Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.  

As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .  

The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .

Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .

Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation.  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.  

In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .

There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.

When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.

He was never far away;
And the last to ever say he was gone
Was the same who could stutter brains and brawn away in the skylight.

The city is bigger and pretty,
Prettier aesthetically in his brain,
Where the pretty place he remains is driving him insane,
Can you blame him?

He called it, in the end,
He even said it was around the bend,
Yet as a friend to himself he threw out a hand to lend
In verbal assistance.

He feels the grease caress his fingers,
As the smell of sadness lingers,
In his mind from a past mistake he did partake upon himself to rightfully correct.

He is hauling himself from Hell,
Smacked straight in the face by the sale of his emotions to sadness,
He is buying back his shares,
Because he cares.

He was never one to trust complete optimism;
In fact he felt like optimism was simply one side of a schism,
That would take 1 step forward,
Only to end-up 2 steps back, and off-track.

Maybe it's his misuse of the art;
But logic and realism are a part of his mind he can't silence.

He believes himself to be,
Optimistically realistic;
One who will not deny life's hardships a good cry,
But will strive to try in making things better using the side that's much brighter,
And lighter.

He is a fighter who looks not to fight,
But to do right, and live life,
Beyond his work as a writer.

Prelude  PART I


"Today when the threat is looming, as close apocalyptic years approach, it will be by cohabiting itself and the ruining valley of debris, which will make this world corrupted the next issue of the numeral scale of the new count, a rising hyperspace , concerning the parts of the kingdom of God ... "

Then on the Lord's day, John saw the glory of the risen Christ, and she understood from the point of view of God, he saw that the fate of the Church and threatened in the first persecutions took the appearance of a dark beginning.
And the time John wrote the Evangelist, including books were Jews called Revelation, that is, "Revelations". With fantastic images of monsters, angels and cataclysms, evidence of the Jewish people are stressed and are invited to await the judgment of God who intervenes from heaven with all his power.  So my beloved world is harsh and does not represent an apocalypse, but it is the true reality is when I will bear its overwhelming slaughter.

" Today when I walked with my winged feet near my friend Victor, I confided down the road crushed by afflictive legs; how difficult the taste of laughter when the decadent surrounds you, the human, the vile, the loose ...
Even though the celestial charisma invoke his memory and help nourish the weakness of Robert in hyperspace, with clean clothes, I can see his beloved mother consumed as automaton can take care of him. She is also her father, because it carries rooted in its members and manners, infinitely sharp look; in their arms they will gather wherever his soul is under his patronage that lives there ..."
I am  who  say that Roberto is a dog, who bears all the faces of dogs humble and serene. Perhaps tired of hearing young people, it is flush adults who do not accept, and who do not share as young faces were watching them, getting them to receive them what they should disclose them.
This is how we are numbed and distraction is fleeting, and he looking aside in his astrayed, he would be saying ...:
"Among the cradle and the grave I have a feeble scaffolding, and then complains, though his other I demolishes; unsconcient defends his executioner ... that the threat of death is its widespread depravity, which dominates it and want to go on like mortifiying.

      I want to talk about life ..., he said in his short years of life, which is more of it; possibly coming to complex, what our Somatic territory responds in normal or involuntarily. Comparative anatomy, and its innermost portion, the link body and mind, as a pure white as Samadhis and nature.
Homeostatic factors regulating our vitality, making its experimental modification, increasing to evolution, or maturation as a criterion of personal psychology go with the passage of time into in the depths of our mind.
Thus in a known threshold of Vedic architecture, its sensitivity is excited by regulating the effectiveness of the response to be made ... and everything related to the world of Ludwig Garroch; brother Robert in his strange Emigrate.
Yesterday when my arms away from hers, my fingers pounding away and recording what the heart more than a song, was a symphony sonata with a single end, long and sustained movement; It was the adage inner melancholy with an eye romanticism, which dominates the
passions of the visible world, which inhabits Antonieta, causing me, unbalanced living.


                                       CHAPTER I


In the beginning years of his childhood, little Ludwig sitting at home, in the gallery. Ask her aunt who was ironing ... Madelain, how I would always be a child of five ...?, And being as such, a privileged to receive toys for many years. Attentive aunt, maybe go to hear with little complacency as his hands only want unroll clothes.
After two years at the age of seven, when her aunt arranging his coat to go to Mass, she teaches a carol that had been taught in childhood. When many wondered whether there is a Santa Claus ...?, And among his friends they looked to unravel the mystery. One year later, when he enjoyed his unicycle, who just dominated him, called him a cousin telling her it was her birthday. He did not hesitate to go to find out what was behind the call, so he found the means by which we celebrate, we live and cooperate towards happiness and delight to have us at each other.
Not long after a friend told him .. "You do not have ten years are too big And Ludwig thought he was well endowed and well stopped, so not your friend was wrong in the above. It is my label and my stance has put the world on me.
Every passing day came the stamp of manly character, a woman or girl who made change her hairstyle, and he did dress more attractive every day.
Later, in his teens, his gaze was well received and their voices radiated security screening. Where He must continue the line of men. Even when I was living as smoothly, looks out strong destination with which calls us to live with skin clean or *****, because it is inside the feeling and the pain does not come out, it is enclosed by the overflowing affection. Here is the portion of good or evil haunting things casual and destroys the healthy, it fertile.

                                        
              ­                           CHAPTER II


Then was a year with a sports compensate pleasant summer sated outdoors, almost fugitive ... will not wonder that life smiled on him serfdom, and very willing opened his prudence.
Every time I decided to go to his favorite places, he went with his burly comrades in the best mood to conquer optimistically. Thus, no wonder he wanted when he was alone and put your reasoning judiciously, because nothing is distant, nothing is impossible.

