Brilliant little lines etched out to stretch the time.
Minds placing X's and O's in an attempt to make straight lines,
but a circle never ends,
so let's pretend we're stuck in spiral.
Swirling through the twisted bits,
like DNA strands spinning in a double helix.
We're nothing but a mix of atoms mashed together.
An explosion of fused matter;
spattering the heavens with our essence.

Surrounded on all sides by the sudden prospect of doom.
He attempted to create some more room between what life he had left and an imminent death.

"Time flies when you're having fun,"
so isn't the opposite true?

How many eons did he spend doing things he hated?
How many lifetimes he must of lived through;
loathing his dreary circumstances,
his hobbies,
his friends.

Surrounded himself with dullness in order to blunt the passage of time.

I mean, in that situation,
what would you do?

He forewent all sense of pleasure for the sake of a longer life,
but in the end,
he lost it too.

I was at this party one time,
where an ex-girlfriend of mine
gave me **** over the type of beer I was sipping on.

"Ohmigod,
I can't believe you're drinking a blonde!"

In that moment,
I remembered why we'd broken up;
Her pretentiousness was way over the top.

You're so full of light
May I just stand inside it?
I know that I have my dark
I'll try my best to hide it
With you on my side I feel
I have the strength to fight it

You shine so bright
You star
Do you know just what you are?
You've got the drive to save a life
And the will to go so far

You've got the key to unlock these chains
That keep us all enslaved
Please, please
Unlock mine first
And I will help you on your way

On second thought
You'd better not
It's safer to leave me be
I don't know what I might do to you
Just stay away from me

He spends a third of his time with a cigarette lit;
Comforted by the slight weight of it between his fingertips.
His head is perpetually surrounded and scented with smoke.

Last night, I woke up to a coughing fit;
The hacking sound of thick sludge from deep within his lungs trying to find its way out.
He spits globs of phlegmy mucus.

Every now and then,
I'll catch him putting two empty fingers up to his lips,
as if it's automatic;
nevermind that he doesn't have one yet lit.

I think he's comforted by it;
The smoke that encircles him like a phantom embrace -
There is someone whom he can't forget.

Lung cancer took his wife three years ago;
He's determined to also die from it.

To pull away and fall apart,
like a cardboard box on a kite string.
In a meadow full of wild daisies,
with a truckload of duck feathers tucked inside a couple of chicken-wire cages;
leaking.

To lie awake while dreaming of escaping.
To sweat out every fear.
Crawling through the little door in the painting just to fall asleep again.

Do you ever wonder about secret agents?
How they behaved when they were young?
Did they have troubled childhoods?
Were they not properly loved?
Did they have a lot of practice with resisting lust?
Did they learn the hard way that there's no one you can trust?

Do you ever wonder about rock stars,
and what makes them so rabid?
Did they recognize their own potential,
but couldn't fight those filthy habits?
All of that anger for their parents, ex-lovers, and friends.
Did they take a trip to hell only to find out that it never ends?
Did that anger actually stem from a disappointment with themselves?

And what about the lonely who never find Someone Else?
Did they all partake on a journey to find their self?
Did they hate the answer?
Did they get no results?
Did they get stuck in a tunnel then couldn't crawl their way out?
Maybe they just never found anyone who could deal with the depth of their faults.

I'm in a chrysalis stage:
still developing into an adult.
All of the mistakes I've made -
their lessons are being retained.
It's all preparation and training.
One day I'll be great.
You don't have to believe me,
but just you wait.

