We're here'd,
we're weird.
Get used to it . . .

I sit and stare
I think and drive
I wonder why this is my life

I think and stare
The lights go by
I feel so numb
I sit and drive

I see the road
Through my cracked windshield
I signal and turn
I brake and yield

I go through the motions
I stay within the lines
I sit and think
I stare and drive

I see the scenes go rolling by
I sit and stare
And wonder why
I make a turn
I sink and die

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

I once read about a word that is defined as the pain that an idealist feels when reality inevitably falls short of his or her own grand ideas of how things could be.

How terrible is this,
and how awful to admit;
that drinking and thinking while smoking
is the only way I find bliss.

While staring at a moon that looks like it's been scorched.

Maybe the worst thing is not realizing you miss it until it sinks in after you're 15 miles in toward the only place that's open within a 20 mile radius at 3 o'clock in the morning.

Sometimes I wish I still lived in a place where it felt like magic exists in an oppressive way,
but I did 6 outlandish things already this week, and that's not even counting today.

The lights on these tractors late at night are twice as blinding as any car's high beams. I don't know why yet. Maybe to keep the rabbits away from the machinery?

I get an almost perverse satisfaction out of seeing the weeds in my yard slowly wither since I've sprayed them with the toxic concentrate mixture that the guy at the hardware store recommended I hit them with.

The brand new mower is anxiously awaiting its moment of glory.

Sometimes it bothers me that we don't say things to each other like we used to, although it's also kind of a relief.

The thing about the girl in town who I think I might have some chemistry with is, she's a fantastic listener.

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

There are some people,
these are their thoughts.
Here are some arrows:
Aim for the heart.

Nine million maniacs scribbling nonsense on the wall
in a mad but noble attempt to make sense of it all.

I hate.
I hate, and hate, and hate.
I take a break
to read a book no one appreciates,
then clock back in
just to hate again,
and hate, and hate, and hate.
The things you love.
What you think is great.
Those are all of the things I hate.
I hate, and hate, and hate.
I hate myself for hating it.
I hate the way it makes me feel.
Like everything is meaningless.
Like nothing is even real.
I hate you so much for making me hate the way that I am.
I hate every situation that I find myself in.
I hate that I love you in spite of it.
I hate.
I hate.
I hate you for it.

You were so solid.
A statue in the face of a coming storm.
You saw it,
but you're not one to flinch.

You ate it whole.
A whirlwind dive down a steady eye.
Now we're lost in
the place that you call home.

Won't you spit us out?
We fell through the cracks of our many flaws.
You never doubted
what it was all about.

I'm sick of over indulgence.
I'm tired of disgrace.
Won't you give us all some leeway,
so that we may save some face.

I
Fell
For You
In Too Many Ways

I spent my days crying
while longing for escape.
You always knew the simple path was long since overgrown.
I guess I have myself to blame
for the price of being another chip on your shoulder.

I keep having wacky dreams
followed by false awakenings in which
I'm telling the people who were featured in them about
the things that I've been dreaming
and then I wake up for real and realize
that no one's even listening.

Pretty much sums up the conversation we had earlier.
The one about how you knew that I thought your pretentious pretty friend was more interesting than you.

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.

Between dreams of textured landscapes,
I saw an extreme close-up of your skin cells.
No matter what I do, I can't seem to get the taste of you out of my mouth.

Stained as we are,
with matching sets of scars,
I am ashamed of the constant reminder.
No matter how many beds I climb into, I'll always be two steps behind her.

She was once pristine,
with a soul just as clean.
Next to it, mine was a tattered disgrace.

I'll dream again of mountains of skin,
and all the rest of what can't be erased.

Subscribe today and start viewing hundreds of thousands of user's dreams!
Choose your favorite channels and their newest dreams will show up on your daily feed.
Each and every dream is personally recorded by our sleeping artists.
(If you're interested in becoming a contributing member, please click the link below to order our patented DreamWave © bed.)

Some of our most popular channels include:
-Winning the lotto
-Being God
-The Zombie Apocalypse
-Sleeping with your neighbor's spouse
-Flying
-Turning into a werewolf

And many, many more!
If you can dream it, then chances are that somebody else already has,
so why delay? Act now.

Use promo code: LUDDITESWORSTNIGHTMARE to receive 20% off your sign-up fee!

Gone away to jump through hoops set up by another collective mindsets' ideals.

The thing about a broken chain is in the missing links it attempts to steal.

So here we are all bound together in a gear motor with loose bearings,
and yet somewhere in the heated friction we find a new drive worth endearing.

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.

Everything is quiet.
My soul's all but silent.
The voices in my head a dull murmur.
A whispering susurrus.
At worst, a distant cicada's rhythmic chirping.

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.

