Twixt here and horror
the path is littered with
chapped lips and broke-down transmissions.
Mandatory overtime.
That itty-bitty “but for this” was enough
to cleave my soul in twain, but
not right down the middle, no,
since it would represent a minor mercy
to be blessed with
some sense of congruity
in times like these.
Instead, what remains is
a big half and
a small half and
the big half eats the small half and
is left invariably lonely and sad and
filled with regret for this
lack of impulse control.
That **** is ******* me up, man,
its ******* me up.
Reserve your judgment.
Please.

Because I want to be strong I am weak
Those fickle petty rules by which we live
            Have made me sick
I'm not immune to having dreams and desires
When every better part of me
            Has been seduced
By the velveteen swans that flash as images in my mind
And on the plasma screens for which I bleed

And really I have grown
Grown sick and tired and exhausted
From breathing the air I need to live
The toxic vile air
Causing cancer
From drinking from the well
Which has been poisoned

I like my poison undiluted

I like my poison clearly marked
By sinister skulls and crossbones
          With the worst of intentions
I would actually enjoy the knowledge
That this poison in my blood
           Is going to reach my once enamored heart
Which used to beat with the hope for tommorow
And now is a rhythmic device in a song full of sorrow

And really I have died
Dangerous oderous chemical sand timers
I've died a thousand insecure lives
In a false world
With fake meaning
And my arteries and veins will attest
This disease is a foe that never rests

I like my poison undiluted

One need only look to the four winds
to find four frowns;
eight sad eyes
straining to see
through stained glass tears.
The man said "I die daily" but
he didn't have a constant stream of
status updates
to maintain.
I define myself daily.
Being special has
thus far
not protected me from
the unbearable weight
of today.
All of the analog cigarettes and
old fashioned daydreams
in the world
cannot save me now.
If I'm not seen
am I really here?
Heavy hearts and weary heads
reside respectively in the chests and on the necks
of everyone I encounter.
The gas station attendant
feels empty and
is bereft of a sense of irony.
The world ends
not with bang OR whimper,
but
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful...

Apologies, as this is not in fact a poem.  It is, however, a link to a whole bunch of poems.  
Between now and Tuesday, my first poetry collection, "Over Glassy Horizon", is free to download on Kindle.

US link: tinyurl.com/usd-ogh
UK link: tinyurl.com/ukd-ogh  
(Elsewhere in the world, just hop onto Amazon and look up the book.  The offer is worldwide.)

Hope you enjoy this freebie.  All reviews are much appreciated.