He twists the words he says
And makes them into something he can believe in
The greatest undefinable thing that he's never been
He's swimming in his fantasies

An untamed greatness that he forsook
Spilled it out into the swamp
He found himself inside a book
The cure to all his wants

On a sun-drenched day
He lost himself
Deep inside the flood

There are some things
Inside his brain
That run more deep than blood

A song to sink the prying eye
He woke up and kissed the sky

Along the road less traveled by
He laid down and thought he'd died

In a river full of discontents
A simple syllable so sunk
Never mind his ramblings of nonsense
He's nothing but a drunk

Because faulty showers left you still soiled.
A million parts of water to one part salt.
Heretofore,
no more to be spoiled by the appetites of those too hungry for
beach burgers.
Sandy fingers curled 'round chicken tenders drenched in
ranch.
Circumnavigate the globe just to circle back around to the same *******
circumstance.
Looking forward to a summer of love:
Drugs, freak outs; doomed
romance.

I have trouble with existing,
as if I lack some proper requisite for insisting to persist.
I feel like just a composite of so many billion molecules.

I have a hard time defining truth.
So many contradictory influences tell me what to do.
I feel I'm better off sleeping straight through every single birthday.

I have never felt just simply okay.
Doubt hits me like a tidal wave.
It takes me away to far-off places,
and I can't say I mind it.

There you go again
Off into your fantasy land
The only place you feel (un)safe
I can understand

Your pain is so deep
Isn't it though
In its own profound shallowness
I know where you go

The realizing of the realization that makes your own frustration seem worthy of condemnation
Just to abandon all your judgements and lose yourself in creation
All the while adjusting to your own self induced damnation

Hey now, I'm just sayin'

Playing with ideas until they no longer resemble child's play
Then playing roughly
Absolutely
It still does though
And wouldn't you know it
I know that I do

Whoever grew up to be anyone but themselves
Nobody I know worth talking about

Whoever lost their minds just to find their own hell
I know a few who are locked up in cells

Some just get caught up in that wobbly effect
Grown so distraught by the echo
Some just don't know what to do next
But they all know how to let go

Here's the thing about a mollusk
Sometimes from a distance you can think you've glimpsed a pearl inside
So you get closer to investigate but the thing clenches tight
It's a defense mechanism; you know this
So you fight, and struggle to get the **** thing open
Your fingers bleed
Your muscles ache
You begin to believe that it will never break
Really going through something
But right when you're about to give up, it loosens
And you gaze inside to find
Nothing
What you thought was a pearl was just a trick of the light
I've had it with this girl
It's over alright

In a twisted life
In a twisted mind frame
Who's to say of who's to blame for all these twisted mind games.

I have lifted all the layers then got caught beneath
The angels blew their trumpets,
and on my head they placed a wreath.

Now stepping in tune with the sun and the moon
Then the sand falls out from under
And with the tiny grains, my body and my brains,
They all are torn asunder.

Whoever so surrenders dough to a consciousness more in need
Will find themselves farther from hell,
(but it's all just ego that they feed.)
Cause personally, I don't agree to the degree that will match my mind
Because I find the answers lie beside the mind that tries.

So try as I might
And try as I will
To find the right **** in which my mind to fill
I have an aversion to social conversion
And your opinion tastes like a pill.

Oh no, please say it isn't so.
I've allowed this thing to grow into something I can no longer control.
I'm somehow functioning past the point where I should have stopped functioning long ago.
The person who I once was,
the person who I wanted to be,
it's all just dust now scattered by the wind.
I don't even know who I am anymore.
Some stranger stares back at me when I look into the mirror.
He whispers, "you've become everything you've always hated."
I stare back and ask, "how does it feel?"

Traced in trails of scented dreams;
The vapors of eternity.

Condense into a thicker form,
and pour your warmth all over me.
Diving through liquid sunsets -
We'll melt in pools of love.
Flowing towards the horizon,
forever.

Crammed inside the tightest space,
two atoms come together,
to make something completely new:
Fantastic Holy Molecule!

Mash our masses.
Break us down.
Grind us into the finest powder.
Bound to the other by an unstoppable force;
transformed by its power.

I want to ***** out my insides so you can hear my swollen heart,
then stomp on it in front of you to make the beating stop.
You'll laugh, at worst. At best, you'll cry,
but you'll likely just feel pity.

"I ought to be more careful.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't so pretty!"

