I'll sit and pick
the seconds from the minutes
Then stick them in my pocket
with the lizards and the crickets
Like a child turning stars into wishes
Snuffing life in an instant for the sake
of a miscreant's Christmas list.

I'll point and laugh
At the writing on the wall
Unless it's Kilroy's nose
peering over my stall.

Here we are. Final stop.
Pendulum, meet Clock.
Grab a drink. Take a seat.
Want a snack? Coffee?
Yeah, but it's black.
Something sweet?
Let me check.

My mind is as thin
as all the molecules
inside a balloon's wall
that has expanded for
far too long. POP!

I tire of waiting
for such inevitable irrelevance;
I tire from that which does not exist.
Dear Critic, do tell me a tale,
is it I or we that belong in this crypt?
Do tell for Fright lives swiftly
and a fool he is not.

Dastardly Sigh, can you not see?
A moment of silence is all that it breeds.
So please, without further ado,
****** the plot.
It hints to a line that mustn't be crossed
and for that I simply haven't a thought.

I stumbled upon your
little heart-shaped dots.
The ones you used to litter
across your long live font.
They stopped me dead in my tracks
like I've been driving down
the wrong side of the road,
and no one ever thought to let me know, and they came tearing through the dark; hitting me head on.

They say youth is wasted on the young,
but I can feel every ouncee of love surfacing from my heart.

They live we sleep
Find my serenity getting
intimate with the bed sheets
What makes you wink

I am a hostage engaged in
a Gentleman's war mentality
One slip of the cog and my half
cocked dominos are liable to fall

If truth be told
I long for her wretched soul
If truth be told I tire of my own
I thirst for the moistness between her hips
I envy the lips of the ones she's kissed
If truth be told
She'll never know

Backbone - methadone,
live long - die young
Taste the honeycomb
never mind the buzz
We're all chum waiting
for the sharks to come
I'd swallow my tongue
if the words would play worm
for my mockingbird
but I know I'm one stone throw
away from being broke so
I'll avoid the phone like I
forgot how to be grown
Torn between mastodon and prawn
Someone take me home - chloroform
Firstborn - I'll be the last gone

Nosy Knuckler, too tough
for the rugged, tugboat huffing
the mud puddle's summit.

Home-bound with that lighthouse
stumble; strapped to the grin
with a sailor's plummet.

He's white face like the page he evades; weighted down by the surplus day-to-day What's the race?

Buckle down inertia coupled
with Challenger assertion
ushers in a mind tripwire explosion
of tick-tack proportion.

Wake up. Give thanks.
Proceed to the nearest plank.
Dive in. Bite down. Revel in the apocalyptic byss that stands before your battered doortstoops with a leaflet.
I'm just looking for a place where I can rest my face from the everyday charades of
"Hey, how how you doing?
Nevermind if the answer ain't fine."
Something with doors that doesn't resemble a first generation fish tank stuck in the muck of yesterday's basement.

I'd take my hand outa this here fire,
but you might think me less than
desirable for being a child
about what I perceive to be dire.
I'd reach out for your hand
if I wasn't already trying to hold my breath
by placing both my mitts 'round my neck and squeezing 'til nothing is what I felt.
That's my definition of help
and I doubt it'll ever change.
We are our own worst enemies
and I take it to the extreme.

We waited with that
white porcelain cat patience
for what seemed like a generation
of, "Here, take this."
Passing notes through the ozone layers
In a grand game of cat and mouse cadence

I am the creature she speaks of;
A myth whispered behind timid licks of crimson.
She's a spider and I the fly.
A price I'm willing to pay,
so long as it's her who watches me die.
Take to my side, stick to my life,
eat my insides til I'm cured from this mind.
With tongue in hand, I'll turn your tides.
With tongue in hand, I'll write what mouths can only hide.

I'm losing my mind one
misplaced thought at a time.
The negativity of endless possibilities
surround me like a crowd of zombies
foaming at the mouth with doubt...
as if I ran out.
A misguided soul, fresh outa high school,
too young to know about the real world
and all the people in it
who'd rather see you out than in it.
I must of missed the memo
back when my parents
were still trying to keep things simple.
That was me five years ago, full of hope,
wanting more outa life than a 5 x 5 cubicle.
Time flies when you're contemplating suicide behind fake smiles and white lies -
hollow hellos and forever goodbyes.
Days turn to faces you don't wanna meet,
so you try to run 'n' hide, but can never
get more than a mile before realizing
you're still trapped inside your own mind.
I think of you a lot and all the promises
we made when things got rough;
the **** we said to each other
when we were truly free from thought.
Raw heart beats and ice cream
going together like
peanut butter and jelly...
I used to love you... I used to love me.
It's funny how life can change
due to a simple exchange,
an insignificant display of atoms
rearranging their state
to escape the pain of decay;
not knowing tomorrow
might just be a better day.
I stumble over these letters
like they were I's
connected at the hip
which formed a ladder
and no matter how high I climb them,
all I ever seem to do is blabber.
I can't help feeling like i'm going about this the wrong way.
Am I the molecule out of place
or the simple exchange?

Empty sheets even though
the headcases reminisce
remnants of a commendable place.

If it's half past twelve, well that means
I've been slumbering northbound
for a giant's leap, ouch.

Enough blank face
to chase down a zombie's eek
and still I fail to assimilate
this wool pouch.

Suppose Fury's fangs fixate
on inanimate veins
that would explain this
werewolf gaze I'm harboring.

Too real for the pondering;
A Subspace Wanderer.
You can find me in between
the lines conjuring.

I'm not here for the fame,
you can keep the lights dim.
Tighten up the chains 'til
the night buckles to a bend.
I'll sit and listen to the crickets chip
away at this cellophane tomb
in an attempt to insulate the walls
with a billion little brutes,
like a pack of rabid dogs deliriously
chewing on the moon.
God forbid the covenant ever
summons this slumbering specimen.
He's Megaman turned Neanderthal
via one too many Super Mushrooms.

Chatty-Cathies with hunched backs
munch on thick stacks of flashbacks
like giraffes itching for their next fix
but only finding the next branch

Little wooden piranhas in gas masks
laugh as they set fire to your mattress
bet their noses will grow like Pinocchio's
though when the questioning takes root
and the water is sold to a thirstier throat

There's white sharks in my cereal
all teeth no breakers straight visceral
Iceberg crowns cracking surface tension
thirsty, circling veteran victims
Beating down doors like witnesses
No wonder Santa mass produced
guns this year for Christmas gifts

If Xerox Xanax couldn't handle it
what makes you think someone
off planet planning planets could