After unite desires and forces, to clean your bike, piece by piece, in full sun know much security would not allow the mother of vices ruin their fun, that scarce alive to possess the desire to move and go on compliance instinct. Casts on itself, the vigor of the inner, its desolate world full of free enthusiasms who obey no doubt the vital complex activity.
Ludwig and entering the maelstrom of men love hate Godson, you can glimpse the friction with the air, with people ... I wore. That their voices heard their soul contracts, and thus puts light feet towards an acceleration which does not afflict his troubled stomach, nor regret his decision and put fearful, but, bring himself retained encouragement of his mind to remember the maternal cooing, comfort and timely relief to protect forever the suffering, the suffering of torment without end, not he shut the inspiration of the good man that no harm will result, and not for nothing the valence of living and not quarrel prancing. No existing could shed some light on what role, and that little thought is not complicated, and thus shown kneeling and unable to distressing oppressors and agents tangled conduct to chaos, those characters of ambition and discrimination.
Ludwig, who lives in the Ecologist City, where large forest ... budded, is home jungle floral site, whose relations are flowers, trees ..., next to Strange birds migrate flower in her intra nature reproduced, and pods evacuated by butterflies.
His close friend, is the watery and salty sea, which is beloved because he falls in love, puts on alert and curses him by his surroundings and invoking him. Anyway, it dwells wherever it is, and is accepted as a basic element of the universe.

                                    
                                         CHAPTER III

The act of tender love would be fulfilled later ..., what his voice fell silent and had his eyes and heart fortify, which will be linked from far inside.
At night, with Roderick going to a festive night, they climbed the rungs center alone, with heat in his shirt skin later. And in a deliberate action, someone asks you a sign that taking care tired and distinguishing see that John was his friend, school mate. He did not hesitate, he approached, greeted him and his sister and a cousin when she noticed well, he saw that he wore perfect for your night.
Debra wore elegant, dark clothes and sang with her dark brown wavy hair; his white brunette and harmonious ****** complexion line, gave her constant reflection. Fate was present, as it would not go around the world to be looked at by someone, he would watch his choice. Little was said, he only realized he was not passing and North America came eleven years ago.


They roasted the hours and the party ended, Ludwig remained with her new friend and his old friend John. They went downstairs, thinking about committing his new friendship, as I had noticed a slight interest in it. This happened and the meeting lasted for several hours.
The next day, he went to see her lawns roads where she lived, always with its mystique and kneeling the beast that wanted to impose upon him, that gives it excessive materialism unloved peace.
She arrives at her house, which was to John, though not very comfortable, but sure to please and attentive to host it.
And that night said much that was the tender feeling and liking her, but as his policy was rigid and concerning celibacy, only mattered to him, the unknown world of madness in his brawling to survive.
Time passed and deepened love, Ludwig went to say goodbye to his beloved, especially that he had faith, but that day would betray him. And so I wanted to put his heart and iron sleep peacefully, but Debra no secret  to tell ...:

"Ludwig, do not abandon our own, we must have faith, and I understand what it is. Ludwig rested and then brought her hands to her, hugged her and kissed all over her face, covering her eyebrows, nose, forehead, mouth; his lips positions in the middle of it, wanted to feel her warmth and tell her he loved her and would miss a lot of pain. But there was no show weakness, he must be strong and not to complicate the farewell from North America. Mourn scared him, because he had forged the feeling, because his aching grief was deep and it was at an undetermined point, with great desire to hold her and kiss over his face.
So ever, it was unbearable, she would like to die in his memory and had to remember in the collective thinking of his family circle. Which it fits the feel shivers ideas with sensations, such as the best in its inherent upstart point.

It was hard, as if more than man Ludwig out the feminine side of himself. But irremediable was the end, eager poisonous reaper approached. Ludwig hugged her, kissed her and stroked her right breast ... saying: "Do not forget me ..." and so left. Then he wrote her, that madness had transformed her away, but the distance was prevented against carcinoma being all postponed.
To know he could not boil your blood heavy thinking, they were contracted muscles. When he relaxed, he saw back through the hatch of his head, the soul that was in an ****** tragic holocaust, where Eros tenaciously and rebellion dictated its laws. Ludwig slept, and consciousness became natural color, as if it were safer, eternally fresh and manufactured this dream a poem ...:  

" That one corresponding to the celebration,
I wish to reunite with enthusiasm and strength ...
touching eyes closed
the sad sky, the dry ground, dried flowers
and people backward habits.

As meaning if it takes itself ...,
is the meaning
although they are scattered
in flows oppressions ...
the animosity of delight just widow and desultory,
losses and more losses at the time of aging ...
and profits to appease others.

For more like,
there seems to be a big drop ...
the same credibility ...?
and setting as a feeling
remain imagination stationary.

As hard it corresponds to the body,
It is destroyed inside ...
and hardened thoughts
tears falling to the esophagus,
without recognizing either way.

Who the pace of living is customizable,
and no opportunity is lost ...
but growing and creative
rears its profile,
as an unforgiven mirage. "


    Have been and unrestless forms of peremptory perceive, and when it starts to wander in my solitude, transporting my sorrow with grief, wherever I go I will take silent and vivifying separation completes the probable brain, which lives and endures in avidity stamped man with his need to want the Lord's command that made me forge this creation .--- he told himself, as a witness epilogue of his poem, albeit as the cry to its essence it was about. Originally from the Ecologist City, where reigned the wise and calm, where he healed their diseases, which has dodged the putrefaction of their wounds, where you inhale the aroms most want and cordoned off its without a grave lack of soft and flowering odour.
To believe missing, do not be afraid and trust that will grab everything, that not a drop of air was not lost on her fingers, which will not fail to display their imaginative stuff Alma Mater.
With all their eating, you want to cure your bad like venereum, and would go into the hands of a counselor or a warlock who extirpated the curse. Heal her feet and hands to despair, to heal the memory of his thought that I seasoned and voluptuous breaks the veins of his caleter, which seems not of it like a dwarf be provided with a dagger will break their venal, and this to commit such surgery, he laughs loudly with garnets eyes, full of the worst evil.

