We sell condoms where I work,
****** arousal supplements,
and lotions.
And there's this twenty-year-old girl there
who controls all my emotions.

One look into her eyes;
two words that she says,
and suddenly I'm dying
right there inside my head.

Bury me six feet under.
This is more than I can stand.
I'm falling toward some dark abyss.
Pull me out of this quicksand.

(Maybe I should quit, or see a psychiatrist.)

I used to follow logic.
I used to be a reasonable man.
Now some twenty-year-old girl
holds my fate within her hands.

(She could **** me with the press of a button,
but she doesn't understand.)

Suicide crosses my mind too often.
Why should I die for this?
It's never bothered me before now.
I've never coveted a kiss.

I'm being ridiculous.
I just want it to be done.
I hate these ******* feelings.
I don't want to long for anyone.

(When the brain fights with the heart, it can tear a soul apart.)

There's this twenty-year-old girl at my job
who has recently found her sexuality,
and for reasons I can't fathom,
it will surely be the death of me.

Put the car in park.
Sit there in the dark,
for a second.

Blink and then it's gone.
Find another song.
Turn the engine off.

Leave and take a walk.
Hear the streetlight talk,
for a second.

It said,
"Go left at that street;
the one named Destiny.
Run down it
forever."

Don't take bad advice.
The moon's not very nice.
She glares at you,
for a second.

A second's never felt so long.

Don't go past that tree;
the one without the leaves.
Blink and then you're gone
forever.

My friends don't seem to like me much;
at least, not as much as they once did,
so I've been ordering things online, you see;
sending myself these little gifts.
I try to buy them quickly,
and mostly on a whim.
That way, when they get to me,
I'm half-surprised by what's within.
I guess you could say I'm lonely,
or call it some sort of selfishness,
but I'd send gifts to my friends if only
I could remember any of their addresses.

Who are you?
Who am I?
Oh the world.
Oh me, oh my!

Who is she?
Watch her go.
Can it be?
I should have known.

Oh the world!
Oh me, oh my.
Drain the sea and flood the sky.

Who is he?
Who's that guy?
Can it be?
Oh me, oh my!

**** the world.
It's already died.
Here we walk now;
zombified.

Where are you?
Where am I?
Oh dead world!
Oh me.
Oh my.

Are you sure you want to slip into that drink?
Being numb to the world isn't as great as you think.
Granted, it can make dealing with people easier.
It's hard to give a **** when you just want to sleep.

But you'll say things.
Things that are strange and mean and way out of character.
You'll become a caricature of your former self.
Even if you never knew who you were before,
rest assured, the drinking does not help.
Soul searching goes out the window when you're constantly blacked out.

But you won't be able to do it every night, try as you might.
Some entire days will be spent in bedridden recovery.
Your body will finally give in to that much needed sleep -
the kind you've been painfully longing for all week.
But the bliss you'll feel at this will be bittersweet,
because it's during these times that you'll dream.
You'll dream alright.
Frightful things that I can't even begin to describe.
Mountains of dread that will tear you to shreds,
and they'll feel far more real than your liquor-drenched life.

They'll drive you from your bed
to go and do it over again.
Make another fool out of yourself.
Alienate all your friends.
"Ah, **** 'em! Who needs 'em?
I don't even like them anymore."
Then the rumours will spread.
They'll call you a *****.
They'll call you a *******, a liar, and weak.
And they'll be nothing you can do about it,
because no one takes you seriously.
Even if they never say it out loud (and they won't,)
you'll know it's what they're thinking.
(Projecting is a psychological side effect of continued excessive drinking.)

There will be times in between,
fleeting moments of clarity,
where you'll look into a mirror and think:
What the hell is happening to me?
You'll catch at a thought as it crawls through your brain
and realize it's completely crazy -
that you are actually (no ****, legit) going in-*******-sane,
and you'll laugh.
You'll laugh because you'll know exactly who's to blame.
You'll be freaked out and terrified,
but you'll laugh all the same.

There will be other times too,
after all the rants and raves and screams and shouts,
the tears and fears and crippling doubts -
there will come a time when you want out,
but by then it will already be too late.
They'll be nothing left inside but anger and hate.

