2 a.m.
I'm back again,
Nice to see you, old friend.
Why am I here?
I'm sorry I don't remember.
What am I doing?
I think hiding from the daylight.
What says that's alright?
Well nothings stopping me from staying up all night.

First things first, what type of ******* are they?
If it's a cane?
Your best bet is to file half way through it,
so when they're walking,
it snaps, and gravity takes it's course.
wheel chairs are more fun.
more expensive as well,
so take some water-
and squirt it into the wheels bearings.
watch them rust,
and beat them in a foot race.
annoying visual disabled people is a bit easier
partially due to the fact that sight isn't their strong suit.
but their hearing is much better.
so be sneaky.  
and put saran wrap face level through a door.
(make sure the ground is carpet or pillowed)
the brain damaged few?
have a bit more variety too them,
and with variety comes creativity.
so get creative and when they mention a color of something,
tell them that that's not what color the thing is.
"look at that cool blue car"
"what're you talking about? that's red??"
you'll never see anyone call a neurologist so quickly.
colorblind or dyslexic is real easy.
look up synonyms for short words and replace them with the longest ones you can find.
text them using this absurd paragraph.
watch the ******* emojis fly.
and colorblind is simply talking to them in type.
in random colors, printing it off, and handing it to them.
(make sure they correlate to the type of colorblindness)
and then make sure to dress in solid conflicting colors.
makeup too for extra evil points.
all the other disabled and crippled?
just put everything slightly out of reach.
works on everyone.
I  promise

a poems like a book,
or you can say it's something more.
like a diary, or journal, shared out for the hordes.
you could say it's something less,
like handled wire and mesh.
nothing new and quite bored,
but I know it's something more.
our poems are our thoughts.
( let's be honest- ours are mostly moors)
they show just how we've fought,
the waves and tumbling chords.
many bring apart the strands,
of a rug so riled and ran.
something like our hearts,
flowing out between our hands.
it's a wonder how much they hurt,
to write- to read- to find.
it seems it's just the way,
that poems like to be designed

Eyes are bloodshot staring at the alcoholic LEDs,
It would be impossible to rip them off of
The angelic glaze slathered on the screen.
Tears streaming on a face fixed for a permanent smile.
Can’t scream, not s’pposed to.
The eyes are taking in sips of wood alcohol
Littered with food coloring to make it seem like bourbon.
They know it’s not,
The burns all the same.
Eyes sleepless and fried while the screen fries itself.
Maybe it's time to shut them

A mountain full of pressure,
Close to pouring at the seams.
A tree full of ants,
And those ants running with seeds.
A cliff upon an overlook,
A beach upon a sea.
A life left perfect,
A life wasted on me.
No point in trying to end it,
If you waste that perfect life with me.

Sincerely written words about death,
are hilarious.
Primarily because of the irony in it-
Being sincere about death means to accept it?
and if we did that,
Funeral homes would be out of business.
and Oncology would be a much happier field
to work in.
My point is, heroism is just fatalism with extra steps.
Either way it doesn't matter the outcome.
As it will be whatever it is, regardless. (ironically)
And this is all to say nothing about the gun to my head,
and the trigger pull workout I have to do,
Doing mental hurdles and jumping jacks to not give in.

A poem a day,
Keeps depressing thoughts away-
…
Too optimistic.

In the bar where sad things grow,
           Where(s) Happiness(?),
is pumped in Like champagne through IV.
I-found-us-strung-together-again-
          “ Now
I’m the type of person
                                 to-
                         fall-
**** near in love with gratitude. ”
“ Like that glancing smile,
Hidden behind a mask of bourbon and-
all ten hail marys you replaced
                 with ****** ones. ”
“ And if gratitude gets you this far?
Just imagine what the *** is like. ”

Everyone always expects a butterfly,
When they find that fearless cocoon;
Hanging over certain death,
And inviting a birth from a new womb.
They expect a sunrise to arise,
To dry out their wings and take flight.
Glittering generalities caught in icarus's wings.
People expect the best from your worst,
And you'll expect that that's best.
Yet this expectation leaves us cursed.
Like the monarchs, who dance under the sun;
When moths are birthed, they dance under a dead one.

I reject the notion of expected beauty,
I reject this reality that-
I need to dance in the sun,
Shine bright beneath the trees,
And fly high to melt my wings,
I despise this idea
Because like the moths,
I will dance among the stars
Between the moons of Jupiter,
And sing with selene in the night.