I wish I could burn your bridge without leaving myself stranded.
Trapped in the pasture with the rest of your sheep -
I've been sheared,
bitten,
and branded.

If I don't get out, I fear I'll suffer a brain aneurism.
How the **** did I get caught up in someone else's solipsism?

Next time you see me, I'll force myself into cardiac arrest.
To feel those lips against my own -
to taste your breath -
I swear,
I'd fake so many deaths.

If dying is the only way to kiss you,
then I'd rather be dead.
It'd be so much easier for me to never have to see you again.

No more singing,
and no more smiles.
No more haywired thoughts;
brain chemistry gone wild.
No more guilt,
and no more shame.
No more lost sleep.
No more mind games.

I've never had the most solid sense of direction.
I've this bad habit of getting lost;
first in thought and then, well,
literally.

But I've written things this whole time,
and every line is an arrow so that I can find my way back.
Back to some kind of bliss.
A state of mind that I can no longer feel,
but I know that I miss.

But isn't there a part in that story where the bread crumbs have been eaten by birds?

I can't remember.

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.

Misplaced feelings of lust and aggression.
A fresh new take on an old depression.
Watch as we make mistakes on purpose.
Hear us proclaim our own lives as worthless.

Misjudged values and dusty pedestals stacked chest-high with the best nonfacts - cracked down the middle.

None of this was ever about you;
just a made-up answer to an unknown riddle.

I had a dream that you were larger than life.
I slipped in through your mouth
to learn the secret of your insides.
You spat me out.
I fell.
You caught me with hands the size of clouds,
then stuck me in a cage with a yellow canary.
I had to eat the bird to stay alive.
You're a neglectful pet owner.
Now I'm  trapped here
with no company.
I long to be free.
I cannot fly;
I never sing,
but it would be alright
if you'd just look at me.

Let me immerse myself in you.
We'll trade sweet nothings and believe them to be true.
I want the full experience;
don't hold anything back.
The concrete to crumble underneath the abstract.
Your pattern overlaid onto my nonbeing.
Can you glimpse the nonthings I can't believe we are seeing?
Incredible vibrations of our bodies in synch.
I want to hear every cell of your wrought body sing,
and swim in the depths of the futures to come.
Right now our two separate souls are but one.

In truth, it's my go-to state.
I'll say it's not so bad when I actually mean that it's great.
Litotes and understatement -
that's my forte.

If I ever make the mistake of letting you get too close,
I'll soon compensate by pushing you far, far away.

I've got about forty-two more rides to take,
before I'm 42.
To be exact,
I'll extract four more strains of sap
from two different kinds of trees.
Grind them up with twigs and leaves
to leave me heavy in a state between wake and sleep.
There's a 4:2 ratio of diseased to clean blood running through my veins.
(Contemplate a number long enough, and you're bound to go insane.)
I've got forty two thousand hundred million neurons currently exploding in my brain.
They're all dying in vain for the sake to explain a simple number.
Before the two of us met,
I had the fortitude to remember to forget too.
Every memory of our quartet centered around me and you.  
Four score and two billion years ago
was 68 billion years before the universe was born.
4 + 2 = 6. Four times two is eight.
I've stained the floor with two different shades of paint.
Isn't it lovely?
Ain't it great?
I'll wait for two signals before I wave my two hands in the air.
I've got four fingers on each,
and two thumbs to get me there.

Divine light.
Holy grace.
Such a simple thing;
one moving face.

But a blind man sees,
a drowned kid breathes,
a heathen drops down on his knees -
an atheist believes.

A deaf mute sings.
A cold soul bleeds.

And in the middle of a dried out desert,
hope springs.

"You know I'll always love you"
I think that's how it went
But I know I've been a total wreck
Ever since that accident

You once said I was the one
Now you complain I'm always moping
"Let's go out and have some fun!"
We've different ways of coping

I don't see how you can ignore it
So afraid to tell me what you're thinking
You say my problem is that I dwell too much
And that I'm always drinking

"It's not like I can help it!
You think I want to be this way?!"
"Please just ******* stop it!"
"Please go the **** away!"