So before you sink into that drink, I say,
Wait!
Before you go breaking hearts and lose all your friends,
get out while you still can.
I hope you're listening.
I pray you comprehend,
because if shame doesn't do it first,
the dreams will get you in the end.

The Sleepers.
The Dreamers.
The Lost and Never Found.
You've left us little choice.
We're moving underground.

The Jokers.
The Smokers.
The Liars and the Thieves.
We're hiding in the basements.
We're underneath your streets.

We're on the road to perdition.
We're spreading our sedition.
Willing to commit treason.
Just give us one more reason.

We were born homesick,
with the taste of freedom on our tongue.
Death is a release to us.
We've been marked for martyrdom.

We will be the rising tide
to wash away the hands that bind;
to crash through kitsch and kitchens;
to smash the grand design.

We are the Unsatisfied.
We are the Discontent.
The Four Horsemen make their ride.
The angels have been sent.
The end is very near now.
Repent for all your crimes.
We sleep beneath your cities,
and we're dreaming of our time.

This aimless floating isn't working out.
I've been living entirely in my own head.
I've been thinking a lot about drinking again.
I'm a ******* island.
If I sink at least there'll be fish to swim with.

In a way, I saw this coming.
I tried my best to warn you.
I could say that I'm clairvoyant,
but you'd know that I was lying.
A plant that goes too long without water
just can't help from dying.
I've had it with these metaphors,
and I've been done trying.

My muse can be annoying but I find it quite amusing.
She takes the cake when it comes to making the commonplace confusing.
Does she like it when I'm climbing,
or would she rather see me fall?
She's either dumb as a wall or just doesn't care at all.
Schadenfreude. Paramountcy. Trounced then disenthralled.
I'm forced to use these great big words because she makes me feel so small.

Sorry about that.
My feelings got shut off.
Totally beyond control.
An automatic response.
Now I'm saying sorry,
but we both know I'm not.

To have felt this way all of the time,
a(nd) stranger still,
to leave (it) behind.
To enter a place unrestrained by time.
The cost of a ticket,
one price only -
your mind.

"You met me at a very strange time in my life,"
and I could tell that you go for the wrong kind of guys,
so I pretended to be the other type.
The kind you don't like:
One of those who idolize.
And it worked.
Yet somehow in the process,
I managed to get hurt.

Do you really want to know the truth?
I thought that I would only hurt you.
I was still reeling from my past mistakes,
and you were far too sweet, too nice, too great.
So I did what I had to do,
but somewhere along the way,
I actually fell in love with you.
Big
*******
Mistake.

Blueprints of future eloquence
drawn up in the mind.
Manufactured moments played out in real-time.
Accidental actors
improvising memorized lines.
None can be the wiser to the grand design.
It's all for nothing if it feels too contrived.
Make sure to leave enough room for all those little
unknwons in life.

When it pans out how it shouldn't,
when just the right amount of things go wrong,
it all comes together in one incredible instant.
Profound.
Beautiful.


Gone.

You speak the language of despair.
I can hear you calling out from the depths of hell.
I know because I've been there.
My dear, I understand all too well.
Slowly killing yourself, but nobody cares.
Truth of the matter is, they're just scared.

You're the manifestation of all their worst fears.
A reflection of their darkest desires.
Everything they try to repress:
(drugs, rock n' roll, ***.)
Dancing with the devil in fire.
They close their eyes to it.
No wonder they're so distressed.

But there's another class out there,
and of them, I say,
Beware!
They don't understand but pretend to care.
Their lives are such a bore that they'll drink from your sins.
They'll tell you encouraging words as you struggle to swim.
But you're nothing more than a jester to them.
If you ever make it to the shore,
they'll just push you back in.

This is bigger than You and Me.
This is about more than just poetry.
This is a clash of ideologies.
This is a battle of philosophies.

People are little more than metaphors.
Glass mason jars containing different world views.
Tinted different hues. Some are translucent and some are opaque.
If I'm solid umber than you're clear blue,
but this is bigger than Me and You.

This is larger than Us vs Them.
This is beyond Nature vs Nurture.
This is a blessing in disguise.
This is torture.

People are little more than metaphors.
Multicolored jars with their lids half-******* off
containing different liquids that taste like world views.
If mine is bitter than yours is sweet,
but this is bigger than You and Me.