I will burst from my cocoon
Not in your beauty,
But in mine

Can you come with me please?
It would be nice to see the scenes.
I miss you in my pictures.
And all our days spent climbing trees.
I can't explain my feelings,
But I want to say to you.
Our days will end, with you and me.
And together we can be happy.
Happy till our happy end.

Our childhood was funny,
Middle school was so much fun.
Our teens we wished to dumb.
Can you come along with me?
I want you next to me.

We can sing all day
Or laugh and play.
Because we're happy
Together.
But sometimes scrappy.
To me that's fine.
Because you're so beautifully kind.

Can you come always with me?
To watch the buzzing bees.
To gaze at starry nights.
To laugh and live alright.
To take our flight and make a dive.
To see an end and welcome friends.
To be with me
Until
Our happy end.

A penny for my past,
A nickel for all my life.
That's all of life's worth

life is lonely.
and death gives terrible company.
so-
Would you like some dinner?

five, seven, five, done.
seven to count, one and done.
five, seven, five- done.

autumn skies and pumpkin pies.
great orange fields, large in size,
leaf turns to leaf as gold comes to see;
what excitement to behold, and how happy to be.
nippy air and extra layers of sleeves.
bitter cold air as my breath comes alive.
wisping away, fast deep into loving lives.
Oh October is here and I feel just happy!  
to be with everyone with hair blowing shaggy.
I love this time, and I hope i explained why.
it's these
autumn skies
and
sweet salient sighs.

Everyday I live,
Is another day away from your smile.
Hidden, shy, sly in style-
Masquerading behind silk and gold,
Splendid, lovely.
Milk and honey.
The clouds jealous,
Of the softness in your eyes,
Deep pools of cautious curiosity-
Bright but sharp in disguise.
Simple elegance doesn’t do you grace,
Simple potency doesn't do you measure.
But I hope to one day owe to you this pleasure.

you're so **** smart you're stupid!
it's watching Albert Eisenstein walk across a road
without looking.
the irony is
you know what you're doing
you smart ******* *******
you wanna be dumb
so you don't have to be smart!
its a stupid act
from the smartest person i know

I keep a garden of weeds,
They're so hard to pull out,
But the always seem to grow back.
Seldom I follow the guides,
That tell me what to plant.
The seeds I sow,
Always lose their row.
And everything fades away to black.

why should I believe in a god?
for faith?
for comfort?
for power?
why should I pray for comfort?
to be happy?
to be useful?
to stand my ground?
why am I trying to go against the riptide,
why am I trying to staunch the flow?
why should I have my opinion?
if that's all I have to show.

miss a few beats,
mistime a jump.
make a mistake-
it's part of the fun!

"Hindsight,
is 20/20."
As the tag-a-longs
And dingbats like to recite.
Well that's dumb- 20/20 is average!!
This is outrageous -even our idioms our idiotic-
So I propose a new saying,
And yes, who is the 17 year old white boy
To say anything about anything.
But hear me out,
How about instead, we say,
"Hindsight, the unluckiest symptom of consciousness,
and a hell in its own right"
Okay yeah, well, maybe it IS a bit wordy,
And yeah, okay, maybe it IS a TAD too cynical.
But since when has a teenager been anything BUT
A self-proclaimed cynic.

With stars too far to telephone,
And when telegraphs aren't a thing anymore.
We gotta make our own futures,
But when we're riding along through our
Generation of hate,
Or lovely liberalism.
Try not to check the rearview mirror

your dad ignored you for a week.
wouldn't talk to you.
wouldn't look at you.
wouldn't acknowledge he ever knew you.
your father would berate and demean you.
your father would be horrible and terrible to you.
your father would make you hate the world
and make you wish he was gone.
but he would never leave,
your father enjoys hurting you too much to leave.
your father enjoys abusing you too much to go.
your father lives for you hoping he'll say he loves you.
your father trained your older brother to just the same.
your father
is insane.
so i ask you now, why to me, do you do just the same?

I am the first line
I am a different line
I prefer the first line
Well you’re wrong, the second one is better.
Nah nah you’re both wrong, line five is amazing.
Can we all just agree that line five is full of it?
Yeah I think most of us can, but line two might
Disagree.
I am the last line

whisk me away on a ship that's not there.
To an island full of gators! that have been covered in hair.
exploring misty mountains! and climbing epic trees!
diving to the bottom, of the air in the breeze.
imagine a life like that, think of life full of tales!
fighting great monsters, that has a full nine tails!
take me away to a life just with you,
to a world of bickering, but never between two.
now the Lord calls us in, to sleep in her kites.
dreams of flying high, and falling in love with the night.
as you dream away beneath me, I wonder sad and clear.
what comes of tomorrow, if the air is mighty queer?
do we stay inside our castle and find an evil spy?
or go outside in the gales?
and let our imagination,
take flight.

