Time has become much more important
All the numbers now have purpose
And whole fractions are devoted
To a task I have to do, that must be done.

Time has become much more important
Time is such a joke
All the numbers now have purpose
As if some random numbers can determine
With whole sections allocated
What I should be doing, how I'm living
To a task I have to do,
I'd rather cling to every moment, wring each one out for all its got.

Time has become much more important
Time is all but worthless
They say life is short
All the numbers now have purpose
As if some random configuration of hands on a clock
But when it comes down to time consumption
And whole segments are converted
Has anything to do with what I'm feeling
There isn't anything else that even comes close to it,
Into activities that must be done
During any given moment
Life is the longest thing anyone will ever do. . .

People are so angry these days. Angrier than they've ever been.
Let's not get into the reasons why, but rather, work on finding a solution.
Perhaps that's too ambitious. Maybe settle for some simple anger management instead. A healthier alternative outlet for all that anger would do wonders for our collective interpersonal communications.

What you might try is yelling at objects.

Why objects? (You might be asking . . . )
Well, because the last thing we need is more yelling at each other.
There's more than enough of that going on already,
and yelling at animals would just be plain cruel.
They put up with enough of our **** without adding in random unsolicited rants to the mix.

And definitely not plants or trees. (I mean, that's obvious.)
Everyone knows that they're vengeful and hateful things,
and hold grudges that last longer than most lifetimes.

This leaves inanimate objects, which are fantastic candidates for the receipt of the worst of our wrath. Traffic lights, for instance, make a great target. Go ahead and feel free to dive in the next time you're forced to stop at a red light. Yell at it for not staying yellow long enough for you to make it through. Yell it at for making you sit and risk being late to whatever important destination it is that you're going to. Yell at it for being the whoreson ******* three-eyed ******* that it is. Curse its stupid ******* face and its whole ****** family of stupid-faced ******* ******* *******. By the time it turns green, I'll guarantee that you'll feel much better.

What if I'm angry at home? (You might be asking.)
Well, there are plenty of objects to choose from there, though I find it's best to have an added incentive to already be mad at a thing.
For this reason, you might find it helpful to keep a few faulty kitchen appliances around. It doesn't have to be anything major. A coffee maker with a cracked carafe, for instance, or a microwave that never fails to burn the bag of popcorn. Feel free to not hold back on these things. Threaten to smash the worthless ******* to pieces, then to light those pieces on fire in the backyard and **** on their ashes. (Do refrain from actually acting on these threats however, lest your neighbors think you've finally lost it.) Simply making the threats alone should grant you some relief.  

What if I'm too tired of being angry all of the time to get out of bed? (You might be asking.)
Well, there's the alarm clock right there within arm's reach. It's such a cheap and fragile little thing. I think it'd be forgivable to actually go right on ahead and send the thing sailing across the room. If your alarm clock has already been smashed then you could attack the lamp, or whatever random knick-knacks might be lying on the bedstand. Though it would require standing up, tearing down the ceiling fan is also a viable option.
I'd hold back from laying into your bed though, lest all that hateful energy gets retained in the sheets.
The last thing you'd need after a long day of venting anger at everything around you would be to dream of evil trees finally getting their revenge. Trust me.

You used to play with words.
You used to dance to the sounds they'd make as they wound their way through the cogs in your brain.

You used to savor the way a juicy one would linger on the tip of your tongue,
while surrendering to the pleasure of a proper pronunciation.

You used to wear your words
as a fashion statement,
the scope and shape of the connotations beneath only ever subtly hinted at;
An enticing invitation to think.

You used to play with your words.
You turned it into an art.
But now you only use them to get something you want.

The music fades and the lights go out,
and she's gone again,
like so many times before.

Silently beckoning me to follow her into oblivion.

Beyond the stage and behind the curtain she waits,
to **** me into one last escape.
One more moonlit escapade over forbidden landscapes with the sweetest of fruit clenched between her
teeth.

To ride carefree and reckless beneath the trees that shield us from our cruel fates' twisted shine.

Once again and for at least one more night,
I am yours and you are mine.
I can feel your pulse keeping time with mine.
A whole universe out-of-whack,
but here's this one thing synchronized.

"It won't last,"
she gasps, with an arrow in her back.

It never does.

My body juts forward with the impact,
and I hold her close one last time,
one more one last time until the next one,
as she whispers in my ear:
"Find me, my love.
Find me again."

I told them all I just wanted a small hovel and a shovel with which to dig a hole to bury all the things I never cared to see again.

I said sometimes the things that make you who you are are best left forgotten and covered with soil,
regardless, (or rather, in spite of,) what they will one day grow into.
Nobody knew what cloudscape this particular beanstalk would lead to, but they climbed it anyway.

They reminded me about that one time when I mentioned that someday I'd grow wings and fly off into the imploding sun.

I told them all that I don't like being quoted.

You're getting on the ride I just got off.

Oh, it's a blast and I'm sure you'll have fun while it lasts.
Dizzy head spinning colors excitement et al.
A pit of the stomach feeling fear of the fall.
Fizzy scenes fading behind thumping screens and the uncanny feeling that it means everything.
Tingling fingertips and back of the throat drips that sink into an endless pit of elation/pleasure/despair.

You're getting on the ride that i just got off of.