This is about technology.
The effects of social media on humanity.
In the future, we'll attend parties in virtual reality.
Nobody will drive home drunk
and there'll be no fear of catching an STD.
My sisters won't have to worry and your mother won't make a fuss,
but this is bigger than all of us.

This is the search for an answer to the question that has always plagued Man.
This is the middle ground between the Beginning and the End.
This is the Herald of Passion and Love's Last Stand.
This is more than we can comprehend.
This is beyond everything.
This is no man's land.

People are seldom more than metaphors.
If I'm climbing out the window then you're knocking on the door.
If you're progress then I'm a Luddite.
If I'm a lot less then you're a little more.
If I'm an Erectors set then you're a Lite Brite.
If you're still a ****** then I'm not a *****.

The animal kingdom seems to know better.
You don't see birds of paradise plucking out their own feathers.
You never see a lion shaving off his mane.
Though the male mantis goes willingly to his own demise,
one wouldn't call him insane.
He doesn't fight his basic instincts.
He knows exactly what to do.
I have no idea what I'm doing,
but this isn't about me or you.

We're just metaphors.
Hardly more than similes.
Like abandoned puppies left out in the rain.
Like orphans with no families.
Like tumbleweeds rolling across a barren plain.
Like a mouthful of cavities.
We're like characters from a Greek tragedy;
prideful heroes with cursed destinies.

We're every bad cliche from every over-used plot.
"You're everything I've ever wanted."
"You're everything I'm not."

If I'm coke then you're ***.
If you're cold then I'm hot.
If you're Green Eggs and Ham then Sam I Am.
If you're Katherine Hepburn then I'm Humphrey Bogart.
If you're Ilsa Lund then I'm Rick Blaine.
If you're Casablanca then I'm Citizen Kane
If I'm full-blown crazy then you're slightly insane.
If you're speaking directly then hey, I'm just sayin'
We're caught in a web.
One of us is the spider and the other's the fly,
but this is bigger than you and I.

This is a falsified endeavor to find the truth.
This is an exposition on the Feminine Mystique.
This is a journey into uncharted territory, and to go there boldly.
This is a redefinition of what it means to be lonely.

People pleaser.
Socialite.
Constant agreer.
Doing it right.
I bet you sleep so soundly at night.
I bet you sleep so soundly at night.

Someone different.
Something else.
Don't need nobody.
Don't need your help.
You want in.
I want out.

Attract and repel.
Attract and repel.

One solves a riddle.
The other lives a dream.
One longs to be loved.
The other wants to be free.

You say so many things that I can't feel.
And even though they can be pretty,
dreams aren't real.

Dreams aren't real.

The ones I'm writing now
and many that came before;
they belong to you.
All these words are yours.

The thought that I put into them.
The effort to make it true.
All these words I've written;
they belong to you.

Do with them what you will.
They are payment for a debt.
The one incurred by the inspiration you've given.
Consider us even.
This is all you get.

But that shining silver disc
with twenty favorite tracks -
those songs belong to me,
and now I want them back!

So take these words and thoughts.
They're yours,
but that CD is not!

Those songs are mine.

I never asked you to jump into the fire.
I admired you for staying devout.
So cool under pressure -
you held such grace then.
I thought you could pull me out.

But it wasn't my hand you were reaching for -
you were being pulled toward something else.
So I burned alive with your image in my eyes
and the taste of charred hope in my mouth.

From the ashes, I crawled out.
(insert phoenix metaphor here)
Only after everything else had disintegrated
was my fate revealed loud and clear.

But now you're there.

I was foolish then.
You were just a kid.
I always had my doubts.
I looked at you to do something that I had to do for myself.
This role-reversal is almost complete;
I can do for you what you couldn't do for me.
You've just got to ask for my help.

Fresh pain from an old ache.
A blow to make the heart quake
after having been painstakingly
reassembled.

Eyes ablaze,
she held my gaze
as I stood on rubbery legs
and trembled.

You can't play on my sympathy.
Those strings are off-limits to you.
This ***** is in need of repairs.
The piano has gone out of tune.

You can't count on my curiosity.
I no longer care what you do.
The experiment is over.
I can't put this data to use.

You can't depend on my desire.
I'm not turned on by your moves.
I refuse to be your dancing partner.
I will never slide into your groove.