I'm too tired,
And It's going to get me fired.
My family doesn't work
My mother forces stuff on me like a ****.
My brother is dysfunctional and lazy
All my happy memories seem to be hazy.
I'm too tired to be bored and glad
Only sad.
I'm too distracted to see what's right,
I'm only really able to see what I did wrong.
My fathers half way crazy
And my brain is falling apart.
I'm too tired for your assignment.
Because I can't seem to get my life back into alignment

I remember the lights going off in the brains of young poets.
Deep in the dank streets of New York or Columbia college.

When the blues and twos would come and round up
The beatniks snapping to the howl of a homosexual mind.

When the generational attitudes of those too old to know,
Control the ****** acts of “violence”, or
The deepening scars of our philosophies.

When the urbanization of historical prowess leads to
Gentrified gypsies of the diamond deserts and endless skyways

When the great in the country isn’t good enough
For the red hats and spray tanned millionaires.

When the stocks of corporate dragons burn down
The attempts of upstart knights and online kingdoms.

When the politicians of old become the scapegoats
For the ironically gerontocratic few.

When the female few who dared couldn’t find their lost primaries
Or control the lifeblood leaking out of the Strait of Hormuz.  

When the powerful and powerless fought in-between
The dejected and all too often ignored.

When the powered halogen lights flooded prison yards of
Wrongly convicted and murderously in need of help.

When the San Francisco clubs lit up with muzzle flash
And the dancers lay weeping in their blood.

When the schools became places to duck and cover
Or learn to trip a friend when running from a gun.

When parkland high became a manufacturing ground
For casings, tears, and candlelight vigils.

When the American dream came combo packaged
And supersized with obesity and unemployment.

When the education of the youth became about
The profit margin in a spreadsheet full of debt.

When the sun sets in the smoke filled horizons
And sleepless rest settles on the western front.

I knew this kid that once lived down the block
All gangsta and **** with nothing but shots
Of ******, crack *******.
**** that gets you high when all you’re wanting is fame.
He grew up without his mama and his dad was basically dead.
He knew about god but knew nothing of what he said.
This kid he grew up at the age of thirteen.
And never knew the black and white blood that we all bleed.
He saw the coyotes of the mexican border
Shooting ******* crawling from the broken brick and mortar
All around he knew violence till he one day came clean,
Looked up at the sky and begged for something mean.
He cried out to the sky because he was lonely and scared
But only the devil responded because god was not there.
He soaked up all this pain and regret in a needle
Shot himself up and grabbed his desert eagle,
Shot up a few churches while the masses got done praying,
Put the gun to his head to blow out what was done decaying.

Up in the trees,
Wind in the air,
Doesn't get much better.
Living without much care.

Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action  I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.

molly's hair, **** hair.
show's the bi-polar,
but not the bear.
molly's hair, **** hair.

night just wants some sun and the sun wants to sleep
but neither can get either with being alone every week.
some people sleep all alone every night
and that's what scares me to death.
am I one of these fools,
or can I follow these rules.
and that's why I'm so scared of my bed.
the monsters in the closet are just my memory's in deposit.
so I can sleep like the rest of the dead.
i know i'm not one
to laugh or complain
but weirdly my pain,
is the only thing
that wants to keep me sane.
for better or worse, we all have a Cain.
who would stick us in the heart.
if only he could remain.

It started out as most things do.
At a distance.
In the back of my mind.
Something to wonder about,
But never define.
Most of the time it's just "hello",
Or "Shalom"
Or "what book"
And their reply.
And, it continued, as most things do,
Way too fast,
And,
Way too soon.
Thinking back now they are a wonder in my thoughts.
About-
What could've been.
If I took the chance of knowing them.
And,
Why do I miss them.
When I've got all but squat.

She sits on the air, and talks with the breeze.
She walks with that style, and mocks me as I freeze.
I swear she stopped a rain storm,
And you could swear she just said no.
She's a mountain of power, and an engine of burning coal.
Those eyes sharp as glass, and slicker than some ice.
I swore to her I'd stop, but I kept it going on thrice.
I never knew she felt, I didn't think she could.
But I saw her there, weeping, and tugging, and pulling out her hair.
I knew then I was nothing, nothing to her, but pain,
taking away the joy, of her. My Beloved rain.