And this way Ludwig Garroch, vague without fear of rags, without fear of hunger or the messiness, only idles so that someday I can walk on the water surface, leaving their hydrocentric footprints where plankton reverence their sense of pain, his infarcted heart , her long fingernails of violence.


TO  BE CONTINUED….

Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .  
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation .  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .  
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .

When I was young I wrote poetry to analyze my life.
I felt I had to question everything to figure out what's right.
(Now I know there's no such thing as right & wrong)
Then life got busy, I had children, parties, sports
life became a routine of sorts.
  My Passion, poetry seemed to drift away,
occasionally, I dreamed I had time for it to stay.
I felt as though I had become mature, it was something
I should have outgrown.  The Lord kept the passion deep in
my heart, one day to be shown.
  Then one day a terrible accident occurred to me.
I was T-***** by an F-150.  
I believe it was meant to be!
  Yes, it brought me into a new land of torture and
Oh, so much pain,
10 broken ribs, ruptured spleen and my pelvis was fractured in 7 places,
but truly it does come to gain!
No, I did not receive a dollar amount or any kind of pride.
I did truly realize my loved ones are always by my side.
  I had many days and nights to lay still, in pain, and
realize my painful blessings in life are a true gain.
  I did not think about poetry
I laid there in pain.
At that point I did well just to sustain.
  Then I started feeling spells of Deja vu,
yet, they lasted even longer than I would ever have wanted them too.
  This went on and on for quite a few years.
Many months after all of my bones miraculously healed
I consulted with Doctors who gave me meds that led me to tears.
During this time, fear began to grow in my veins,
it grew so strong, I felt I could not sustain
Then I started to have Grand Mal seizures, at last!
I know, it sounds like I'm happy about that, well,
at least I finally knew what had been happening in the past.
  I found an awesome neurologist at UT Southwest,
references said, he is the best.
  I felt like a lab rat when they set me up in a room,
put a camera upon me for days on zoom.
the point was to see what part of the brain was damaged.
To see if there was any way possible to get the seizures managed.
Electrodes were placed all over my brain, camera, recording, and an I.V. of fluid to sustain.
They took me off all those seizure meds and shined strobe lights
in my eyes, to promote seizures in my brain.
  My husband and my son were there by my side,
I was scared to death, yet I still had pride.
I did not want them to see, what was about to happen to me.
  My husband stepped out to eat some food and I was relieved
because anger was building and I was rude!
My son said he had to go study for his exam in college and I
was relieved, I did not want him to see me lose my mind, for I know that is what happens when I have a seizure every time!
He looked at me in my eyes and said "Mother, can I pray for you
before I go, because God is the only one who can save you and this I know." He said a prayer right then and there. He gave me a message toward God you see, and that is just where I need to be. Then he left to go study and the Holy Spirit joined me.
  My husband came back and I sent him home. I told him there was nothing he could do and I should be alone. I told him to turn out
the lights as he left, kissed him goodnight and said sweetdreams.
  The fear I had gently lifted away as he closed the door, I began to pray. I asked Jesus to be with me and for forgiveness of sins and I felt a
wave of Peace rise from within.
It felt as if I was lifted by a warm blanket all around and the fear of seizures left without a sound.
  I had 9 severe seizures on camera that night, I don't remember it all, but I'm sure the ones watching had quite a site.
  The outcome was that I was a great candidate for temporal lobe surgery, which I had six months later and it has cured me!!!!!!!!!
  BACK TO THE POINT that motivated this long poem,
my mind has completely changed!!!!
Now I see life optimistically, it's  a wonderfully, joyous experience,
even the ruff stuff, I HAVE TO EXPRESS GLEE

SO you decided to read my rant.
So why am I writing a rant?
Because I'm an angsty teenager, but my life is good so I'll write a semi-anonymous poem and maybe if someone reads it I'll think I matter or that I'm not that alone.
The funny thing is, I rarely read the poetry of others, but I expect others to read mine.
I have an entire book that few will read and yet I expect to get somewhere in life.
But I have food and good grades and loving friends and a girlfriend, so my life is good.
My life is good, but good leaves no room for the future.
I am afraid that I can't go on like this and one day it will all crash down on me.  
I don't want to be a drama queen, but I don't want to hole myself up.
I feel these extremes and try to even them out.
I don't want to be like my mother.
My mother is in my ear complaining about all that I do and though I'm afraid that those I love will leave me, I'm afraid she never will.
She's moving with me to the state in which the college that she so optimistically says will accept me is situated.
I'm afraid I'll never have a healthy relationship or know how to function.
I'm afraid of having no family, but I don't know how a good family works.
She is so much of me I don't know which of our feelings I feel.
I don't know what of me is real.
I try to stay down to earth but she sends me reeling and yet brings me down to where I belong.
I'm an all or nothing girl, but that's a bad habit I learned from my mother who screams for milk at mild spice and cries hysterically over people she claims to hate.
I try to be my own person, but as an only child, my companion has always been my own mind which means I became too much of the world around me, and thus not enough of an original person.
I feel that even the one thing I've always been praised for (my writing, and thus my mind,) has only been praised to fill the awkward silences after an unimportant person tries too hard.
I debated about not writing this because I was afraid that I write too often and that it amounts to too little.  
I always use that adjective about myself: "too."  I've said before though that in my case it should be said as "tew" as in "too much of that which is ew" and then I think of all that I am not, but rather, "nawt" (not enough of that which makes people say "aw")
I'm an all or nothing girl but I try to live in the middle grounds.  
I like something or I don't but I don't obsess.
I know where I want to be in life and will fight tooth and nail to get there, but I fear I may end my life if I am unable.
The funny thing is I don't seek fame, or riches, I just want something that wouldn't be so **** out of reach if I wasn't who I am.
I just want to get my phd in veterinary medicine and marry a wonderful girl and live without too many bills piling up.
But I still have trouble spelling veterinary even though I'm almost a straight A student but almost straight A isn't good enough to pay for my education.
Because I'm too white, not quite poor enough, not quite skilled enough, not noticeable enough.  
I'm just close enough to the norm that people expect I fit in somewhere so they leave me all behind, leaving me with nowhere to fit in.
They all think someone else will help me until no one does.
So I search for the people whom I can make feel special and I throw myself at them praying to feel like I belong, but it never quite feels real.
I want to crack into people and find whats real about them, show them all of my all too real flaws, but inside their shells are likable things, and I am like tamarind: too sweet, in need of salt and spice, and strange to harvest for flesh.  I could be useful, but there's always something not quite right.
I know everything I do is not quite right and sooner or later someone will pull the plug.  
And leave me.
And I'll be left alone, writing or reading or crying or sleeping.
I wanted to record my voice saying this, but I knew that people would be even less likely to notice my words then.  
I'm not the person whose writing wins awards, I'm not the plucky student whose hard work earns scholarships.
I fall between the cracks because I'm too good to deserve pity and not good enough to deserve praise.
I tried to draw to spare you all from this stupid rant but though I liked the shape of a few lines, they meant nothing.
Maybe that's my problem, that I seek meaning in everything.
That I can't make anything of meaning.
I don't know why anyone bothers with me.
I feel like they're lying to me.
I'm nobody.
I'm an all or nothing girl, but I'm either too much or not enough and that means I'm in between.
I am the or in either or, in yes or no, in succeed or fail.  
I would be happy with that if it meant that I could just get the few things I want in life, but even that is too much to ask for someone who's not eloquent enough, not charismatic enough, not good enough to get there.
I know this feeling won't stay, because I'll bounce back to the opposite extreme of loving life.
I'm an all or nothing girl and even though I know in a lot of ways I have it all, right now, I'm feeling nothing.
And I'm afraid these feelings won't leave me.

