I'm part of a cult with no leader.
We take flight from unidentified runways.
King Kong is nothing but a chest beater;
climbing skyscrapers and swatting at planes.
I'm not afraid of the beast.
No, really though, we're quite good friends.
I've been invited to a giant feast,
but no one ever eats because the toast never ends.
Who put this guy in charge anyway?
I'm not okay with his facts.
I propose a mutiny.
Let's all cheers to that!

The crows won't leave my cat alone,
so I punched one out of the sky.
Stupid ****** bird -
don't **** with my little guy.

Leftovers from a party complete with drugs and drinks,
squares and queers.
It was a good mix.
Video games and ****** antics.
First to wake from the strangest dreams;
I'm just cleaning up a bit.
Something to do before I rescue my keys.
(They're currently being held hostage.)
I think we can save the graham crackers,
but there's no hope for the chocolate.

I really love it here,
have I ever told you that?
This untouched land smack-dab in the middle of all these
tourist traps.
There's enchantment here.
The buddhist temple down the street just makes it complete.
One morning,
when we're all bleary-eyed and hungover,
we should go meditate.

If I told you how many hours I've spent alone on my back porch
just smoking and thinking,
you'd probably think I was nuts.
But I'm not crazy.
You could join me if you want,
but I probably won't say much.

I'm just going to listen to this song for a little while longer,
and pretend that I don't to have work tomorrow.
If I died right now, it wouldn't be so bad,
just so long as this song is playing.

If my life were a movie,
I'd put you all in the credits.
Don't get your hopes up though -
no one would pay to see it.

If my life were a poem,
I bet it'd be ******.
All the rhymes would feel forced.
It'd probably trend though,
but that'd just make it worse.

If my life were a painting,
it'd be some Jackson ******* splatter *******.
Interpret it a certain way and you'll see
that I'm nothing but an idiot.

That **** don't even make sense.
What is sense anyway?
I've explained this all before.
My point was that it's nonsense.

If my life were a sitcom,
then the canned laughter would **** me off.
Did you know that they're mostly dead people laughing?
All those laughs were recorded so long ago.
I don't need dead people to laugh at my punchlines,
I'm too busy laughing at theirs.
Life is a joke and death is the punchline.
Death is a joke and life is the punchline.
It's one thing or the other.
Whatever, who cares?

If my life were real life,
then I'd be sitting right here.
Drunk again and typing some ****** poem,
in the hopes of getting a few likes.

I'm just going to listen to this song for awhile longer.
It's a completely different song by now.
I still happen to like this one though.
I'd die to it too,
just so you know.

There's a number you can call
to listen in on all the sounds of unresolved love.
The sighs and gasps.
The beating of pulses in throbbing song.
The voices of the unwanted and desperate
crying out in passion
for just one touch.

There are radio waves reserved for the place where longing lingers -
for voices mangled by mad grips and furious fingers.
A flurry of sound that culminates into one palpitating heart.
A graveyard for romance that was doomed at the start.

It swells up inside your telephone.
A coagulation of feeling hopeless and alone.
Crawling ever toward an unobtainable ******
that will never come.

There's a number you can call,
but if I were you, I wouldn't dial it.
There's an insanity involved.
The effect of that collective sigh;
some people die for it.

"I KILLED IT!" she screamed,
then spilled her drink on my dreams.
Her dress, I mean.
It's what I meant to say.

"You know,
some bleach will clean that right away."
What a mess.
We must have fell three times that night.

I don't mind concrete so much,
so long as it's underfoot and not in my gut.

She sang that song all wrong,
but it's okay.
It felt right.

Swerved just in time to pass by my escape.
Narrowly avoided making a fatal mistake.
I'll live stuck in this.

I admit, there's more than I can chew on my plate.
Flung it like a frisbee at that ******'s face -
Swing and a miss.

I've found another safe place,
and something akin to bliss,
but I can't stay here.

Aw ****,
I'm gonna get fired for being drunk.

I've always wanted to **** a psychiatrist.
I think it'd be hot for someone to hear all my *******.
On the couch meant for listening, while their legs are spread;
I'd pay what's more than fair to know what goes on in their head.

I know this kid who once made his psychiatrist cry.
I swear to god, he's my hero.
I worry about him sometimes.
But I don't get paid for that ****, you know?

They're so fond of handing out pills.
Psychobabble jargon and all of that swill.
"Your emotions are too strong. Take these and they'll be killed."
******* psychiatry.
It's adorable.

