I am pining a princess
who has been magnificent
since, a time, long, long ago;

long before
  I made out who it was, I was;

long before
  my foolish, baby lips beared fuzz;

long before
  life smacked me upon the head,
  quite abrupt;

long before
  I f'cked, oh, so many things up.

  -

She is a mythical folklore
that I pray in the future, stored,
will become reality.

  -

Oh! how silly of me..

  -

I could have swore 
I had another pack of cigarettes.

-

I must've ignored 
how much I had smoked,
contemplating this life's regrets. 

-

In my dungeon, you'll find me choked-
up; wishing the day we met-
went better than it had.

-

I'm going mad.   --

Oh!

Mister Field Mouse,

 Please scurry off this gravel road!
I just want to get home, to my house,
  & take the load off of my shoulders
   - for a minute.

I wish not, to do you harm;
  in fact, seeing you there
 sounded an alarm 
  - in my mind.

So - if you'd mind,
  I'd love for us to, both, pass safely.
Please, my friend, don't act crazy
  & emerge from the brush
  as I rush- past at two miles
  - an hour.

Your death would be so sour.
  - and I'm, already, feeling a lot.
Your death would devour my mind;
  - I'd be, all, full of tears & snot.

So -  let's not.

A scarlet liquid dripping-, ever, so gently
  unto the crisp, spring soil
  causes the most faint tapping sound -
  to occur.
   tap
     tap
He feels the life slipping-, ever, so swiftly.
In a puddle of blood, thick as oil,
   he finds himself a comfortable spot
   on the ground- to ensure
   that he doesn't feel the fall.
    tap
      tap
Things become a blur,
  as he smiles: remembering it all.
   The beauty of life, so pure.

I wonder,
"Has anyone ever mentioned unto you:
  that your eyes shine more- vibrant-
  than a blood moon in the high,
   eastern skyline?"

My cigarette smells of waffles and syrup..
and I cannot pinpoint- precisely- why.

Wow! Has it ever been such a long-
period of time since
I've tasted a pastry or pie?
As of late, I've just consumed fermented rye.

I ponder, my mind begins to stir up,
  thinking up some sort of reasoning:
  an explanation for the subtle scent.

"Dear, cigarette company;
    have you been seasoning
    your smokes with some sort of awful,
    syrup and waffle, flavoring?
   If you have, I've not been favoring-
    the taste in my lungs."

"I, frequently, find myself ponder-
ing: what it is other people are wonder-
ing, or if they have began wander-
ing from their, once, true path in life,"

he laughed, while taking a bath,
down by the Boulder.

"&: when, precisely, did it happen?!
Yes! It is true that I have spent 
many, magnificent, moons squander-
ing the wealth of my place in this space..
I consume certain substances that others
find distasteful. Yet: within the maunder-
ing, I find a very subtle peace; know-
ing that we will all, inevitably, be go-
ing to find solace in the final slumber.

Nothing we do is flawless.

   -

Maybe once we're all gone:
may the 'livestock, produce, and lumber'
florish, fully, once again."

he was bowed next to the Boulder,
coughing on a cigarette of cannabis,
when he caught the crouched cougars eye.

As the joint, jittery, smolder -ed,
his mind was left in blurred bliss.

Just then: began to fly, forward - 
the chiseled cougar.

With a flask full of gin,
I think up hymns
about her.
If I am a bird,
she is the nest
that I wish to rest within every night.

The Waterfall of Angst pours over me,
swiftly, as my speed drops to sixty.

I came into town to get my car,
all, clean: so that, (maybe)
this evening, I don't have to use
whiskey - to polish up my mind
 & make it a serene- place to be.  

Hell, I don't even drink whiskey.
Gin or ale is much more suitable for me. 

Loathing the fact that I must go 
and exchange silver quarters,
for their quadruple counterpart,
just to get the ****'d
pressure washer to start.

While avoiding faces I know
  in the local mart,
  I begin to question when it begun:
  this love/hate relationship I have
  for each, and every, one -
   that I have passed by -
   or know of. 

  --

I finally possess full coin dollars!
Release the wrath of the rains and oceans!

"Hey!" I hear a man holler,
"These soapy potions- contain no ******!
   Come back tomorrow, if you must-
   to soak and unsmudge
   your bucket of rust!"

Oh! The sorrow!

"But, my dear friend!
  I cannot return after this night's moon;
   for death: it, certainly, shall come soon!
  I don't believe I can pretend- that I will
  ever return to the Waterfall of Angst again!
No! No! I don't have the strength."

  --

He gave me a length- ly stare,
obviously pondering if he dare -
ask questions regarding my answer.