the morning rolls in on women’s voices
and bright empty landscapes
they sing optimistically, don’t worry
something new will grow here again

yet I still can’t get out of bed
or smile

Her hopes were like bubbles
Prancing around
Right before her eyes
Optimistically floating
Into her hands.
But just as she tried to grab onto them
pop
They burst into the reality she lived in
And was left alone
With nothing
But the residue
Of the hope she once had

Looking forward at what my life could be there is something so poignant about this quote. There is a recurring sensation I experience in life, that we are all forever lying in some way. A white lie. A huge suppression of the truth so that the lie that is told, is told so habitually, that it is the truth. Lies that mean nothing to those you tell them to, serves to anger ourselves . Twisting the truth, torturing what is true until it squeals out a lie. Though I am an honest person I lie constantly. About what dreams mean, about my future, about my fears. I analyse my dreams generously, I talk about my future optimistically and stifle my fears quickly. I am predisposed to hide to be human, but what I have found is that hiding the truth in the convenience of a lie is not a full life. When life delivers to you a fragment of time where you are in a blissful ecstasy, you see the stupidity of protecting yourself in an armour of lies. Having stripped down to your natural form you can feel your skin breathe. Film is more than an art-form to me, it lies about details, places and names, but if it finds truth in these lies I am naked again.

I am thoughtful, I dont speak unless I feel the need.
And with most people I dont.
Im observant, to the point of being creepy. :P
I watch people, not in a perverted or wrong way
I watch them to see how they act, and what their doing.
I am socially  illiterate, Im extremely awkward with people
So I watch others to try to figure out what to do.

Im realistic, both optimistically and pessimistically depending on the circumstance
I think in logical cycles "If not this then that." "If not that, then this." and so on.
Despite all the logic and awkward social standing, I do have a sense of humor
It is sometimes crude, or overly complex but it is there.
And my friends tend to enjoy it as well.

I love to learn, anything everything anytime all the time.
Which is one of the reasons Im observant. I learn primarily through watching.
Though reading is just as easy for me.
Listening is not however.
I still want so much more knowledge though, and life is so short.
"He's a genius" is all I've heard since I was in 3rd grade.
I hate it.
I am not a genius, I learn easy and have good recall and intuition.
A genius is someone who can solve a problem in a hundred different ways
Im smart, but Im not a genius.

Im an artist in every sense. As this not-really-poem shows.
Its why I joined this site. I love poetry.
I love reading and writing, and I'm good at both.
I love painting and any kind of visual art.
I like shuffle dancing, its constant motion which plays
into my hyper moods. - I consider dancing art (Im not sure if it actually is though)

And finally.
Music.
Music is everything to me, Its what I do when I have emotions I need to deal with
I literally talk to my instruments when I play them - Yes I know that is weird. :d
I can play most instruments, not all. But most.
My favorite is the guitar, then piano, then any other stringed instrument.
Then any woodwind instrument - which is something Ive always wanted to learn to play.

Maybe** it’s stupid for me to think
so optimistically about us.

Us.

We.

Two different letters
With potentially two different
meanings.

I just don’t understand how such a
beautiful human being can exist.

There weren’t any signs to show
me how you felt about it.

Maybe I meant something
different when I talked to you.


Or maybe you weren’t honest
to yourself about how you felt.

But boy oh boy will I be honest.

I loved everything I ever had
with you, and I always will.

Disappointment rang in with sadness and frustration
Nothing expected was wrought
Disenchanted with everything within my perception
My purpose in life, I sought

Optimistically expectant, I rode out with confidence
Anticipating, such incredible joy
Seeking my purpose with an immense vigilance
Forgetting life is supposed to be enjoyed

Rapidly, I found myself disgusted in my constant quest
For what my purpose in life is to be
Exasperation set in, along with extreme unrest
Until, an angry red, was all I could see

Amazed and confused, I found myself taken aback
Wondering, how I became so angry
Watching my happiness slip through the cracks
Of my unfortunate quandary

I looked in the mirror, straight into my own eyes
A stranger looking back I could see
Decided first, I needed to try her on for size
To find, what my purpose, should be

I can scarcely bring myself to tell the tale
of how yet another internet date
went tragically wrong thanks to
shameless deceit crueller than I can say.