We used to talk of getting married
And raising a family
And living near some mountains
Drinking wine on balconies
Going on vacation
Teaching our kids to read
Making up our own board games
Planting apple trees

I know that you're frustrated with me
But I could give a ****
Go ahead and leave then
So that I may self-destruct

The guerrilla poet is of a peculiar sort;
he engages in impromptu recitals of his work just for sport.
Whether he's waiting at a bus stop or standing in line,
he'll completely out of nowhere start spouting out rhymes.
His spontaneous public monologues tend to garner attention,
as they can often be quite scathing and cause much contention,
but nine times out of ten, he'll get to the end
without so much as a glance from the strangers standing by.
They either ignore him completely,
or pretend not to mind,
or dismiss him immediately
as just another crazy guy.

There's a certain kind of silence here.
The profound and total only-in-the-country type of silence that city folk fear.
(The kind that my poor mother back home staves off with television and beer.)

So heavy and complete that even with your head under the sheets it's impossible to keep warm enough to ever get any decent sleep.
It's the kind of silence that pierces dreams.

The kind that a tortured mind can easily fill with demons of every type.
The kind that keeps you on edge all night with wide searching eyes and adrenaline rushes flooding in behind any foreign sound,
followed by a slow winding down of blood pressure and panic and heart beats.

The kind that when you suddenly wake up in it and glance at the alarm clock,
you hope like hell the first number isn't 3.

*

*It's moments like these that make me wish there was somebody else here with me,
if only for the reassurance that a nearby body can bring.
The sound of someone else's steady breathing.

And maybe, a naked back to trace the subtle valleys of while half-asleep,
thinking little epiphanyish-type thoughts that'll be forgotten by morning.
The kind that usually start or end with: "This is it."

What are you doing right now?
Take a step outside yourself to analyze the value of it.
Supersede the meaning of the thing that you think you currently need.
Pick up that instrument.
Open that word document.
Pick up that pen and turn to a blank page.
Action and passion keeps the ennui away.

What are you up to right now?
What are you doing today?
Punch laziness in the face and stay in that place of outpouring.
Streams of consciousness leaking out from outer space.
I've been bitten by something suddenly.
It's time to create.

Shower that page.
Crowd that silent place with echoes of notes.
Paint every blank surface with earnest strokes of rage.
Climb that asymptote.

If you dig deep,
you'll pull up something.
Even in sleep,
there's no such thing as nothing.

Art for art's own sake.
Because progress takes so many steps.
Oblivion can wait.
It's time to create.

Keep it safe
in familiar territory.
Nothing non sequitur.
Nothing out of place.
Don't go sailing off into outer space.
Stick to topics that relate.
(Ignore how everything is connected to everything else -
not everyone thinks that way.)

Nothing out of left field.
You've got to save some face.
There's a reputation (somewhere, somehow) to maintain.
Be polite, pleasant, and plain.
Leave the madness in your brain.
Hide your heart;
keep it tucked away,
and above all else,
don't go digging up those corpses from their grave.

"Wonderful weather we're having.
Isn't it a lovely day?"

There's so much more to life.
That can't be all there is to say . . .

Self-awareness is a curse,
but self-indulgence is surely worse.

He just broke the record!
History is smashed.
Progress is proven through his action.
The old conquerer is past.
Let's celebrate this brand new glory,
and love it while it lasts.
Add a new page to this story.
This one now is best.
We will anxiously await
for the next one to surpass him.
Every victory is great,
but no win is everlasting.

End where we started then start over again.
****** through the same side we spilled out of.
A pair of rings for fools and friends;
Crazy straw love.

Tangled then thickened to one mass.
Stripped in stark relief.
Strengths and weaknesses in high contrast;
sifting through our ashes.