A hard day's night.
My car's on the street.
The lights of the bars are beckoning me.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep . . . )

"Walking disaster -
how long can he last?"
They place wagers on my defeat.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep,
but these aren't the trees I've seen in my dreams.)

I go faster,
and drive right past.
I've made promises I intend to keep.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep,
but these aren't the trees I've seen in my dreams,
and I've got an axe.)

A hard day's end.
I drift off to sleep.
Another mark tallied; this makes three weeks.
Robert Frost and I celebrate small victories.

I carried my memories like a bag full of bricks.
I'm over feeling nauseous and vertigo makes me sick.
Fell down some deep wells.
I've crawled out of the abyss.
They say it stares back,
but it's nothing I'll miss.

Some people like to break **** when the mood hits them right.
Go back and fix it in the middle of the night.
Set up a date with that person you hate.
Meditate on all the things you can't wait for.

Some people's kids end up as some people's parents.
Some of them never grow up.
Maturity is strictly overrated.
Fill your cup after you've finished your chores.

Some people are neither here nor there.
Most of them have no idea where they are.
**** fancy cars, I want to ride shooting stars.
It's not my fault real life's a bore.

Feelings are fleeting,
and I won't pretend
that my thoughts aren't unreeling from a pole that will bend.
You broke me once -
it won't happen again.

Take that to the bank.
Go tell a friend.
There's a gap between where you begin and I end.

Fighters are fleeing,
but it's not so tough.
Can't see red until you give me enough.

You've given me nothing,
so what's this about?
A war over who gets this castle of clouds?
It's always been mine.
I'm kicking you out.

Servants are sweeping.
Seasons are seething.
Grumpy is Sneezing.
How's that for a painting?

Feelings are fleeting.
Anger and doubt.
Peace and serenity.
Go figure it out.

What's going on between passion and peace?
Why do they seem to be mutually exclusive?
Can't they go hand in hand?
Like the calm before a storm,
or afterwards -
everything's damp.
Returned to a state of rest.
Cleansed.

I like to think they can.

The postmodernists claim that man is little more than a confluence of forces.
Metanarratives absorbed around the age of four
developed in tandem with an ever-changing world.
Old ideas replanted then growing toward the rays of a shifting sun.
Your ideas are not your own.
You're not the only one.
There is no such thing as an original thought.
But the postmodernists are wrong.
A confluence of forces,
I am not.

Existentialism states that a man's life is his to create.
We make our own meaning.
We define the stakes.
Whether a great victory or a tragic loss,
but never merely a leaf being tossed by the wind.
Everyday is a blank page in the novel of our lives,
and we hold the pen.

Hope is a slippery thread that's worth hanging on to.

I resent this emergence of televised li(v)es.
A pathetic attempt to make our own feel less worthless.

Mother,
don't you realize?
You're wasting away.
I don't care about who the Bachelor sent home today!
That's not real love.
All that ****'s fake.

You spend your whole life staring at screens.
Get out of the house!
Please, do something!

One day, I'll have to tell you what it is about your poetry that compels me.
But why break the spell?
Why ruin a good thing?

One day, maybe,
I'll say all the things I've ever wanted to say to every person who looked the other way.
If I say it all to you, would that be okay?

One day,
maybe one day soon,
I'll finally figure out what's so fascinating about you.

It has something to do with so many things:
personal history, idiosyncrasies, a myriad of strange beliefs.  
Particularly those concerning coincidence and fate.
Something in the way you remind me of hopes lost and dreams gained-
of past mistakes.

One day, I'll tell you.
On a day when I'm not bogged down by sorrow.
A day when you have nothing left that I'd like to borrow.
When poetry no longer does it for me -
that'll be the day;
the day after tomorrow.

I look back at the past and it strikes me like art.
We spent those days splashing through invisible paint.
Revealed years later as we lie in dark rooms.
Life is a stage.
We played our part.

I look at the present and it feels like a war.
Everyday there's another battle to be fought.
Lost some comrades along the way;
trapped in memories I forgot.

The future is a shifting plan attempting to be set into motion.
Like a melody in the head that's yet to be written.
Like a day spent purposely thinking silly thoughts
in order to ensure a night full of silly dreams.
It's like trying to predict what the monument will be
to commemorate those who served in a war
that hasn't even started yet.

I guess they knew it all along,
though I never let on.
Games are much more fun when no one knows they're playing.