"Did you know that your profession has one of the highest suicide rates?
What are you doing tonight?
Wanna go on a date?"

I bet they hear a lot about ****.
Do you think they might get off on it?
Poor *******.
Your career choice was a mistake.

No, really though, I think it's pretty great.
Trying to help people function properly and stuff.
Psychiatrists are hot.
They can all get ******.

I've been working to discover the extent of our disease.
Some people just aren't happy with being content.
They need chaos for glory and make life a mess.
Nevermind the ways they pay rent.
We live for the night.
Could give a **** about how our days are spent.

I've been experimenting with decisions and their consequence;
Data inconclusive.
I've been working on a new hypothesis:
What if Mother Nature's disasters are just metaphors for the storms inside our heads?
Hurricanes, tornadoes, volcanoes, earthquakes;
Whirlwinds of action, body tremors, passion -
now I've got the shakes.

My nerves are shot,
but I'm getting ever closer to something.
I couldn't tell you what.
It's been deemed a lost cause and my funding has been cut,
but I'm not giving up.
I swear, there's hope for us.

Climbing up trees because fences are barbed.
Smoking on rooftops.
Took the lightning rod as a souvenir.
Paint markers and spray cans.
Don't worry man,
this place has been abandoned for years.
Throwing all the chairs into the pool.
Teepeeing the neighbors.
Chasing each other with fire extinguishers -
we couldn't put out the flames.
Accidental arson on Carson street.
It took that guy weeks to paint over our names.
They're offering a reward in the newspaper.
How many people have you told?
Shooting out the lights in cul-de-sacs.
The dark makes criminals feel welcome.

We never once got coal for Christmas,
but after a certain age,
vandalism just feels ridiculous.

Anything remotely stressful leaves you with the thought of "I need a drink."
You only say clever or honest things when you're hungover.
The taste of orange juice and coca-cola carry a phantom aftertaste of liquor.
******* forget about *****. Can't do it anymore. Drank too much of that **** when you were younger. Just the smell of it makes you gag.
Life only seems worth living if you're a few drinks in.
Three beers later, and suddenly every song is about you.
Sometimes, it's preferable to sleep in your car.
Certain words and phrases haunt you for reasons that you can't explain or  don't remember.
You wonder whether or not your friends even actually like you,
or know you.
Goals seem like fancy unobtainable things that you'll never fully commit to going after.
The end of your poems ****.

Sometimes, when my friends kiss and tell,
I just want to punch them in the mouth.
I want to find every girl that they're talking **** about,
give them a hug, and say
"It's okay. You're still lovely anyway."

And its grave is marked by a half-scale vinyl replica of The Thinker
wearing a sharknado T-shirt,
and a novelty beer helmet.

I know this magic trick where I throw my heart in a hat
then pull out a rabbit.
Only, it's not a rabbit -
it's a snake.
And this is a swamp,
not a stage.
And there are three bite marks on my leg.

I can't wait to partake in things that make you sick.
My stomach stays high tide.
Stay away from it if you can't swim.
My guts are laid out in patterns;
peaches and fruit flesh stuck to fingertips.

(**** my **** then give me a kiss.)

I can't wait to imitate art contained in this.
Two figures trapped within an unfinished painting.
Four strokes of inspiration to complete the lips.
A splash of white to end it.

I get scared sometimes,
by a coldness in the reflection of my own eyes.
As if they know something I refuse to believe.
Like he's daring me to see beyond the lies.

I've written poetry about chess,
as a central metaphor for the way I go about living life.
I confess that I like Knights the best.
They're the only pieces with the power to jump the rest.

Sometimes, I worry
that I'm just being used to create some kind of story.
That any chance I might have at Happiness
gets thrown under the bus for the sake of His glory.

I've often accused my mother of having multiple personalities.
She refuses to take any tests.

I've made a little man out of paper clips.
I hung him from a rubber band noose
that hangs from a shelf above my desk.

Sometimes, I'm filled with fear.
I get the shakes in grocery stores during the middle of the day -
paralyzed by the thought that I'm not really there.
Afraid of the things that my ghost might say.

I once wrote a poem fully explaining your mental state.
I know I've got it saved somewhere.
By the way, I think you're pretty great;
these and other phrases you've no desire to hear.

"Knight to e6,
I believe that's checkmate."

Paper Clip Man hung there for weeks,
but his steel wire neck refused to break.
Eventually, he got a hand around the knot,
and used his strength to gain another breath he never again thought he'd take.