What would a poet write about if they ever actually grew up?*

I'll take a stab at it.*

I've got about six errands to run today,
then I'll pick up the wife to join George and Mary for a double dinner date.
We've reservations at a restaurant where it's $90 a plate.
We'll debate the pros and cons of a 401K
against a solid stock option investment strategy.
"Why not have both?" - that's what I always say!
Oh, that reminds me;
I need to update my résumé.

My credit rating went up 78 points this year.
I can finally afford everything I've ever held dear.
I forget what they are . . .

I've spent an alarming amount of time just sitting in a car
while parked in some front yard,
beer in hand,
jamming out to favorite songs.

My mind has been cleaved open.
I'm feeling expansive.
Take me out tonight;
I feel like dancing.

Buy me a drink or two.
By the end we'll be in flight.
"I swear I'll make it up to you."
Let's feel alive tonight.

Bump and grind and jump and jive
to get lost in the moment.
The meaning of life can sit behind while instincts take up the forefront.

I do love this song so much,
and this is what I live for.
Philosophy is out to lunch when I'm out on the dance floor.

(This is the part where your theme song surges up inside your head,
and when you feel the energy hold out til you see red.
Release it all in one hot go out into that hail storm
with the passion that you've carried with you from the day that you were born.)

There's a feeling that I get
when everything's fallen to pieces.
Suddenly it all makes sense.
Old theory's busted.
Time to come up with a new thesis.

I'll state that I know nothing
but my own experiences.

She told me a fanciful story of woe.
I could relate.
"It's like suffocating, you know?"

Turns out that my ruling planet is Venus.
Laughter.
"That must be why you're so effeminate!"
"Stop. Whatever. Everyone knows that astrology is *******."
"Maybe so, but it's still fascinating."

I'm more interested in how we'd fit,
but you've made your point.
Really, it is though.

Silly silly silly silly silly silly girl.
Don't talk to me;
your voice destroys my world.

I hope regret doesn't destroy this before it starts.
Together, I believe we could make great art.

Sometimes I get you two confused in my brain.
The right and left hemispheres.
Like you're one and the same.
Melded together in my mind.
Like black and white to make gray.
Like grey matter.
Like clay.
Molded from the same kind of material.

I hope regret doesn't play a part.
I hold a place for you both inside of my heart.

The butterfly and the moth.
Caterpillar and chrysalis.
The wings and the body.
The eyes on both sides.

You're beautiful together.

Where do I fit into this?
Maybe I don't.
If so, tell me to stay away from it,
but I'll feel regret.
I love you both.

I just deleted forty lines.
I haven't snorted one in ages.
I tell them all I'm high on life.
Can't tell the difference between criminals and sages.
Not to stake a claim on anything.
Not to shake a leg or anything.
Not to say I'm not really here,
but just dreaming.
Somebody pinch me.

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

Sense is a scene of collective meaning where prevailing modes of thinking swarm up in a mighty hand of insects with the intention of slamming down upon some unsuspecting bird.

Yea I'm crazy
Crazy confident
And crazy fun
Think you can handle that?
Then you're the only one

**** right I'm smart
Smart enough to know I'm not
Dumb enough not to care
Does that sound right to you?
Does that sound fair?

Sure I love her
But what does that matter?
It won't keep me coming back
After I've already had her

So what do you think,
And do you think it's true?
It doesn't mean much to me
So what is it to you

The thing about fiction (lies, promises, religion) is,
that it's only as true as you believe it to be.

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.

Say it isn't so,
and maybe it's not about me,
but I can't help but take it personally though.

It's the type of thing;
Some people call it a disease,
but it's the only one that people can (justifiably) hate you for having.

Please believe me.
Please allow me to make these words ring true.
I want all of it.
This and that and everything;
Just tell me what to do.

Gravity with its heavy hand would have something to say about the way you stand.
Get out while you're still upright.
Get out while you still can.

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.

When you hand them a key
then send them blindly down a hallway.
They try opening every door
and knock on the ones that won't open.
This is what you were hoping for:
The echoes of their handfalls
resonant off the whitewashed walls
while you dance to the rhythm in a room they'll never notice.

Getting lost between the pages.

Smash the graphite with a head of stone.
I crashed my car into an old oak tree.
I saw a boy fly tonight.
His arms spread wide as he sailed over my hood.
I think I knew him once.

Killed the cat and ate the bird.
That egg headed demon possessed me with his words.

Break the glass with a fistful of sand.
A crumpled torn up manuscript.
Forced the square into the circle.
Cascading shards of what was once a windshield.

Squashed the brains against the base.
Chunks of bone like splintered wood.
Entered while I exit.
My body is soft served ice cream.
The flavor of Hate.