Beat this one before,
but I'm not keeping score.
You can only make so many points with what you're saying.

So tell it to the wall, babe
cause I'm not staying.

I have daydreams of turning you down.
You come on too strong and I uncomfortably say,
"Uh, I should probably go now."
Then I leave and you cry, wishing I had stayed.
While on the road I feel pity, but know it's better off this way.
I'll laugh about it as I fall asleep,
then wake up to never think about you again.

Meanwhile you'll slip into a downward spin
full of drinking and drugs and self-destruction.
A series of abusive men will leave you lost in a haze.
Dumped by another boyfriend, you'll go through a lesbian phase.
And for your fall from grace, it'll be me who you blame.
You'll spend the rest of your days cursing my name.

It's just a reverie, I know.
Only romantics truly drown
and you are not a romantic!
I have fantasies of turning you down,
but in reality, it's the other way around.

It's cheap because this place is haunted.
The hallways echo with the laughter of its last occupant.
Who was she?
More of a squatter, really.
She lived here for a long time without paying any rent.
I tried in vain to kick her out repeatedly.
("Legal issues, you see.")
At least, that's what I told my accountant.

She was something else, I'll say.
Seeing her was always a major event.
What happened?
Just up and disappeared one day.
Must've took up residence in some other poor sucker's head.
Part of her spirit still lingers, however, as I've already said.
She left me with little more than her safety deposit, and a ghost.
I'll always resent her for leaving like she did.

I could have loved her the most.

Rider in a groove, nobody strides like he does.
Writers on the move, trying to capture the rush.
Stumbling over each other, pen and paper in hand.
Caught up in a flush.
It'll take more than four of a kind to understand.

Place your bets right now.
Stake your claim while you can.
Whatever suits you.
This one's a winning hand.

Three Kings over two Queens.
Four cheeses are more than enough to capture a mouse.
I'm hungry too.
How much food can we get from your Full House?

There is a place that we don't like to revisit.
A topic that perpetually stays off limits,
but every now and then,
stars in space align in such a way
that cause us to relive it.

Good God kid!
Now I remember all of it:
I was just a do-gooder passing through.
Like some sort of ghost, like a wisp,
amazed that I had somehow found my way onto the guest list.
No wonder I got so drunk.
No wonder I was constantly throwing up.
I couldn't handle it -
being in the midst of such intelligence.
But I was hooked.
I knew this was where true inspiration lives.

But it scared me so I fled into self-sentenced exile.
You knew she wasn't the one, you knew all the while.
I struggled and bled. I thought of things we had said.
I tried to lead a proper life,
but I felt already dead.

So I returned,
but in the wake of a irrevocable mistake.
Much like I remembered, but it wasn't the same place.
A shadow loomed over. Everything was changed.
And though you were glad that I was back again,
it was clear that you were devastated by the death of a friend.
I couldn't relate.

Still, I tried. All those that knew him; how they cried.
There I was, with just a broken heart.
It felt like nothing compared.
I'd never loved anyone who had died.  

But time goes by, and supposedly, it heals all wounds.
We were having fun again, feeling alive before too soon.
Then everything changed when you were going to move.
Afraid of what I stood to lose,
I decided to move with you too.

We got ourselves into situations with which we could not cope.
Communicating got harder and we began to lose hope.
The gap between one life and another can seem so vast.
I moved back home again and our lives took separate paths.

Here I am rehashing the past,
without you.

So where are we now?
Has it all gone so south?
Seems like there's more complaints than profundities spilling out of our mouths.
Where did we go wrong?
Was it our fate all along?

No.

No way.

Fate was always something we defied.
But I worry about you sometimes.
I thought about you today.
Why didn't you take my call tonight?

I've got to drown one last time before I can swim.
Sink down into the whirlpool and pass through the eye.
Feel those winds on my face under a stormy sky.
Curse the gods with a dizzy head while clinging to life.
See it flash before me in all its bliss, pain, and strife.

Just one more time.
One. More. Time.

Before I can come out clean and dry on the other side,
to finally leave that maelstrom behind
for good.

"My dear friend,
how have you been doing?"

Not so good man - think I'm losing it.
I'm goin' off the deep end.

Relax.
Take a deep breath.

((. . .))