I've never written a poem about backgammon,
but they say it's one of the oldest games ever played.
I bet I'd be real good at it.
I'll learn how to win some day.

With deja vu at the head of it,
followed by a longing for coincidence.
Those kids left a trail of mist wherever they went;
chasing the tail-end of everlasting moments.

Everyone loves the dream but I **** it.
I slit the neck of Johnny Appleseed while he slept.
Prometheus ain't got **** on me.
These trees aren't the real thing, you see.
Slippery shrouded shadows mass produced as Mystery.
I left.

Glorifying alcoholism is *******.
Putting pain on a pedestal is appalling.
Celebrating mistakes is a travesty.
What's with this obsession with tragedy?
Isn't there some helpline you should be prank calling?

"Well, poetry, you know. Poetry, especially. Poetry is for the purists. It's like at the essence of everything. Like, music is the poetry of sounds, right? And a song is sort of poetry set to music. Art can be like, the poetry of paint on canvas. Arranged in a certain way? The arrangement is the most important part of it, sort of. It's what makes it poetry. Dancing is like the poetry of a body in motion. Movies are like, the poetry of moments - certain moments - you know, they call them scenes. And they're all presented in this kind of sequence in order to, umm, like make an impression?"

"Wait. So then, what is poetry? It's just words, ain't it?"

"Well, yea. It is and it isn't. It's more than just words. It's like the essence of things - it's hidden beneath everything. It's the sort of thing that you can only see if you're actively looking for it. Well, that's not true. Sometimes you see it when you're not looking for it. Like, (slaps hands together) wham! You know? And that's when it makes the biggest impression, and if you see it, you feel this sort of compulsion to share it."

"With words. I mean, it's just words though."

"Right, you said that. It is just words, but it's more than that. It's playing with ideas, and feelings, and meanings. It's playing with the meaning of things! It's an attempt to define the undefinable. To capture the intangible and sort of present it in the form of words. Which is ridiculous, really, because it's impossible. That's the thing about poets, they're all crazy. They're all trying to explain something that can't be explained, but they can't not do it. It's like a compulsion. It's like, you know, from math. It's like an asympto -"

"But it's just words! You already said. Math is numbers. Poetry is just words. Like, what are you even saying right now? You're not making any sense."

"Sense? Who's trying to make sense? No man, that's not what it's about. Like, what even is Sense? It's just a word. All of this. What we're saying; it's all just words."

"Right. That's what I said. It's just words."

"Yea, so then, why are we even saying them? Why are we saying 'just words.' Why are we saying these words? Right now. Why are we saying these words at this particular moment in time? Like, why? Because of poetry, that's why. Poetry is the attempt to figure out that why. And it is that why. It's the question and the answer at the same time."

"Whatever man. You don't make any sense. It's just words. Case closed."

"Right. It is and it isn't. It's more than just words. It's Just Words.
Just.
Words."

My mom likes to feed the ducks and storks that frequent our lake.
We often refer to her as the "Bird Lady."
They congregate in our backyard, waiting to be fed.
She throws them cereal and dried up old bread.
She's given most of them names.
Whenever one becomes a mother,
she keeps track of the ducklings.
Most of them don't make it.
They fall prey to hawks and cranes.
I can always count on her for an unwarranted update.
"Juliet lost another baby today."
"I don't care."
If they lose them all,
she likes to call them Bad Mothers,
which I find ironic.

This morning, I saw three pelicans in our lake.
I guess there's a first time for everything.
They were white with black-tipped wings.
They were feeding with a sort of unexpected grace.
They'd dunk their heads then come back up with something in their long orange beaks.
The bottom of which would shake. All loose and leathery.
After they had their fill, they flew off in unison.
One after the other,
like one, two, three.
And afterwards I thought,
"**** swans."

I just woke up from a nap in my car.
I can't drive it home because my keys are trapped.
I can't free them
so I'm writing a poem.
Let's make this lamer and call it a wrap.

I've decided against advancing toward her goals.
They hold nothing for me.
A thing like this can't be bought with gold,
though I sold it all for silver.
Melted down to form a mirror.
I think I saw someone else reflected.
A stranger's eyes seem clearer when my own are so
blind.

I keep forgetting to remember the things I've reminded myself to forget.
Pump my head full of helium and fill my body up with lead.
I got yelled at by the driver of a car that almost hit me today.
I said, "You'd be doing me a favor!" as I walked away.

I keep finishing at the start and beginning with the end.
Earlier tonight, I made an emo playlist for my favorite ****** friend.
If only we could pool our feelings together and then . . .
****, I forget.