I suffer so many sadnesses as I seek true love
via internet site
after internet site
but I really thought yes
this time yes this time yes
finally after so many ****-ups
of one sort or another
so I foolishly imagined I was onto a good thing
but would you believe it
another date went wrong
and my poor heart breaks.

I recall 'twas a a cool autumn evening
with a hint of hail in the sky
but we had agreed to meet
perhaps optimistically
at a secluded spot in the municipal gardens
down by the victorian fountain
where the queers congregate by night
leaving skidmarks on the paintwork
after deep **** love therapy.

I can still hear the tweety-birds singing
their oh-so-nice chirping song
in the trees where they perched
trying to **** on passers-by
especially the handicapped
(who could less easily dodge
their good luck messages
without toppling over).

I ran headlong down the path
and my little ***** wobbled
with eager anticipation of love
innocently carelessly naively perhaps
for I felt deep in my trusting heart
that at last with a bit of luck
I might score for a good hard poke
on our first date or at least a right deep feel-up
and a copious exchange of mouth fluids
at the very very least.

I read through the print-out
from the new internet site
where serendipity had brought us
together like lost souls in a storm
(www.******-poking.com since you ask)
and I felt your comment
'I love *******, ******* and more'
was probably good sign
all in all
bearing in mind its implications.

I thought you might be quite a looker
from the photo you had posted
especially since I could
just about partially see
the wicked grin on your face
whilst you were ******* on
two obese men's knobs
(in the photo I mean)
and then you appeared
with your huge mongoloid skull
peeping excitedly out
of the filthy rags you wore
oh dear jesus I cried out in joy
I could smell your ****-drenched ******
from seventy-five yards away
and one of the swans on the lake
drowned itself to escape the pong.

I stared at the diarrhoea oozing from your pants
in romantic dollops
we strolled through the park
(well I strolled but you hobbled)
chattering away the way lovers do
when they are up for it
against all the ******* odds
and as I have observed on other occasions
love isn’t just a matter of aesthetics
after all animal attraction has a lot going for it
but you have to draw the line
somewhere
and you were way out of order
so very reluctantly
(but firmly and resolutely)
I gave you a gentle push
toppling you into the swollen stream
as it exited the decorative lake
and believe me when I say
that I will always remember the sound
of your aquatic scream
as the fast-moving current
took you away from my sad eyes
down to the millrace
and merciful release
from a life of disappointment.

Everyone was saying it'd hit 40°C tomorrow, a truer marker of summer’s arrival than a pinch and a punch on the 1st December. But I was leaving today. Bags packed, ready. A last smoke on the balcony before the taxi would pull up below. Right now on Scott Base somebody was probably typing my name into all the necessary [NAME HERE] gaps in the arrivals documentation, but by the time I’d be in a position to sign along the final dotted line it'd be too late to back out. Flights out of NZ’s base in Antarctica leave every second Tuesday morning and book up more than a month in advance. There are no flights at all from February through to August.

I had nowhere else to go anyway, the spare key to her apartment kicked under her door three weeks ago.  


---
Within just a handful of days of each other, we’d somehow both of us slept with other people. "Slept with." What a frigid way to put it. Of course I do mean ****** – the sleeping part simply an awkward optional accompaniment to the consequentials. So, we’d both of us ****** other people, and although nothing was said the weight of the truth buzzed between us, unsettling and persistent.  

I’m unsure which of us had gone first. I imagine it was ladies before gentlemen.


---
It was six years ago that I‘d followed her over to Australia, six years ago that she'd looked up over some textbook and said with a smirk that she'd never dreamed she’d let a man with such "offensive paws" anywhere near her, let alone fall for him.

It's true that within a few weeks of starting my apprenticeship my hands were stained black, with slow-healing sores opening up between the fingers, and the crusts of tired eczema aggravated by the incessant and optimistically futile scrub of soap. I was known for leaving behind dark smudges around light switches. But she hadn't seemed to mind my leaving soft fingerprints on her.

“D’you think there’s any language that's got sufficient words for all the different kinds of love? Like the Inuit and all their words for snow?”

I took a tray of ice cubes from the freezer, held her wrists behind her back with my right hand, and tipped the frozen cubes down the front of her warm and crumpled shirt.


---
And then? And then.

I won't detail the cruel and gradual tilt apart, increasing degree by degree up over the years, sliding us into roles and positions neither could recognise ourselves in. Mutually check-mated. What better way to tip the chessboard than start playing with somebody else.


---
The day she left her computer on and Gmail logged in the first grass fires of the season were reported in the north of Victoria, and the Bureau of Meteorology was predicting yet another “hottest summer on record.” I could only read the top three messages from him and her responses before logging off.

I hadn't even thought to ask for any somebody else's email address.

I grabbed my own laptop and opened a new browser. Google: jobs antarctica.


---
My best mate and I had dropped out of high school together to be taken on as plumbing apprentices: petrol and beer money in exchange for bubonic hands. At some point during those early days of drain and dame laying I came across a profile piece in the NZ Plumber about a guy who'd done a 12 month stint at Scott Base. Back then I’d doubted that I'd ever become the kind of man who could survive the snow and ice and dawnless darkness of a polar night.

