11:22, what a beau-tiful,
aesthetically, number!
On this evening- though,
it does, truly, prevoke
this mind to believe that it's time-
for a potent bowl of cannabis
& a very restful slumber.

It fills my eyes with tears
when I think of all the years
he spent treating you so terrible.
He acted like your heart was paper:
Tear-able.
He thought he could tape it up with lies:
Repairable.
But- tape is translucent,
& the cracks are still, visibly, strong-
so jagged and deep.
& though it's been so long-
one can still see it in her eyes.
I guess not everything
gets healed in time-
or not in the time period
that one would like.

If I may say just one thing:
You are admirable-
through & through.

Electronics fly with their intrusive little eyes;
- they are the totalitarian government's spies:
- they're the Orwellian technology which I despise.
I, desperately, beg of you: not to believe all their lies
- when they say that they need eyes in the skies
- to ensure the safety & wellbeing of you and I.

I opened my eye
and such familiar faces,
  suddenly, look odd.

Can't you see: we all must abandon society?
For: thee elites get off on robbing our liberty
- and replacing it instead with, such, misery.
They are the ones who control our history
- and show all o' us, only, their victories;
- what they refuse to speak of - is the injuries
- put on our ancestors skin - and arteries.
They own each o' our land & properties
- and force us to slave away in factories
- manufacturing batteries for their missiles;
- they'll speak in vague, so, unclear riddles
- when we ask them, "where will they whistle?"
Towards a home, leaving children all alone
- without parents, is where the missiles'll be thrown.
This much is known of those missiles o' chrome.

We may not ever, truly, know
- where- after death- we all go;
I just hope we end up together-
- or I may as well burn up forever.
For- without you: I know not what to do..
& without you: I'll always be feeling blue.
Without you: the skies, winds, and the weather
- all seem to change frantically (like a feather-
that's been blown, thrown, into hot burning embers).
Without you: this life needs not my members-
hip.

It seems, as though, we live in a time so grim
- an' I believe the world'll need a few more spins
- 'round the sun before it'll, ever again, be fun
- for our daughters & sons ta', in the garden, run.
Once the war's done - an' lowered've been the guns:
- maybe then, we'll see the tiny crumbs of buns
- that the mothers had baked for the boys who'd won.
But - the men at war with their heads felt none,
- in terms of peace, an'-  nor did their sons;
- they are the children of a massive war
- an' don't understand what all o' the death was for.

What can I ramble on about:
- that hasn't already been said;
- and what can I scribble down:
- that hasn't already been read?
It seems, as though,
- it's all been done and seen.
Is it useless to hope to create and inspire;
- have I been-
- chasing a long lost linguistic magic?
Oh- how tragic;
- if that is, indeed, the case it to be!

I've been cruising through life,

having a good time.

Smoking my herbs

& sipping red wine.

And, I think..

'I feel fine.'

     ...

But as the fog rolls in

And you're, likely, with him..

I wonder..

Am I?

Politicians are receiving golden medals an' awards
- for sending hundreds of thousands o' men to war.
These men march to death, merely following accords,
- without ever asking, just, what they're all dying for.
They, do, believe they are fighting for their country
- unaware they are, but, violent, disposable monkeys
- who are being used by corporations to make money.
An army of blinded men: full o' hatred for "commies,"
- an' ignorant that their deaths, "boost the economy."
Tis' a ****** shame: they got trapped in this game
- an' their sons, regrettably, are bound to do the same..

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.

Exchanging a large coffee for two-hundred cents
- in a, oh - so, desperate attempt to prevent
- himself from falling, fast, asleep at the wheel
- and crashing his big, ole', blue hunk o' steel.
Driving, so, slowy down a snowy prairie road,
- with no particular place, in his mind, to go,
- beneath a, winter's, waxing gibbous moon's glow;
- tis' where you'll, certainly, find Aegidius O'Crow,
- somewhere way out west o' big & bright Toronto.
Where he often goes, though, people seldom know.

If you're feeling blue:
know it's a pretty colour;
it'll get you through.

We must, each, protect our own:
- tis' one thing I've been shown.
For - thee kings an' queens shall not;
- we are but animals, caught, in their kingdom
- an' they'll, gladly, send out firing squads
- should we speak out o' our lack o' freedom.

I will still be here,
reminiscing you, my dear,
right where you left me.