All bills have been paid, and all the letters have been sent.
Somehow, we're still falling deeper into debt.
I poured my heart out to an apathetic page
and yet, we're only getting paid for what we'd rather forget.

I keep making sour faces at the sweetest scenes I see.
I've been waking up early just to get there late.
I'm having trouble doubting things I've never believed.
I keep getting angry at people I long ago forgave.
Will they ever forgive me?
Have they already?

I forget.

You can throw your mess into my mess and mix until we have a 17-car pileup with no need to clean because we'll be up to our knees in blood and guts.
We can cross flooded streets with lightning rods strapped to our backs  and pray for the rain to send us some thunderous crash.

If I told you that Jupiter views its moons through a stormy eye,
would you see red?

Who would've thought we'd survive.

Add your bricks to my bricks and we'll entomb our feet with wet cement while we wait for the water to rise.
Grab your bike with the taped over reflectors then we'll ride down one-lane bridges dressed as reapers in the night.
You can throw your mess in with my mess and let it stew until we've got a steaming trainwreck and no way to clean because we'll be up to our necks in blood and guts.

If I told you a new moon happens only once a month,
would you black out?

Who would've thought we'd see light.

I'm distressed. Everything's gone grey,
and I'm just soOOoo depressed today.
I can't seem to shake these blues.
My life's a lie that I can't make true.

I want to curl up into a little ball, in the corner of the room.
My days are all filled with gloom and doom.
These rhymes are tired, and so am I.
I'm just waiting around for the day that I die.

My soul is empty.
My heart has holes.
Bliss and Happiness -
Who are they? What're those?

You could ask me who I am,
and "Nothing" is what I'll say.
Just one more sad poet.
Another bad cliche.

“There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.”
― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

Apparently, you can't put links into poems that you post on HP. I wish I'd known that before I wrote a poem that is almost entirely made up of links. If you're interested in reading it, send me a private message. I'm pretty sure you can still put links into ***.

When I was much younger,
and tried to picture Our Father,
for some reason, I always thought of my own:

God is a man with a dark red tan,
pale blue eyes, and big strong hands.
God is a guy with a hammer on his thigh,
hanging from a carpenter's belt
above blue-jeaned legs.
He wears a T-shirt that I think once used to be grey,
but faded by the sun to an almost off-white.
He wears a mesh navy cap. The one He always wore.
The one he got from his days as a volunteer fire-fighter.
The only thing I pictured differently was the hair:
Curlier, and instead of being brown,
it was golden blonde.

I used to see my dad when I'd think about God.
In many ways, I still do.

Most prey loathe to be caught,
but some like being chased.

I hate you for the right ones.

Backed into a corner.
Folded over four hundred times.
"I thank whatever gods may be"
for my indeterminable mind.

Thrown about like little Jack Horner.
I've never cared much for pie.
Christmas either, for that matter.
"If you are me then who am I?"

Somebody sent on a suicide mission.
Grand plans of livin' but doomed to die.
She smiled wide after I delivered that line,
and a small part inside of me died.

I'd be better off if I could get paid to cry.
I'll try not to be so stubborn about it.
In forty-two seconds I'm bound to forget.
Wait, what were we talking about just now?
How much of this have I already said?

If there's bliss in ignorance then there's sadness in truth.
I once loved a girl whose mother's name was Ruth.
It's a Biblical thing.
She was mostly Adam and I was niEve.

I sometimes get lost when walking down familiar streets.
It may not be the greatest thing,
but hey,
it's still pretty neat.

Apathy is dead.
Gone are the days of no longer giving a ****.
Caring is what's in now.
Down is the new up.

To be recited while standing atop a table
in the middle of the room
during a party.

Clocks are spinning backwards.
The midnight hour never struck.
Turning pages left to wright.
Down is the New up.

To be yelled out in a library
from the top of a bookshelf
in the History section.

The broken down and beaten;
the wounded, burned, and cut.
We are not defeated.
Down is the New Up.

To be blared over the PA system
in the Emergency Room of a hospital
after a massacre.

A conjoining of festered faiths.
A mutant monster made from a million parts.
A rolling tide that turns tsunami in a sea of tortured hearts.
One colossal cosmic shift.
A sun born from the dark.
Falling up from the bottom and rising down from the top.
A monumental force that cannot be stopped.

To be shouted through a bullhorn
in the center of the city
during a riot.

Down Is The New Up!
DOWN IS THE NEW UP!!
**DOWN IS THE NEW UP!!!