"What are you doing this weekend?"

I know you're independent.
I can tell you're never scared.
You've plans of conquering the world.
I'd just like to be there for it.

When I stare into your eyes,
I see the best parts of me reflected.
I don't want to weigh you down.
I don't want to be your anchor.

Sail on into those unknown seas.
Brave those winds without fear.
I'll wonder if you ever think of me,
but I'll be too proud to shed any tears.

Then again,
when I stare into your eyes,
I swear,
I want nothing more than to kiss you
and run my hands through your hair.

Music inspires my poetry.
Lyrics describe my life.
I'm in love with the sounds that capture my soul.
I'll sacrifice it all for the sake of a melody.

My heart pumps in tandem to this beat.
Three or four minutes to relieve all strife.
If I get into a fatal car wreck tonight,
I want this song to be playing.

When I put pressure on piano keys it's like I'm freeing myself.
Pouring it all out between the notes.
It speaks to me and here's what it's saying:
This is my release.

Some nights are for writing.
Some nights are for reading.

"If you ever get better,
then I'll only get worse."
Somebody call an ambulance.
Somebody call a hearse.

"If you ever make it out of here,
then you'll be the first."
Somebody call the presses.
Somebody spread the word.

One of us made it out alive.
Escaped the trappings of our modern-day world.
"He did it for himself!" They say.
But I heard,
he did it for some girl.

I want to have grace, like she did.
I want to have patience like this one.
The most intelligent friend of mine once told me:
You're like some sort of chameleon.

I want to have skills like his.
I wish I could play guitar.
I want to have money, like their parents.
I'd like a reliable car.

The most psychotic friend of mine once told me:
Art is truth in disguise.
I want to be bold, like she is.
I want to reflect the fire in her eyes.

So I'll go and change colors again
into a new skin that matches the times.

I want to be beautiful,
like the one who'll never be mine.
I wish I could sing like she does.
I wish I could blow her mind.

I want to vibrate with vibrant energy.
I want to echo sounds that fill my soul,
like how the most reckless friend of mine once told me:
I'll die before I grow old.

I want to combine of all these things to make a new mold,
and reform myself from its grooves.
I want to shine like a statue made of gold,
with tinges that reflect the best from all of you.

These poems are for posterity (because mind-loss runs in the family.)
I dedicate all this poetry to my progeny, but most importantly,
to the one and only Future Me.
That old guy who's worn out and world-weary.
The one who's losing his memories,
and can't keep track of what he thinks.

These are all for you.

I'll record the lowest lows and highest highs.
Presented for the perusal of his (yours, my) rheumy eyes.
I might embellish at times -
I might even lie.
I just want to be able to look back and realize:
It's been an incredible life.

Is like being a fly trying desperately to avoid spider webs
while longing to be caught.

On the back of my heels.
Things are starting to feel unreal again.
Exit in sight, but my feet are on the edge of quicksand.
I've got plans of running away.

She's been feeling alone.
I'm sitting too close to the fire.
I'm wary of hell in her eyes.
Can't take the heat.
***** that desire.
I cannot stay.

Sounds are getting too loud.
Colors are becoming too vivid.
It's all too bright.
I don't want this life.
Escape to a place where everything's black and white.

I told her that I had a problem.
She attempted to show me her own.
It's all mathematical nonsense.
We can't solve them.
She said that numbers don't make a home.

If 1+(2-1 who doesn't belong + 1 who could be true = what could come from the addition of me and you)
I asked about the decimals.
She said I'm only trying to give you clues.
I answered:
that math leaves me with only 1/3 of you.

I want the whole pi or nothing at all.
She said every parabola has its rise and fall.
I told her I'm more into asymptotes;
Edging ever closer without touching the wall,
but I'm not a withholder.
She asked me to prove it,
so I showed her my ruler.

If I got paid by the bottle, then I'd be a millionaire,
but cash flows in the opposite direction.
The world's not into funding despair.

If heartbreak was a skill set,
then my resume would be top-notch,
but corporate tends to frown upon
stumbling fools who reek of scotch.

The value of dollars tends to cheapen when it comes so easily.
With E! News stories of drunken coked-out celebrities,
I swear,
I've had it up to here.

Our number one commodity -
the American Dream -
has turned into a nightmare.

Remember when I told you that you don't scare me?