I equate us to a figure eight
lying on its side.
Split down the middle -
we're nothing.

Carve the curve that craves the end.
Sliding out then in again.
Spiral arms unwinding;
Spin us toward the center.

An emotional exhibitionist runs into an emotional manipulator; sparks fly.

Her bed is the whale.

Don't call me a genius,
because I'm just a drunk.
Don't tell me I care,
'cause I don't give a ****.
Don't say you'll be there,
because I'll just as soon leave you.
And don't you dare say you love me -
I'll never believe you.

If I told you that you're perfect,
would you believe it's true?
No, of course not. I mean, maybe so,
but it wouldn't be enough for you.
Just one man's opinion;
you need global recognition
to prove that you have value.

It makes me kind of sad,
but I've never had ambition of that sort,
so if you'd like, I could help you.
We could make it work.

With your style, and grace,
(and those big brown eyes, and that beautiful face)
along with my words,
(your silk ribbon of a voice)
and my keyboard;
I swear to God we could make it work.

A partnership to stack the cards:
Aimless Asteroid and Shooting Star.
You'll always burn brighter, but I don't care.
I swear,
together we could go far.

"This is the last one."
Famous last words.
Caveat emptor;
I think it means consumer beware.

Just one more,
I swear.
He's doing it again.
I promise to buy more beer
tomorrow.

Golf is a funny sport.
I mean, you've got this assortment of sticks
and this tiny little ball
whose goal is a small hole hundreds of yards away,
and in between the two are a few obstacles.
In fact, there's a whole treacherous landscape.

But I'm obsessed with the swing.
Mainly, the mental process involved with bringing it down.
Fear, doubt, confidence -
it all plays a part in it,
and a hope that you've swung well when it finally hits.
(Bear in mind, of course, that this all happens in less than a second,)
but the reward or disaster comes immediately after.
By that, I mean, during the upswing.
That's when the golfer sees the trajectory of the ball as a result of all of their prior feelings.

I've never even played golf, really.
I just like it as a simile.
By that, I mean,
how it applies metaphorically.
There's a lot of depth there,
especially with the upswing.

I may not be a golfer,
but I play darts and throw beans on occasion,
and the upswing holds the same kind of persuasion in all these games of accuracy.
You see, there's this feeling that comes soon after the release;
almost like a premonition.
As if knowing beforehand that the thing is or isn't going to land where we want it to.

And that's all I mean by the upswing -
that I've got a good feeling 'bout you.

I'm gonna get out.
Just as soon as I figure this out.
Right after I finish drowning my doubts.
"Hey gang, look at me;
I'm a caricature of myself!"

I'm going away.
Riding off into that sunset.
Chasing a new day.
Just as soon as I remember the things I'm supposed to forget -
I'll make my escape.

I'll create a new life,
as soon as I realize
the extent of the weight that's been keeping me down.

"Hey, everybody look;
I'm a ******* hobo clown!"

I'm a nothing, and you're a non,
so let's get together and be someone.
Ford the rivers without a gun,
so who's ascared of a hippopotamus?
Beneath four three-toed legs, I'll swim towards some goal.
Hard-pressed against the net of chaos.

Here's a thrashing;
here's a lashing;
here's a joke to keep them all laughing.

There's a leak to keep them from speaking.
There's a lapse to keep from collapsing.
Here's a perfect ship sinking in order to crash their modes of thinking.
I swear I've dreamed of enough escapes to keep myself from clapping.

I can't remember where or when or why, but I do remember thinking
"if only I could be like that,"
"if only I could have that kind of life,"
"if only I could behave and act in such a way that was a better reflection of my own deep down as-of-yet unfound ideal personality type,
as a better version of myself; the me I want to be but can't even imagine being:
then I'd be happy."

Come to realize that I have become that version, but just as I've changed, so has my own ideal version of what I could be (which is to say, that despite achieving vaguely recalled dreams, I'm still not happy.)