More specifically,
where you refused to take me
into your fingertips..
Oh,
the way you stroked me though..
I wish you had done something exciting
like thrown me
far out into the water.
Instead, you grazed your fingers
upon and past me
in search for the perfect pebble.

After sipping down, another, two ale--,
I seem to walk straight-
yet I still, internally, stumble about.
I possess a clumsy brain
with a face so pale.
--Or... was it stout?
A mind commences crumbling
while he wearily watches.
He writes down his mumbling
& waits for them to mock his
cognitive dissonance
& sensitivity.

Expect thee worst & hope for the best;
- don't trouble your mind with all o' the rest
- of the details. Ya' see? Even the slowest of snails
- will infiltrate the deceased rabbit's den-
- eventually.

His season o' sorrows had seceded;
- the joy crept in reluctant an' slow, though,
- because he was aware the cycle'll be repeated.
Yay- t'was one thing that he did, certainly, know:
- that - with the blustery an' bone chilling snow
- will be brought along another season o' sorrow.
For now, though, he'll enjoy the golden suns glow.

"Alas, though, these are all, but, far-fetched dreams :
fillin' my mind with lust for an adorable fairy queen."

Thee songbirds fly straight t'wards her hand
- an', to be honest, I completely understand
- why they, all, make their way into her palms;
- she catches ones eye like ancient artifacts o' bronze,
- or shining, gem-crested rings made o' silver or gold,
- or leather, hard spined books that're, ever so, old!
Yay- she shone like a quartz crystal in the sunlight
- an' caused all the bandits to pause their gunfight
- as they admired her crossing the street
- with big, ole' fairy boots on her feet!

If only - he knew
- which o' these warm words to use
- whilst speaking to you.

I was never one for grand, stone built castles;
- I've always preferred staying safe in my den.
Then, these eyes hit your kingdom & bedazzled
- I became. Heaven will be the seconds when
- you lower that towering, old oak drawbridge
- allowing me to enter the center of your palace.
"You bear a blade, dear knight, I have seen this-"
"Yes, your highness, I'm armed- but offer no malice
- nor malicious behavior. You see? My busi-
- ness is with you! A whisper, I've heard through
- the trees.. and it has lead me straight here to thee.
It said, 'you bear some gloom, look kind of blue;
- down this path is a beautiful queen-to-be and she
- is not happy. Why don't you go and chat with her?'"

"Apple trees with broken branches still stand strong."
I believe this is true; please correct me, if I'm wrong.
Axe weildin man thinks it may bear fruit o' nutrition.
To let it grow to fruition- or not: t'is a grand decision.
With precision, man with an axe allows it to stand.
He thinks, "I mustn't be impatient- nor demand-
fruit from this tree. I must let it be. I must wait n' see
just exactly how much this ole' apple tree blesses me."

My head really hurts
  and I can't find the words
  to express how I feel;
  the mental silence is real.
The problem, however,
  is that it's not silent- ever.
There's always a dull noise;
  it's untranslatable to young boys
  upon this wide world- Earth.
What, I ask, would it be worth
  to try to find some truth
  in a mythical language that you
  do not fluently speak?

"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.

I'm a Big Orange Cat,
needing something to knead.
Mislead me, love, until I recede.
Worry not about hurting me;
I think this might be the way
my heart was meant to be -- flat.

Yes; you are allowed to be angry
but- it's not my problem- frankly.
It is not mine to sip, this mug of tea,
-worrying about what it is that you see
-when you look on over t'ward me.
I'll be out there by the birch trees
-and you'll, within a year, find glee
-in somebody else. I know- very well
-that this is the situation at hand.
No; I can no longer be your man.
I hope you'll understand
-but know that you won't.

Basically- blackbirds' beaks peck,
periodically, away at my mind.
An empty space above my neck:
A brain deeply devoured
that- yet- bears no pain.
Into my dungeon I cower:
a desperate attempt to avoid
attacks on my mind any furthermore.
Panic attacks have my chest sore.

My thumbs have been bouncing,
back and forth, from the backspace
button since Friday evening.
Gazing upon my words in disgust;
going nuts- insane:
because I think my plane
has just derailed.

My eyes are black:
because sleep, often, defeats me
in the brutal Battle of My Bed.

The art of counting sheep
is one that- this head has not mastered.

So, as such, the damp tobacc-
o- keeps my lungs looking,
dreadfully, similar to my eyes.