Ground up meat in a plastic bag.
My guts are a ****** firework.
Tornado of manufactured metal.

I made my escape.

"Hey, thanks for the cat by the way. Thing doesn't want to leave now."

"The poor thing,"

"My nieces even named it."

"I'm not trying to take care of this cat right now."

"Ha, you're kidding. Well now you're stuck with it then."

"The girls gave her a bath, but she still smells."

"Man, just bring it here and let it go. There's all kinds of strays here."

"She ate a little, but she sneezes alot and won't stop shaking."

"Most of them end up finding their way to Galva."

"There's a shelter in Storm Lake, but they're closed til Monday."

"It's like a chemical smell."

"****, I don't know. I went in to grab a beer and when I came out he had this cat in his jacket."

"I'm not sure if she'll make it til Monday."

"Hey I'm stuck at work til like 3. Can you go by my place and check on the cat when you get a chance?"

"They've got so many strays that they put out bowls of anti-freeze to deal with them."

"Hey, are you awake?"
"Yeap, just haven't gotten out of bed yet. What's up kid?"
"Your cat. We gave her a bath."
"Aw, that was a nice thing to do Lib. She needed one. Thank you."
"Also, we gave her a name."
"Oh yea? What is it then?"
"Disney."
". . . you're kidding."

"Yea I was researching it earlier. It's a pretty common thing really. An awful way to go."

"I thought about just driving somewhere out of town and letting it go there."

"Well, would you bury it?"

"You know, pulling 'a Dad,' but I just couldn't do it."

"The poor thing."

"What? No way. I'd probably just, I don't know, put it in the trash or something."

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't. At least she's comfortable and not just out there in the cold, dying."

"I guess I'm not cold-hearted enough, or whatever."

"They know she's sick but I think only Libby really understands how bad it is."

"It's a good thing that you're not. Believe me, it's a good thing."

If it runs in the blood then I feel bad for the one who gets bitten by the bug that's just had its fill of me.

If sadness is a drug then it does well to disguise itself as selfishness masquerading as sympathy.

Drinking brings out the sociopath.
Madness takes flight with an odd number of wings.

Tell me again.
I beg of you, please;
What do you feel when you think of me?

At the end of the day,
it's not my own end that I contemplate.

Those thoughts are so yesterday.

My situation has changed. The world has changed. People are changing. My outlook can change too.

At the end of the day,
I think about tomorrow,
and how I can begin something new.

I'll climb all of your mountains.
Show me all your peaks.
Let me look down on the rest of the world so that I can determine their disease.

Grind me to pieces with your gravel.
Tear me limb from limb.
There's no distance I won't travel to find what beauty lies within.

Throw me in the fire.
Spread my ashes in the wind.
Breath out the remnants of this life
so that I may live again.

Cracked the only egg left in the basket.
You really shouldn't plan your whole strategy on something so fragile.
There's a question left unanswered but I'm afraid to ask it.
The yoke of old folks is their fear of change.
It's unfair to blame them for it;
it was ingrained at a young age.

I can bend this phrase three ways til next Friday but the fact remains that I'll never escape this cage without finding the bravery to make some serious changes.

A hope-filled faerie springs fully-winged from a flower planted in a bed of misery.
Her movements are mesmerizing but forgettable,
but oh how she sings.

The kind of haunting melody that plagues your dreams for the rest of eternity.

The thing is, I keep seeing ex-lovers and could-have-beens in mine.
They're always condescending towards me.
Telling me how I've wasted my life and/or ignoring me completely.

"Please," I plead them.
"See me for what I am," I bargain.

Sometimes, they look behind them while they're being dragged forward by their offspring and/or great achievements of their lives.

"I do," they say,
thus conveying that they want nothing more to do with it.

Most definitely, they know what it is.
Even without knowing.
Don't you see?
That's the beauty of it.
Ignorance is bliss.
I could die right now and be fine with it.

"I think I ****** that one up,"
he said to the ghosts in the room.

We get where you're coming from

I wish I would've been looking up when the moon fell on my head.
(How rare to find a crater with these exact dimensions?)
I think I can hear an ocean's longing for the echo of a lost tide,
like a billion and one tiny grains swirling through my insides.

We get where you're coming from

No you don't.

I cried inside my car today.
I cried while I thought of the things I would say when the one that I love questions me about the one I made love to.
(I didn't want to do it. I'm crazy about you.)
"You make me feel like a little kid again."
"You make me feel like magic is real."
"It kills me that you have a boyfriend."
It kills me that this isn't real.
None of this is going to happen.
I cried inside my car today.

Dragged nails across thin snow, clawing for dirt,
leaving trails like staff lines.
Dead leaves landing like notes;
A song of anguish.

Highly educated, low-life prince.
I heard he graduated but no one's seen him since.