It's funny how the sound of a cricket can bring on feelings far beyond it ever intended.
I heard you can tell the temperature from it.
Toads are in high demand when everybody wants to lick them.
I heard Salmonella cases went up in percentage after the release of that Disney film.
It's funny how much of an influence one frog-kissing princess can have.
The media is like a bad disease that everybody has.
If I were a prince,
then I'd pass laws to rinse our culture of it.
If I had magic powers,
then I'd used them to silence those who abuse it.
Animate an army of brooms to wash it clean.
I realize I'm infected too,
but don't you see?
That's exactly what I mean.

I keep letting ideas of a poem I plan on writing about god slip out of my mind without being written down.
I keep feeling sick again and I've long since forgotten how to deal with it.
I read today that anti-depressants are changing the way that our culture is evolving.
I keep feeling like my head's about to explode and I can't remember the code to stop the countdown.
Which wires to pull.
Have I ever really known?
I keep allowing thoughts of her to keep me from getting proper sleep.
I keep washing my bedding because at night I feel like I'm being bitten by fleas.
I'm awash in thoughts of social constructs and god,
and yet,
I can't even pinpoint what it is that I believe.

Have you always been so vain?
Do you expect to just be constantly entertained?
Have you always taken it for granted that people will stomach every selfish word you say?
You give me indigestion.
(That's probably why that guy didn't like you, fyi, by the way.)

I've got a few more questions:
Have you always been the star of the play?
Do you expect only rave reviews?
Are you still waiting for your roses?
Is everything a performance to you?

BOOOOO! BOOOOOOOO!!

So you like to play games, right?
Because they're so much fun.
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, right?
So long as all the fun's on your side.
So long as you're not the one losing sleep at night.
You're just one fun-loving-son-of-a-gun, am I right?
Am I right?

Have you always been such a *****?
Have you always messed with unstable people,
just to get a kick?
Do you get off on driving people insane?
Are you really that ******* vain?
You make me sick.

I threw up into the dark and wondered why the monsters wouldn't eat it.
I folded myself into complicated origami shapes
and wondered why nobody tried to unfold me.
I surfaced through a swamp full of muck just to take a deep breath.
I spat oxygen into trees and remembered that they prefer carbon dioxide.
They don't love me.
Nobody does.
I once chewed on bark and spat out blood.
I once swallowed sap and lost my taste for syrup.

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it so much.

I fell down wrought-iron stairs once.
I wondered why my friend didn't find it funny.
I was hurt and out-of-breath, but he didn't even laugh.
He should have laughed.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him so much.

On my last night in the state,
his friend told me that they ****** each other's ***** once.
I promised not to tell.

The next time I go on a date,
I'll feed my date dates,
and I'll hate it.
I hate it.
I ******* hate dates.

If I ever fly a kite again,
I'll try my best not to think of every smug ******* who told me to do so.
I'll just let the string go,
and count all the swirls on my fingertips.
Squeeze the sand between my toes.
Kiss some innocent know-no-better
with the taste of salt-water on my lips.

I swear to God, I hate it. I don't even know what it is.
I hate it though, I hate it so much.
I hate it, anyway,
I don't even know what it is.

I felt the switch engage,
and wondered why you couldn't do the same for me.
This car can go 140 babe, and it ain't got no roll-cage.
If only women could respond as quickly as machines.
Just put the pedal to the metal sweetheart,
so hang on to your seat.
I gave you a baby.
I bought you a ring.
I told you that I love you.
This is how you thank me?
Oh no.
You got a little more than you bargained for
when you asked for a ride home.
You've got another thing coming.
Like that semi headed right for us.
Just hear that engine sing!
Like that little piece of me and you.
If you think that it should die,
then why don't we die too!?
Let's all go out together,
like one, two, and little three.
We can haunt this road forever;
we'll be a ghostly family!

If you were grey,
I'd show you all the shades between white and black.

If you were suffering,
I'd be your heart attack.

If you were spinning,
I'd be the equilibrium
to right your world so out of whack.

If you were poor,
I'd barge through the door
with both hands full of cash.

If you were a pool,
I'd dive off the high-board
just to make a splash.

If you were dead,
I'd sell my soul,
just to get you back.

My family's problem is -
well ****. There's a list.
It's been in my head for years now,
so let's get it over with.

My mother's problem is,
she's a good-for-nothing alcoholic.
We've all tried to get her to stop it,
but there's nothing we can do about it.