The alcohol that keeps me plastered
is withering away my liver.
& death, one day, shall be delivered-
unto me.

I'd be content with you
striking thunder unto my eyes
if what I feel - is not her thighs,
like twin snakes,
constricting my skull;
- deafening me.
All noises are null:
I, ignorantly, believe. -
All - but - the voice of she,
- 'tis such a sweet melody.
It's the only noise I seem -
to pay careful, close attention to.
The voice of she
is what I need -
deep within the canal of my ear.
Is this dream too far from near -
possible?
Now, I must ask, do-
you hear the tears I cry:
smashing down- on the floor boards?
Lust -
must've slipped my mother's mind -
whilst explaining to me -
life's lesions on one's aura.

Noon: Her heart spilt out.
Six: Love from her to him... drought.
Midnight: Solitude

A sudden turn of events
in the cavernous minds
of ignorant, hopeful men.

All bridges have been burnt.

Complete halt in the reconstruction.

But - the brain folk need to pass,
(the path of least resistance)
so they enter the canyons 
 beneath their beloved bridges.

Suddenly the mood switches:
"These ditches contain riches!"

A vacation from the run-of-the-mill 
  colorless everyday crossings.

With destruction comes discovery.

Structures will tumble, my dear,
far sooner than later.
Just know that, even then
I will still be here:
  admiring you from afar,
  wishing upon every star,
  hoping your eyes will make
   their way -
   my way.

Oh.. breathtaking Brandy,
  my brain often wanders.
  I spend time in, deep, ponder
  over whether, or whether not,
  I possess- have got - a spot
  in the back of your mind!
  You are like rain without the clouds,
  unexpectedly falling unto my head.
  I am so envious of the man allowed -
  to lie his body next to you in bed.
  But, I guess-
  I'll continue dreaming, for now,
  filling my stomach
  with liquids and pills
  that empty my head.

This Earth rotates so, very, fast
- an' for some : it's a total blast.
Though, for some : it's complete hell -
- being locked up on this spherical dwell-
-ing. Yes! To some, this world does sting;
- an' - sorrow, to some : it sure does bring.
Even still, though, Earth spins circles 'round the Sun
- and any sort o' closure is, barely, little to none.

The trees are where, it is, I ought to be
-away from all people and from society;
I cannot, possibly, become what it is that she
-wants for me to be. Thus- I, ever so, silently
-head over t'wards those bushes out back
-with a fully stocked sack- or pack with snacks.
I head out t'wards those bushes out back- and hack
-down some brittle trees into a quaint little shack.

She must've been of the feline species,
because thoughts of her
keep coming back to me.
She purred, soft as a kitten,
when I had something to offer.
She bit like a lion
and told me to get off her- cloud
when I tried to say, aloud,
"I (k)ne(a)d you."
Alas, Lord knows, I'd be lyin'
if I said I hadn't thought of her
the very next day.
I disperse my time and effort,
attempting to ensure
that she is never feeling hurt.
I sit here, rhyming thoughts,
all the while a filthy dog
has his paws in her fur.
It doesn't matter though
because the cat came back
the very next day.
What can I say?
I've always been a sucker
for a hungry lion in disguise
as a lovely little kitten.

Captivating kisses-
from wicked witches.
Don't beckon one as your Mrs.-
for your heart will be left in stitches.

Cigarette smoke sits, silently;
looming like a cancerous cloud,
caressing each & every corner
of this rather rainy region (room).
Sitting, slightly, similarly -
I sip my creamless coffee,
contemplating consciousness
and similar such subjects.
We sit dissipating in the darkness,
my thousand thoughts & I;
so strange and always astonishing.
Blinding sights & bizarre sounds
go seen and heard -
but never reasonably recorded.
There's constant communication -
but an inability to grasp
and produce the words -
- that feel right.
So, I sit - so habitually -
searching for signals
in the chalky coffee beans below
the last liquid drips of my mug.

As The Chariot arrives 
in the dead of the night,
clouded over eyes begin
to spit fire.
Clearly, chasing a lost cause;
pipe dreams.
This seems to be
a mislead fight-
for what is believed
to be right.
Taught his ways
by a wise, old liar.
For failure, deemed? 
So it seems.

