thing that we have physical proof of.
If they love you and if you want to know that they truly love you
Then they will fight with you,
They will get annoyed with you
They look at you speaking to others and smile and say she's mine
They won't just stand by you in tough times , they'll break the tough times ,
They won't enjoy the good times they'll make the good times
When the love is true they'll flirt with other girls but infront of you,
When the love is true they'll speak to other girls about you,
When the love is true they won't break down your enemies they'll make them your friends.
When the love is true they won't stand and wipe your tears away they'll stand and cry next to you.
When the love is true and someone hurts you they'll end up in jail only for you.
When the love is true there is no addiction or drug or pleasure to strong to give up for you.
There is no true defenition of love or true love but when the love is true they'll tell you everyday I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you Monotonously telling you I'm going to marry you.

Ad infinitum*

embroiled       in another
waking            moment with
a bated            breath nothing like
this day           inclined only to obfuscate
its meaningless      joy of seeing yourself

in a pond        swimmingly doubling the inertia
of the koi       the day constricting within the verdigris
ready to          seal shut in hermetic   this vermillion eye
to wake up     into a long-held confrontation

       of   what this system closes in a document
       why bother this validation when valedictory


Ad nauseam

why bother     this   confrontation
when disappearance     this  space much like a long-held performance
   if concert is hermetic     in front   of a nonchalant audience

laudable     with  no sound,  an untranslatable music
      unhinged from the inherent risk of felling

an    inert   day   struggling   like    koi   trapped
  in a    pond    seeking  what it is   to transcend
   or   the  multiplied   joy   of seeing  yourself  meaningless

   ready   for   an  eye to   be   caught in  a  monotonously
     claustrophobic      *****   of    a   tremulous   middleground
   with   no   possible  agreement   other   than:

   this    potentially   demands   an  end
       when  beginning   you   are   lionized

  to    a   fault,   repeated,    trite:    *what for?

O but how tepidly tired and dour,
How furiously, phallically fetid its flower.
Monotonously, mirthlessly humming along,
His listless life like a moribund song,
Sodden with pitifully petulant skulking,
Not deigning to die, but dreams of their sulking
Pervaded his psyche as fifty-five fleas
Formicate wildly, stinging suicide-bees.

Three years of contented, ire-inducing idleness,
Vacuous days lacking life’s latent vitalness.
Entitlement, cowardice, perhaps the antithesis
Is he of a man. Singed with syphilis,
****** from sentiment, his is the brain
Of one who breathes indignant disdain
For all those who threaten his thinly-veiled comfort.
The thespian of truth, he’d play the faux jumper.

Stress is Noise


Silence
the sun finally creeps into my room long abandoned
spilling light on organized chaos
a bed, haphazardly made
a desk - blanketed in overused office supplies and crumpled ideas
cold coffee saturating the air with its once savory aroma
a room, the perfect picture of absolute tranquility
still the only time spent here is to prepare for the next moment

We work.
and that includes more than the hours clocked in at a man’s vocation;
the time traded away for money we spend on skin-deep tchotchkes
that only last until they collect dust or become it
the whirr of machines, pounding of hammers, and gossip from the break room across the hall
all adding to the cacophony already pummeling our ears

There’s the time we spend at home,
grinding out tomorrow’s report
or having a fleeting moment of rest corrupted when we catch up with old friends
or read a book we’ve been dying to finish
or beat that last level on the newest video game
or fret about the meeting you dread
like a sunburn from head to toe
the pain doesn’t go away by tanning yourself
we work to solve the symptoms, but only progress the disease
muffling the hopeful silence with white noise

There’s team you’ve committed to
where practices are every day making you run faster, jump higher, create chemistry, score goals, play in pressure, and force expectations you can’t possibly meet.
which could be relieving that pent up stress - or maybe just siphoning gas from the already
empty tank
winning games has become more important than the teamwork sports inspire
Cheering and encouragement only adding to the babbel surrounding us

And now there’s media
like a leech it ***** any time we have left
twitter, facebook, insta, snapchat, pinterest, tumblr, youtube, buzzfeed, CNN, BBC, MSN, F-o-x,  NFL, NBA, MLB, NHL, NCAA - *** we haven’t even talked about cell phones
We’re surrounded by sound that not even a black hole could drown out
And yet we still somehow wonder why stress and depression are through the roof

Where are the thinkers and dreamers?
The ones that don’t skirt sideways at oppression
Or flee at the face of failure
I’ll tell ya, they’re pleasantly passing papers
and monotonously beating deadlines
and staying in their lane
and building castles so large it takes days to walk every corridor
What happened to those,
who don’t worry about the size of their paycheck
or getting in the expensive neighborhoods where
every car costs enough to buy Washington
and our futures are more stable than ever
• Because in reality your future is an edge of a knife
that will sever through hard work
like the superficial paper success builds its skyscrapers out of

I wonder, what would happen if we turned all that yelling — all that white noise — into silence
…..
…..
…..
It’s weird, isn’t it
…
…
…
Can you for once hear the clock ticking?
…
…
When’s the last time the only sound you heard was your breathing
We’ve gotten so caught up in living that we’ve forgotten how to live
We’ve forgotten about the rest
that makes the next chord much more powerful

Nowadays rest in peace comes once in a lifetime
and the work we do means no more than that slip of paper you get at the end of the month
when did we stop learning for the sake of ourselves
and stop working to better the world
and stop playing sports solely for their enjoyment
and stop taking time just hear the beauty of silence
stop learning for grades
stop working for things
stop chasing the wind
stop and smell the roses
stop