My father's problem is,
he's too ******* nice.
He believes in the sanctity of marriage.
He still loves his wife.

My older sister's problem is,
she wants nothing more than to be normal,
but she has no idea what that means.
She takes all her cues from commercials.

My brother's problem is
a Christopher Columbus complex.
If he didn't discover it first,
then he could care less.

My younger sister has problems too.
The last born into this mess.
She has no idea what to do.
She still tries her best.

My problem is,
I think too **** much.
Spent my whole life trying to escape it.
Now I'm way out-of-touch.

My grandma's problem is,
she did everything right.
Never smoked a cigarette.
Never had a drink in her whole life.
My gram's problem is,
that despite all her grace,
she's still losing her mind.
She doesn't even recognize my face.

My older sister's problem is,
that she's so ****** condescending.
As if she's got it figured out,
but we know she's just pretending.

My brother's problem is,
he thinks that he's the ****.
If you're not doing like he's doing,
then he can't handle it.

My father's problem is,
he tries his best to "Let It Be,"
but through his words and actions,
it's clear that he's angry.

My problem is
that I'm too self-absorbed.
Quietly observing in order to find a way
to put it into words.

My little sister's problem is,
she still believes she's a princess.
After getting a good look at the kingdom,
she realized it's something she'd rather not possess.

My family's problem is,
we're all a bit over-stressed.
They're all too embarrassed by it,
so I'll be the one to confess.

My problem is,
I'm an instigator.
Chalk it up to my love for drama.
It's no wonder I'm an English major.

My brother's problem is,
he thinks that we still hate him.
The villain of our childhood.
He can't accept being forgiven.

My older sister's problem is,
she only wants the best for us.
The first to deal with dear mother,
she knows it can be rough.

My father's problem is,
he believes he has to be tough.
That he alone can hold it all together,
but we know he's had enough.

My younger sister's problem is,
she's too ******* sweet.
She knows this family will ruin her,
so she clings to any form of release.
She's invariably bound to lose it,
so she does so all the more desperately.

My family has problems.
Clearly, it's plain to see.
I love them anyway,
and I'll try my best to share our story.
I feel it's my destiny.

My mother's problem is,
that we blame her for all of our problems,
and despite all of our insistences,
she makes no attempt to solve them.

You give me answers to questions I never even asked.
Why do you do that?
It's as useful as knowing something bad's about to happen,
just after the fact.
I've never been there before, so how could I go back?
This feels like a joke taken too seriously -
not even good for a laugh.

You don't even live in a world that I visit.
Seen only on postcards,
and heard through second-hand descriptions.
I think I saw a commercial for it once on television.
People were splashing and swimming in crystal blue water.
The kind that makes you want a drink
when you're not even thirsty.
I'm fine where I am, thanks.
Go ahead and desert me.

Not easily noticed,
and often overlooked -
like some obscure quote
from a lesser known book;
hidden in the footnote.

You've found it,
it's yours.
The X and map are just a reminder of what you own.

You could tell it, but you won't.
You could sell it, but you don't,
because you've found it on your own,
and it's hard to find a home.

I'm getting older,
and my psychonauting days have long been over,
and the same can be said for most of my fellow explorers.
That scene we lived hasn't died yet, but it's grown tired.
And the freshness it once held for us
now tastes,
more or less,
expired.

It seems to me that one gets **** on,
and the other does the *******.
(Not directly you see;
this ***** exchange is done through a third-party.)
One swallows his pride for the sake of relief,
and the other is proud of the way that he stinks.

1.. A man obsessed with self-improvement. He only falls for women who make him "want to be a better man." He becomes that better man, then leaves them.

2. Horror aficionado who's obsessed with death; falls in love with women who are dead on the inside.

3, 4, 5, 6. A gay man falls in love with a straight man.
A straight woman falls in love with a gay man.
A straight man falls in love with a gay woman.
A gay woman falls in love with a straight woman.

7. A ****** falls in love with a **** star.

8. A strategic genius falls in love, then treats every action and word as maneuvers in some elaborate game that she has no idea is even being played. He loses.

9. A drug addict falls in love with anyone.

10. Momma's boy who hates his mother; only falls for women he can't stand.

11. Bored sociopath/criminal moves to a new town and tries to convince  the locals that he's afraid of everything (so that they won't suspect him of doing anything remotely dangerous). A woman who actually is afraid of everything feels bad for him and tries her best to comfort him. He falls in love with her.

His phone was full of pictures of the most random **** because every now and then he'd get into a mood where everything looked beautiful.