Who is I?
In the Now. I am of true boi essence.
A writer, a recluse, abandoned only of fate: Destiny ever alluring in the palm of my hand.
Limited only by my own inabilty to be present in only one consciousness.
I am split between reality strings.
A permeant spectre, caught betwixt parallel dimensions.
At times incoherrant, lost in esoteric translation.
I am physic(al) - I of breath + flesh, perception being my holster, corruption my armoury.
Intuitively, i am harmonious, sanctonious, welcoming of illuminations and the darker side of each unfettered moon.
Awareness sleeps by my side. Each waking minute guarded. of commonality.
I am enlightened.
I am bouyant.
mobile, fluid-like in kinesis.
Conventional existense being the foundation over which i fly.
Arms outstretched, willing risk to be my pull.
Enticing Love to be my drag.
balance, mediums, equilibrium.
Lifted high amidst winds roaring with possibility.
I am stark in naked complication, although often prone to cover up in cynical, self critical analysis.
I am given of self; being the taker a refreshing discourse to which i stray accordingly.

Of culture i am a liar.
By nature i tend towards honesty only straying when survivalistic path need tread.
I am of blood,
private yet optimistically open to scarring.
By custom i am trained, civil, content.
Of instinct; native raw tongue, i am rampant, rapid in force, compelled to grow then emerge.
Only.
To submerge
is to take full scope.
i am telescopic
in view of A/all else to which i drown my vision.
I am unsure if i am young,
Although certain that my passage is still being lit by the glow of its entrance, dark passageways luring with their shadows and cavernous corners.
I am liberal, random in speculatory silence. I am idle, often motivated by industrial desire.
Mechanical in process, structured of cerebreal architecture, yet somewhat discombobulated in particularity.
Sporadic be my strain, its think tank choking always on the weeds of sorrow.
Essentially i am nothing: yet overwhelmingly everything.
I was
I am
I will
therefore i
Exist
to i as
A/all and nothing.
As yesterday is to tommorrow, and visa versa, i am a window, a door, a channel:
as closed as i am open.
Dependant only on my own deliverence of influence and potential.
Driven by the promise of future and the demands of my past.
I am a vehicle in time, my presence, my motion, my journey
is I.

Playing by all the rules,
or so it seems,
the out-law fears
nothing and no one
as she
places her backwards cap
atop her
full head of fine hair,
sunshades
hiding her wide
toffee-colored
eyes.

Chewing ******* a piece of
wintergreen gum
like a first baseman
and some chaw,
she grips the steering wheel
as a heavy clap of
bass
emits a thundering chorus
out her rolled-down windows
into the half-empty street.

Brow furrowed,
the out-law ponders her next move,
bobbing and weaving through
one-way roads;
the destination she knows,
but the route is more
a riddle
yet to be solved.

The light air
and brilliant rays of sun
that sneak behind
puffy white clouds,
the out-law senses
some promise
from the
universe.

Lungs still filled
with
smoky wisdom,
she reflects intricately
on the life
lived by she
in the past few months,
gaining insight
into her own
optimistically
curious
soul.

She slurps
her Diet Coke
thirstily
as her cottony mouth
forms words and phrases
she one day
wishes to utter.

Time and space,
they are dear friends of the
out-law,
so drive she does
down that
long
windy
road,
twisting and turning
on the beacon of self-discovery
and hope.
And
love.

The out-law
watches the sky,
fascinated
by the rich colors
the sun paints
as it falls into a state
of serenity,
and
the out-law feels so serene.

Leaving comfortability
and safety behind,
the out-law relishes
in the excitement of the unknown,
getting high off
the fumes
of the uncertainty
that looms.

On she drives.

Optimistic,
The answer to
Every First World woe
That plagues the soul.
Optimistically,
I must wake each day,
As it's hard to tell
What lies ahead, anyway.  
Optimism prevails, always.
If only it was
That simple.
The only answer
Is to see the world
Optimistically.
Easier said than done,
Sometimes,
It flies too high
Like a caught Dragonfly,
Leading to dread and disappointment
When captured in the mouth
Of a ravenous bluish bird, big appetite.
Against all odds,
Remain
Optimistic.

Yeah,
I've kept quite and figured the pen ran outta ink
The message wasn't too clear and these days it's been hard to just sit down and think
Let me stop for a min and take you back to where it all started
Half the people I grew up with are non existent- but all them departed
I get on this and self proclaim myself the realist and smartest
Thinking outside of the box but boxed in my own words
Keeping my talents to a minimum and remain so modest.
They gon run they mouth before they ever talk to you
Saying a whole lotta nothing's, thinking they logic is the truth
Feel like I never say much but there is a lot to know
Feel like the difference between us is really starting to show
I've stepped away from my heart and suddenly forgot the meaning  
Forgot that feeling of being a young man - fearless and optimistically dreaming
I'm not saying I'm back im just saying the pen is lit so you better keep caution
Or I'll let it all leak out like its blood comin out the faucet
With slick metaphors and play on words that don't really play
Subliminal bullets with SHH names that I  shouldn't say
The reigning king you'd swear I'm bringing victory back to Cleveland
Celebrating with my team and all the people who never stopped believin
I've stopped thinking about what they thinking about and watched my success finally rise
You can glare at him all you want but can't take the determination outta this poor child's eyes
The hit came outta no where
You know the haters don't like the art of surprise
Their whispers are the inspiration
We grow from their doubt and constant congratulatory lies
Shake your hand - saying they feeling you but quick to stab your back
Look out deeper in the woods, snakes are everywhere and not just in the grass
I lost a step but gained two more, hop scotched over what they didn't know I could do
Tired of talking past pain, my father and most of all about you
Progression doesn't start unless you finally start to rev your engine
That green light come on and your drive should push you to that happy ending
If you don't lose sleep thinking about your dreams you ain't truly dreaming
If you ain't cry a few times while working you ain't really putting in a meaning
If you have the same amount of people in your circle when it's all said it done...
You ain't truly make it
If you never folded once under the pressure
Your point never truly hit breaking
This the formula that shows the good from great
She says she loves you but how much of that love can she truly take?
Money don't buy happiness and that logic remains truthful
But the change from the change still helps keep one's life fruitful.  Crazy.
But this concludes the ending of Dougie Simps and simply forgetting what it meant to let the pen do his talking
I've run out ink - the blood all over my hands now. Imma see ya when I see ya. (He turns slowly...and continues walking -away.)
- I'm Gone