As he opens his mouth,
I scamper off into, sweet, seclusion
where my heartbeat can steady
& continue living my delusion.

With smoke hanging- no!- lingering,
upon his cracked and chafed lips:
he, blankly, gazed off into nothing.

Suddenly: he's wincing, possibly picturing-
no!- pondering the way life drips-
no!- dribbles by, and away, with everyday.

Into a slumber, he, gently, slips:
unto a place where no soul may infringe-
upon his right to dream about her rays.

"More magnificent than the creator, itself," they say.
Yes!- Beautiful as an old mountain range
when she sings out syllables with those lips
- ever so confident and casually.

If only in this slumber, he could stay:
to lie asleep and dream about her all day.
Alas, reality surely soon, forcefully, rips-
no!- tears him away from his desired place.

Oh! Wouldn't it be something- (beautiful)
to arise to her, blushing whilst, nudging-
his ribs with her fingers?

Such a beautiful script,
his dreams are avidly depicting;
it makes his real life seem, quite, sickening-
really.
But: he tries to stay optimistic about it.

The serpents I once feared, 
have become, very, near & dear-
to me. In fact, now, upon the vaneer-
of my flesh- are their portraits portrayed-
in ink. I am slithering with the best-
of them, with my silver tongue flicking.
I begin dissecting, or picking,
like a crow disembodying
his morning meal of rancid road ****, 
away at each and every thought within.
I begin, to attempt to make such-
dark noises sound like a blissful sing-
ing.

Surely- it isn't so! 
These feelings that come, and go,
as I stumble, stagger, to and fro
from the nest where my head rest 
and my place of labor: a place where-
I attempt to be a saviour for-
 my future seed: from poverty. 
If only I were to win the lottery.

Things are often quite the blur.
Though, some days- every blue moon-
  I become so fluent with my words.
Though I feel, as though,
  I've bypassed some important detail. 
Tomorrow, I may be slow as a snail-
  or as dense as a stone on the river bank.
So, I would like to apologize, pretense-
  if I fail to stimulate your soul.
To all of you listening, Thanks.

Oh, my spurn of this shallow swamp!
For: it is not extensive enough
to blanket my body, when I fall over,
clomp- ing through the mud so rough.

To, under starlit sky, be submerged-
fully- on a summer night-
a desperate attempt to purge-
this black matter from within my blood
and these negative emotions that do flood-
my mind from time to time,
these sinister thoughts of mine.

Under muddy waters,
all of my feelings absolve;
& under muddy waters,
the time on my watch comes to a halt.

It's truly tantalizing-
how all of my pety issues can be resolved:
with merely one immaculately deep breath
- of the muddiest water.

Under muddy waters,
the world's disarray fades off;
& under muddy waters,
I let out my last and final cough.

--

Where is the grandeur
in growing grey, without the girl
you're grateful god grew?

Do you understand how grand-
it would be to sleep, hand in hand, 
next to her while she is blanketed
in my old, ragged shirt?

Oh, the stupid smirks:
I would emit without command.

--

Unto these muddy waters,
my shadows follow.
Unto these muddy waters,
my soul has ran
- and fallen;
and into these muddy waters,
I will be swallowed.

--

Just have to drag out the garden hose first-
& run the faucet for a days worth - time. Then, and only then, shall my end- begin.
- Under muddy waters.

What would you say, if I portrayed -
a thought- no- an image
inside of your brain?

Would you read through
the sorrow and pain?

Would you read on a day
that my originality is, ever, so plain?

Would you read when my words
seem to mesmerize:
the times when I get a twinkle in my eye?

Do not lie.

Would you read
until I, last, say 'goodbye'?

What would you say, if I debate that:

  "all the vile old men in the world-
 are actually children- who have failed
to make amends with the people,
places and things that have hurt them,
way back when" ?

There is a cigarette smoldering 
 amidst the early southern, Spring sun:
 firmly seized between these fingers 
 whose winter worries have,
seemingly, wept away.

Changing of seasons has begun unfolding
 and I still have yet to treat my lungs
to a vacation: from the smoke that lingers-
yes! they're crying for a bath:
obviously, ignored each day.

Fully knowing the winter worries 
are just stored away,
for a snowy day,
he attempts to enjoy
the grandeur of grass growing green. 

Skeptical, of course: awaiting flurries.
"Now, it'll be any day!"
    "Just you wait!"
I know the coldness will only,
my heat striken labor, come to destroy.

Oh, if only she were my Queen!
Then, things would be a dream!

It has been- the same ole' scene
in this same ole', stock city.

I spend my moons- singing out,
baffoon -ishly,
this same ole' song of Eldorado.