I'll be waiting here after you've had enough.

The tide reels back from the shore,
as the water reflects the setting sun.
Grab what treasure while you can.
We've been here before but will never again,
for I am not the one.

Take it all in stride,
and run your hardest til the end.
Accept the ribbon but see no trophy.
At least we can still be friends.

Grind the gears until they quit.
One last trip before we're done.
I apologize for however many tears might be shed once you realize
that I am not the one.

Go forth into the future with dry eyes and a hardened heart;
Nipping love in the bud before it ever starts.
Steering clear of everything that even remotely resembles the foundations of a building that can one day be blown apart.
Living beneath a glass ceiling reinforced with steel beams that encase you in a state of untouchable mental well-being,
with only the moon and stars to console you and the occasional confused bird to keep you company;
To rot in a graveyard of memories filled with lovers still alive but dead to you, dead like the eyes that were once so full of hope and promise. Eyes that met their demise once upon a time on a beach long since gone.

Fate is the cruelest of beliefs.
I am not the one.

The mundane has become the new strange while the old strange is just a page ripped out of a journal burned years ago;
The ashes of which trace lines in a face it's taken years of one-sided mirror conversations to come to recognize as your own.
The past is a blanket that's been ripped off its clothespins by winds that blow across some place you can't remember living in.

It was never all that comfortable to begin with anyway.

All the things you think you want
hang precariously from string.

Pretty, precious, fragile things.

Reach out to grab one and they all fall to pieces.

Some people can love
people they don't even know;
people who can be awful and selfish and have hearts made of lead.

Some people can still love these people;
People with hearts made of gold,
whose shine blinds them to the negative judgements they'd otherwise find in their heads.

These kinds of people are great.
Every one person who can love anyone,
is worth at least ten thousand who hate.

Without the internet I wouldn't know
what fruits and veggies go in the high-humidity drawer and which go in the low,
not to mention which ones get refrigerated or not.

I wouldn't know how to get to anywhere I've never been before,
or how long you're supposed to soak dried beans for.

I wouldn't know how to cook an omelette (the few I'd tried before looking it up came out as chunky burnt egg-pancakes.)

I love omelettes.
Thanks internet!

Your wasted potential is just an issue that people who've wasted their own will pick on you for.

Surely, whatever you're doing right now should be worth at least thirty times more than what you're currently doing it for.

But if that number is zero then it doesn't make a difference.

It doesn't take a mathematician to know that smims maflori hindrance.

Walked to the bar through the snow.
There's too much on the ground to take my car.
With weather like this,
there's only one place to go.
Luckily, it ain't too far.

Go slow;
There wasn't snow on this road forty minutes ago.
The factory's closed on account of inclement weather,
and the wind blows as if it's got a grudge against the trees for standing together.

I get home and go back to sleep to dream of sandy beaches and palm fronds waving in a warm breeze,
beckoning me to return.

"Hey, can I ask you a favor, please?"
I said, to the most supportive members of my family.
"Sure,'" they said.
"Feel free to ask us anything."
"Here," I said, handing over my pack of cigarettes.
"Please get rid of these."

"Gladly."

I know it's New Year's Eve,
and that I should be out partying,
but I have a very strong desire to stay in and read.

The feelings begin to warm.
The son has left without warning.
The night stretches out in a black blanket of unknowns.

The feelings heat up.
The hair on the back of necks bristles.
The midnight hour has come and gone like a missile.

The feelings are boiling.
The oceans are churning.
The ships have all set sail straight into the eye of the storm.

The feelings simmer.
The son has returned.
A new day is breaking.

All feeling has burned.

Could we slip into the deep abyss
and fill the void with some kind of bliss?

It's just another Friday night,
and this is how we get our kicks.

Could we quit this ride into the sunset's dying light,
and throw a welcoming party for the stars?

Seems an awful waste -
they're always there,
and there's still gas in the car.

We can drip from the middle of this double-lit candlestick until we reach our combined wits' end.

Would it make less sense to do so?
And if we did,
could we still be friends?

You keep throwing caution to the hungry winds,
while I stand by and fly my kite in them.

It's just another Friday night,
and we're all wondering where to begin.

It's nice to have someone on your side:
In your corner, rooting for you to win the fight.

The struggles and hang-ups in your life,
The internal strife and hurdles to climb over -
those are all your own.

But that doesn't mean you have to face them alone.

Somewhere between Gluttony and Vainity, I suppose.

Still awaiting the day when the poems saved as Private outshine the ones posted for the Public.

All I want for Christmas is something to start the grill with.

I thought I was halfway through writing this one,
and yet I hadn't even begun.
The beginning is always the worst (most challenging, thrilling, adventurous) part.
The rest just comes undone.

I found out my thoughts can be sung to the key of C# Minor.
It wasn't exactly a life-changing revelation or anything,
it just made me feel better about owning a keyboard.

The waves of a forlorn ocean lap against an apathetic shore.
Some lonely guy stands there, still waiting to be transformed.

I dreamt last night that I'd write something like this before too long,
but I knew I'd be drunk when I wrote it and it'd come out all wrong.
The thought of what it could have been is standing on a log somewhere out on the ocean being serenaded by mermaids.
The song they sing is in C# Minor.

The girls I want
don't want me.
The girls who want me,
I don't want.