CONEIDER  HIGH"

Mmm life of stress, no rest. Nothang but Struggle, I ponder why it seems
trouble. No one
knows he
struggled, Dadda sa'd tide stays not longer. Weather wiggled unstable'.
Coneider
strong.
Clouds appear awesome and the top of the skies smell so handsome. Top on the
peak of
the
world. Above adhere golden stones of light. Realistically loyal
to life.
Optimistically humanitarian.
Much
more to life
than
Destitute, if there's any infrastructural,
love is, spread her wings she learnt to soar.
Human is made, none cultural.
Who did it save?
Transformation does not come without
individuality.
Power of love create solidarity.
'4gi'e me' f'r my flaws already bow' my head. I wish
more freedom as free as tree (s) fixate hove on
Cloudnine as I'm high.

C9fm

When we're mad, we see red.
When we're sad, we are blue.
When we're healthy, we're in the pink.
When we have money, we're in the black.
When we're broke, we're in the red.
When we're scared, we're yellow.
We get green with envy and grey with uncertainty.

We can be...
True blue
Optimistically rosy
Perfectly golden
Tickled pink
White trash
Blackballed
Red hot.

Transparent even...

Look at us.
We're masterpieces!
We're colorful, colorless, proverbial off-beat sky-hung rainbows.
In the spectrum, off the palette, layer upon layer of brushed on, sprayed on, finger daubed works of breathing, loving, dying, living art wanting to be admired, put on display, protected, loved and adored.

We live our lives in color.

i saw a downed tree two weeks ago.
it was green and full of life
despite the evenly-spaced, spliced logs
its trunk had become.
each with over forty circles,
outstanding the test of time others could not.
to us time is current, to nature it is recurrent.
all we know are the rings around,
cycles repeated, cycles abound.

we stand ready to survive the day,
while nature stows and stocks away.
for next year, for many to come,
nature, like the tree, prepares to endure its run.

we say let's live to see another day,
why not another year? would ten not be okay?
calculations, calculations,
always counting through observation.

abacus please don't feed me lies,
the tree grows rings and then it dies.
blooming, blossoming, full of expression,
its leaves are brown now, nourished recession.

but fear not how, not when, nor why,
this poor giant never planned to die.
see, up they grow, from seedling or sapling,
to shade us all, optimistically happening.
no bowing their chins, no lowering their gaze,
for the sunshine is their life force today.

if ever dazed, lost or swayed,
just climb a tree and learn its ways.
the future can't be met just yet,
go ahead, breathe in the day.
all we know are the rings around,
cycles repeated, cycles abound.

A space casino painted on its sides
Its airbrakes hissing and spitting against the wheels
The charter bus clanks to a ***** stop
Its hatches open to discharge aliens

Optimistically rattling their walkers
And dragging their oxygen machines along
Spongy shoes challenged by the parking lot
Knobby white knees all rattling through the dawn

The moustache in his cool gas-station shades
Admires himself in the big West Coast mirror

Simple yet a affective
We dream of the day without needing disinfectant
It's not that we are *****
It's that we are
And never will be clean
Enough
We will never be 100%
No germ
No *******
It's written in pen
But you accidentally smudged it with your freshly cleaned linen
We live in a world where everything is a mess
But optimistically call it's it
"A little spill"
Or "a few crumbs"
You never hear anyone talk about how ****** the world is
Like they're going to get something done
Not any sort of panic
No fear of the unknown
It's become so normal
That we forget that we are owned
Some one has a file with our name on it
In a drawer, in a room with only one door
But someone locked it
And no one knows who
But if there is anything to look forward to
There is a door
And behind it
The world is so much more

I have a pessimists heart,
It's been that way from the start,
See the negative in everything,
My dear I tell you,
I've got a pessimists heart,

This is something that will never change,
It's been this way too long to change,
I always know something will go wrong,
I feel as if I knew it would happen all along,
My predictions are almost never wrong,
So my dear, I'll tell you again,
I've got myself a pessimists heart,

Now, many people want my ways to change,
They want me to see the bright side of things,
But that won't happen,
Because they're is no bright side to this world I see,
The world I see, it's never happy,
Things at home are beginning to suffocate me,
Some day, I'm going to leave,
And not come back,
That will be the day I begin to see things optimistically.

Alone the mirror,
Cracked and ugly
Stares blankly at nothing
Waiting for a face to draw upon
For images protruding
From behind my glassy eyes
Reddened without sleep
Speak softly to the morning me
And tell of unwanted future’s plan
I recklessly endanger hope
For self-satisfying ambitionless wishes
Defying optometry, optimistically,
I see beyond the pleasant and mundane

Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to its progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to its innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of its conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of its relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .

As the relative complexity of its interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of its conjunction yet the totality of its ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .  

The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet its diversity exceeded its physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .

Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .

Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation.  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .  

In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .

Necessities
Pessimistically
Things keeping me alive

Necessities
Optimistically
Things keeping me going

Necessities
Optimistically and Pessimistically
You

Things keeping me alive and going
You

Things that make me see beauty
You

Things that keep me sane
You

Things that make me feel bad for using the word things
You.

Person I always think about before I go to sleep
You

Person I miss the most
You

More than just tanned skin over bone,
just the long brown hair on it's own,
that giggle when I try to look, manly,
like one who can be the man Leigh

desires to interfere with. Myth, mystically
beautiful, mesmerizingly enchanting, step
by step, gracefully, carefully granting
me another chance, glancing optimistically.

Her eyes, not caring about the colours, staring
across the hall, my nose can reach her forehead,
her taste in music, juicy yet elegant, in bed,
slightly humming along, god, she must be a dream.