I sing this same ole' song:
as the dead, golden grass
grows grand and green.

I sing this same ole' song:
as a sixty mile, whipping wind
blows through the Mississippi.

I sing this same ole' song:
under the succulent shine of,
the fullest of many moons.

I sing this same ole' song:
until I hear the beetles and worms
chew through this coffin,
deep in the ground of  Eldorado.

I speak not, in the dreadful dusk.

Upon questioned why, I respond,
  "It is simply not a must,"

"How will we know what's flowing
  in that rust- ed skull of yours?"

  "One thing is for sure,
    my words upon paper,
    you can trust: if you wonder-
    how, it is, that I feel. "

My voice fades off
into the dark of the night:
it's not, at all, by choice;
it, merely - away from me, takes flight:
like a blackbird singing
in the abyss of this- evening.

Oddly enough,
no grieving- has taken place.
I, simply, waved farewell-
and grabbed a pen - violently:
it's bleeding!

The ink shall bleed
one, single night:
and then to the trash,
with all my might-
I shall toss this bloodless pen!

"Grant me access to your 
  exquisite empire- & I shall ensure fire
  never rains down upon these walls.

My Queen-, I have had many, a, falls-
  but- don't mistake me for foolish,
  nor meek!
For I am always up and pondering
  yet I am never losing sleep:
  for sleep is unneeded.

Oh, the joy my words would weep
  should you allow me to, even,
  look after the sheep -
  outside the walls
  - of your empire."

As the mallards do quack-
he falls over: into below, the rough;
attempting to find the oxygen he lacks.
In a collapsed state of mind, and bones;
he stands back up, trying to look tough.

As the finches do sing, and cheep-
he stand there shaking, in solitary,
because his figure is too frail- meek-
weak to weather these Wednesday woes.
"Oh! Wednesday's evermore weary."

He can say- cry to thy, as a fact, that
his head stay virtuous through it all;
though: he cannot help, the fact, that
his nerves may tremble, frequently..
in the spills, anxious spells, he befalls.

"Oh, I would be so enthralled
if you would embrace this estranged elf!"
Falling; to the muddy waters, he slithered:
to see if he would- could vividly, see
the face- nature of his true, inner self.

But- the muddy waters bear no image
and he begins to wonder if it's an omen.
He gaze, into muddy waters, in grimace.
He begins to believe, he should listen
to what it is they will tell- show him.

But- he has always been pigheaded-
& will likely keep wowing on Wednesdays.
"You oughta view where y'r life b'headed-"
pointed out passing pastor: eyes, a, glisten.
But- he's never been the one to pray.

He peers as the pastor saunters off
and from a, near, brief bit away: he hears,
"For that young soul, all hope is lost!"
"Oh! But the pastor, himself, is lost!"
he projects back at those zealous ears.

"Blast'd pastor has ****** in my puddle!
This puddle in my mind, he's splashed in!"
Godly guys grieving his soul does befuddle
- his soul. He'd avoid that, at any cost.
"Now it'll be weeks, before I can bathe in
- my puddle of mud, comfortably."

"Strangle me, Medusa!
  Don't merely turn me to stone!
  Many a moon I've spent,
   as so, (******)
   serenading the silence
   with the songs of your embrace.
  I want you to use your bare hands!
  Listen to my moans-
   as my life slips away-
   off into the abyss.

  Do not fret, my dear girl!
   I will be full of bliss-
   as a direct result of your
   fingertips twirled-
   upon my skin.
  It's not a sin
   for me to crave
   a safe haven in your hands
  upon the arrival of my departure."

A ballet of branches upon towering trees,
reaching (ever so) tall, above his head:
are mirroring his thoughts with ease
on this (ever so) dastardly dreary day.

"Oh, Creator! Come strike me dead!
I am ever so afraid, of what I wish to say:
t'whom the woman I dream of before
- and after I lie and wake in bed."

To be rejected by his dream queen
is, surely, his soul's damnation!

"Maybe-deep in my dungeon, I should stay
and get ever so high in euphoric elation-
yes! dragons in my kitchen, I should slay!
God! Do I wish to see her face?!"(Yes!)

It may be his last chance to be blessed-
by all of the beauty that she beholds:
within her body, brain and being.
He's feeling fairly stressed
because he doesn't fit most social molds-
but his wish: her and he,
t'wards the western sun, fleeing.

He's going to grab the rope of his dream
(Yes!)
and, to her, it won't seem- like much;
(No!)
what she can't see, is the rush-ed blood,
(Oh!)
so warm, circulating amidst his heart.

Oh, how this could be the start-
of a drastic change in outlook- view!

If only he had the nuts, to ask out you!