I built a prison of paper,
But I willingly let it stand.

To keep my self tethered
To these words only I can understand.

It keeps out the angels,
And keeps my demons in.

So no one can be affected,
From the enemy hidden within.

It's a fortresses built on lies,
with foundations crumbling down.

But I'm happy with being crushed,
As long as you can never frown.

i try really hard not to cry a lot.
and i try to stop myself from thinking about anymore sort of losses.
and i try really really hard not to realize the loss my dog is more hurtful than the loss of my late grandfather.
because,
there's a difference in-between spontaneity and fore-told doom regarding loss.
there's a difference between having someone on my bed every night,
and the loss of humanity that Alzheimer turns you into.
i don't know which one i'd rather choose,
another 6 years of knowing they aren't there anymore.
or another dead dog.

i haven’t slept in 36 hours,
it’s given me time, well- It’s given my brain time enough to deteriorate a bit and drop all my filters.
And i know now what the hell has been in my head whispering to me.
i hate myself.
   i hate myself because i have such a **** hard time trying to figure out if i feel, feel as in caring for someone. Wanting someone whenever, regardless.
i hate myself because i can’t beat myself, it’s like fighting a mirror, you throw a punch, the reflection goes right back at you.
i hate myself because of my life, 14 years isn’t the problem, the next 50 is.
i hate myself,
  Because i am myself, i’m me, and that’s all

Maybe, one day; when I grow old,
I’ll see past quarrels slowly fold.  
Maybe, one day: when lights grow dim,
We’ll all sit quiet to hear one somber hymn.
Maybe, one day: the rain stops pouring;
You’ll be with me- our hearts left soaring.

When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.

Its a wondrous night to go walking alone
Under the shattered contempt of a flicking street light
Industrial lines weave arteries to supply
The broken will of concrete monsters still drying
Truly but the worst live in the best ways possible,
Sleeping beneath intimate foreplay between the weeping stars
The onyx asphalt sings electric humming
Like the vigilant barbwire standing watch
Over the ****** and grateful
It was a night to go walking alone.

portable portabello sandwiches,
funky french dip and British rails.
Philly cheese steaks, sauerkraut and kale.
BLT and lobster rolls.
bourbon BBQ, and Po boy's.
pumpkin flavored bread rolls
And silly sunken loafs
Beautiful bologna sandwiches
With bumping bottled coke
Chunky Chicken club royale
With lettuce tomato and cheese.
Flagrant flopping subs
Spilling mayo at the seams.
Roasted turkey bonanza
On white rye and happiness.
Lovely little sliders with bqq
Bursting bumbly
Burger bouncing buns
And sesame seeds on top
Loving these sandwiches
Creations for a god

tired of these late assignments,
although I make good grades.
bored of mundane busy-work,
even if it helps my brain.
I'm interested in the arts,
and running is fun too.
but boy oh boy how great it is,
to sit down, and be with you.

I’ve played the scene in my head-
Like the director's cut of his wife’s affair.
The bitterness of the metal,
The poisonous lead.
The expense of myself-
In a waste of pain.
Suicide isn’t the only answer,
It’s just the best option
Out of a cesspool of ****** ones.
Don’t tell me you’ll miss me if i’m dead-
When you won’t talk to me if I'm alive.

Sometimes, I like to not take my meds.
It's a sort of punishment,
Ritualistic self sacrificing-
Because I’m too ashamed to **** myself.

Sometimes I like to climb on my roof,
Stand at the very edge and just,
Think about falling off,
Not jumping off- falling.
Like rolling the dice-
On whether to play another round of Russian roulette.

Sometimes I stay up all night just to feel like ****,
Because it’s better than facing the anxiety of sleeping.
And an easier deliriant than Benadryl-
Good thing the only withdrawal symptoms are fatigue.

Sometimes,
I give life a chance.
Every single time I regret it

These sleepless nights, with nothing spent done.
These hopeless fights, where no one has fun.
All my feverish lies, to show what matters.
All my fiendish cries, to find why the rain patters.
Our endless sighs, to sleep once again.
When we’re mildly surprised, to see what actually comes,
Of us,
Of then.

I don't want to grow up in a Podunk hick-billy town,
but I don't want to be part of the white bread, corn cooking crowd.
I want to be respectable,
a spectacle.
someone that's out there, hiding in her dreams.
I don't want to generalize my sentiments.
but i don't want say i'm still free.
i don't want to stay on my rails,
but i don't want to make my own trails.
i want to be dependable,
all sensible.
recollectable from all of everyone's memory's