She can just pick any guy she wants, a team
of athletes all at once, or just the one that lead
the journey to her lust and center. I misread,
excuse me for swearing, but the skirt she's wearing

is more than I can handle. Enter the room
without a hint of fear, she's near, like perfume.

I. Tragedy In Forms Of Ones' Confusion In This Mental State Called Reality

Love's lust lost second
of quiet lovers' bitter secrets,
in forms of sins and tragedies
trapped in their own guilt.
Time's ticking last minute,
whose sound silently kills
the fact we never loved at all
in moments like these.
What is love? People ask.
And it's answer is as complicated
as the question itself, yet simple.
It's everything and nothing alone.
Life's simple, cold truth
is hidden under the empty tears
of the dying ones in broken homes,
waiting for tomorrow.
But tomorrow never comes
because it's always today.
So that means there's no yesterday.
May I get more in depth?
If there's no tomorrow's
or yesterdays,
then there's no past or future.
Today's our last day.
So little to do,
yet so much has been done
in this last day we live,
that lasts a lifetime.
This depths reception
of a hopeless, dreaming mind
finds tragedy in hope once again,
yet searching for nothing.
Death's eye seeks
the sins and tragedies
of time's love so shortly wasted,
lost in the cool breeze.
May the words
of forgotten dreams
be spoken and only heard
by these ears.
'Cause the fire in the rain
will put the dead to sleep again.
So, dear tragedy struck friend,
this is time's love wasted end.

II. ****** Lives Can Arrive In Colorful Wrapping

Little words, like razorblades
that slice open skin,
rusts and infects the cut,
bleed through my mind
like these open sores
you've caused me to make.
Take it or break it,
either way you got to pay for it
with the sweat on your back
and the tears of the broken people
living on the edge.
Little problems, like scars
that leave a never forgotten
memory of shameful mistakes,
that can't be solved by
cheap alcohol and drugs.
You can't solve my problems,
I can't even solve them myself.
By bleeding, drinking, smoking,
till I can't move or make a sound,
to where I'm not even breathing.
I may seem normal with no problems,
nothing to worry about, I'm just a kid.
Funny how wrong you are
and make stupid assumptions
always thinking you're right.
But smoking, drinking,
and these infected cuts
aren't for nothing.
Leaving me speechless,
can't move,
not breathing...
I'm already dead on the inside,
so why not complete it with this final goodbye?

III. Four Lines

Lifeless, cold, and brokenhearted am I
The lover, the hero, the cherished that died
In all Earth's beauty, the world did cry
For my body is resting under the starry sky

IV. Sorry, But I'm Optimistically Pessimistic

"The sun'll come out tomorrow"
If tomorrow ever comes.
Until then, I can only dream
of leaving this place
in a forgotten memory.
There's nothing left for me here
but ash and a bitter taste
that reminds me I'm alone.
Maybe I got problems,
maybe I don't.
Guess none of you really know,
or even try to understand
that this charade of smiles and laughter
is just a mask.
Just a plain old mask,
fading and decaying over the years.
'Cause what is left to live for?
This broken home,
these shattered dreams,
until every last shred of me
is fed to the dogs
only to become ****?
No, I already am a *******
who can't do anything right
in their eyes,
which only see me
when I'm to be seen.
So what's with this hopeless dreaming?
It's not stopped my drinking,
my smoking, drugs.
Hasn't stopped me from stealing
until there's nothing left to take,
but take me to bone crushing new lows
that twists and breaks me in half.
There's no turning around this time,
need to take a step forwards
instead of going backwards,
blindly setting myself
in the sight of the predator.
All I can do is sit here,
sit here and dream
for that better day.
So if tomorrow ever comes,
there will be sun.

V. There's No Place Like Kansas

A hidden talent
behind these silent tears
in this state
we call Kansas.
No one makes it
out of here,
no one makes it big.
Good luck to some,
misery to the rest.
Shall I sit here,
hopeless and too diligent
to even try.
We are broken,
bandaged, torn,
and messed up.
Yet we make it
by working
in our low paying jobs
that barely helps
us live.
'Cause it's the
same old song,
we're just another drop
in an endless sea.
And all we do,
crumbles to the ground
though we refuse to see.
We the people
of Kansas,
to the rest of the world,
all we are
is Dust In The Wind

We are the coffee stains on waiting tables
That lie unattended in cafes
Of our own making
We are the imprints
Of a life lived haphazardly
Without any patterns to follow
We are…and are nothing more

Each day I immerse myself
In the torrent of a New York Sidewalk
Knowing that  Life and death
Have never been closer
Than at this very moment
Each day I see people
Living lives of quiet desperation
Caged in suits of blue and black
Bought for 250 dollars
At  Saks fifth avenue
Without looking at price tags
Because who argues
About the price of a straitjacket

I leave the crowds and walk down further
On a street that seems empty and yet full
There is a tree standing at the corner
Of two numbered avenues that
Are different ,yet the same
In the nightmarish way
That only cities can hope to achieve
It looks anaemic and withdrawn
Gnarled beyond recognition
Unnoticed , except by dogs
And posters for lost dogs
That offer paper rewards
For a live beating heart
It seems to cry, tearlessly
Soundlessly
At each nail that tears through its skin
Trying to find its pulse point
And silence it for good

There are brownstones lining
The street that I turn into
Brick mansions that should
In their ridges hold
Stories of wealth and  joy
That surely follow
All green paper trails
But instead, house
(Like exotic museum specimens )
Cheating fathers and acrimonious mothers
Drugged out sons and prostitutional daughters
All by products of a generation that measures
***** into its morning cornflakes
And keeps itself alive
On a steady diet of Adderall


I come to the end of the street
And watch as the sun sinks down
Over a dead end world
Wondering if the night will hide
Or reveal all that lies hidden
Wondering if remembering
Buries or resurrects …
Or whether we are all graves
Postmarked optimistically “To Heaven “