The sound of a key
sliding into its lock.
The old wooden door,
heavily, creaks open.
Two figures stumble in
though they are so close
that thy may perceive them as one.
                    THUNK
The old wooden door shuts,
with such shock.
Their primal temptations,
they begin to elope in.
Thoughtless mumbling:
who is it that knows
who is running across their minds
during this sensual fun?
Skin tingling from a serenade of chemicals.

A private passenger jet flies on by, and past,
- leaving lethal chemicals, so, high up in the sky
- to be breathed in by your' and my own gasps;
- it causes each & every one of us to, slowly, die.
It's all been decided by some ole' greedy guy
- sitting in a golden office, so, high up in the sky.
An' he has an air filtration system, of course;
- for, he doesn't need his throat feeling hoarse.
Though, it seems it's fine if it's you or mine..
- oh yes; he's guilty of such a dastardly crime!
He kills all our mothers - and kills all our fathers..
- oh yes; he is, truly, such a sinister monster!
He'll **** all our siblings and **** all our children;
- his mission is a cruel one of killing off millions!
We have no way to stop what is being displayed;
- he's a master of evading all those he betrayed.

Your love was a cigarette:
burning bright for me after I struck a match.
I deprived myself of air,
to enjoy every drag.
Alas, cigarettes don't last long..
& now that you are gone..
I sit here, in a clouded room:
it's what remains of us.
Toxic lungs and a foggy mind!
Oh, cigarette lover,
how I wanted to make you mine!
Though: it seems what you had for me
was lust.
In your short-lived love, I put my trust.

Surely, I haven't gone mad!
(Constant thoughts of her)
I'm a sad lad sitting alone in his pad.
(Constantly thinking of her)
Oh- I see this ending bad- ly.

There are drones in the skies with snoopy eyes
- that spy on you and I in our own homes.
They have their eyes on all our devices;
- take as a good example all our phones.
Cries of our demise are all I can write
- though-  I know it may be, oh so, useless
- for I may not ever alter the plight
- of the world that our master produces.
Yes, it's useless to even attempt it:
- the act of questioning their ***** deeds;
- but, even still, I get very tempted:
- knowing full well they'll put bullets in me.
They control every aspect of our life
- and they intend to **** us all with strife
- should we accidentally speak out of line.

" Doctor, doctor..
My heart has bled, bountifully,
with the deep & dreaded desire!
This boy's been bustling over the girl-
who- on instagram- posts pictures of fire.
There's too much energy- flowing
through the wires- of my mind
when I think of that brunette beauty.
She's smoother than a 12 year Brandy..
It's honestly not that hard to understand,
- you see?
I've admired this woman
since I was thirteen.
I remember walking her home,
half a dozen years ago- on my birthday.
Easy going chit chat-
mind full of riff raff-
trying not to look like an aśs-
cause I always did had a mass-
ive crush on this cup of Brandy.
We were from such different worlds,
Hell, we still are. 
I wish I would've stayed working
at that ****** little bar,
I would have - had I known she was
lurking amongst the crowd-
with a resume.
I'm younger than her; touché.
But- I've learned a lot since the day-
that she and her friends pulled me
a case of beer- on my birthday.

& I'd love the opportunity
to show her the growth;
to make her feel better
than she does-  most days, currently. "

May I assist you-
or is it me who needs help?
Such a faint blue:
tis' how I've, lately, felt.
However, it's a pretty colour;
so I can't, and won't, complain.
I won't allow the sorrow to smother-
me (nor let my soul be drain-ed).
For: I know it will all work out-
so there's no use in crying or pout-
ing about things that may never happen.

Each and every
minor detail is magnificent
about this woman.

Simply said, she's
completely captivating.

I attempt to avoid aiming my eyes at her
but it's useless- unfortunately.

She possesses the ability to ******
any and all males, if she so pleased.

She is a queen,
& - oh - what I would do,
to be a peasant in her empire!

Oh- the things I'd do to get close ta' you
- an' feel, tightly around my head, your thighs.
You know not what a magnificent view
- you are seen as through this peasant's eyes.

Aye - I'd do it all - if only to be called yours;
- I'd build you a home o' bricks within the sticks!

I've felt sort-a down : I'm sure your love's the cure
- an' I'd do whatever it takes to get my fix..
I'd build you a giant cabin in the Irish highlands!

Oh - thee things I'd do to be called your guy;
- I'd shower you in silver, gold and diamonds!
Aye - I'd gift you all the gems I can buy!

Call me crazy - but - I'd do this much
- if only to feel, upon my skin, your touch!