It's like running a race against yourself,
surrounded by wraiths of what you could-have/once-were/will-one-day-become running in the other lanes.
The trick is to close my/your/our eyes and meld them all together;
the key is to maintain this pace.

The piece that fits the hole.
The air that fills the gaps in my soul -
Pressed against the vacuous space that pulls gravity towards sorrow.  

What if I told you that my bones are hollow,
Because how else could I fly?
Blow beneath these feathered wings -
Lift me high above tomorrow.

I swear we'll never die.

If you feel impotent in a world that doesn't move in the way you'd prefer it to; a world that is progressing at a rate that you can't keep up with. That it's spinning on despite you, and you see it as a personal attack, as in that it's spinning just to spite you, and this makes you feel desperate and alone and bitter, and these feelings swell up into a boiling hatred that makes you want to commit ******, in order to make yourself be heard in a world that ignores you.
Please, do the world a favor, and **** yourself first.

Let's get together and be lonely.
I'd feel a lot better if you'd just hold me,
I mean lonelier.
It'd trigger that mental state where I'm floating six feet away from the scene,
where I can see everything with the added bonus of not having to experience what I'm feeling.

Let's be lonely together, only,
I'd feel a lot better if you uttered a phrase that ended with "forever."
It'd make it easier to remember that I'm not the type to stick around,
and I could really use a good reason to leave right now.

If you have somewhere to get to
Just come and let me know
I will gladly take you anywhere
Every place you want to go

If there's anything you need out there
Anything at all
Just know that I am here for you
Don't hesitate to call

Helping is just in my nature
At least, when it comes to helping you
I just can't seem to help myself
I'll do anything for you

Even if you just want to talk
I am an excellent listener
I could listen to your voice for days
Tightly wrapped around your finger

I really wish you would call soon though
It has been quite awhile
I yearn to do somethings for you
I want to make you smile

I'm worried that you haven't called
And as I'm wondering why
I see you walking down the street
Holding hands with some other guy

So it seems you found someone new
To do all of that stuff
All the things I used to do for you
I guess you've had enough

But I know for a fact
That he won't last
He doesn't know you like I do
Before long
You'll come crawling back
You'll see that I'm the one for you

Because he doesn't know what position you played
In little league when you were a kid
He doesn't know about when your grandpa died
Or that he wore a wig

He doesn't care about the movies you like
Or that you only wear one shade of lipstick
He's probably just like every other guy
And only cares about your ****

I bet he doesn't know what pulls at your heart
Or how you wish that you could paint the moon
So I can't allow myself to fall apart
I know you'll need me again real soon

That's what the voices in my head told me every time I set out to make some kind of statement in an antiquated form that would most likely be overlooked by every one of my friends.

But with beer and vanity and pigheaded persistence,
I managed to ignore them.

Started but unfinished.
Built up then diminished.
Transfixed by astral bodies
on their way to undetermined destinations.
Dilated. Validated. Consecrated and interred.
Discovered cavern never entered.
Nothing and always all at once.
Everything is everything.
Still dreaming after being woken up.
Anything as everything.
A beginning and an end.
The journey taken in-between;
that's the key:
Existing.

Like a thing hanging from the branch of a tree that's really just a bunch of atrophied limbs,
standing oh-so-ever still in the middle of winter in July,
and adding just enough weight to break the twig;
now we're watching people die.

Everything will be alright
These frightening thoughts won't live past tonight
You'll wake up in the morning and feel . . .
Whole again

So when you feel that noose getting tight
When the shadows obstruct your view of the light
Just lay down and go to sleep
And when you wake
Everything will be bright

This moment you're stuck in
Will not last forever
There will be a tomorrow
And it'll make you feel better

But there's a chance that it won't
The trick is to hope
If you go to bed knowing that you'll feel empty tomorrow
Then don't

You'll wake up in the morning and realize
That you have no friends
You'll wake up in the morning and think
That you have to start all over again
You'll wake up in the morning and wish
That you'd rather be dead

But still everything will be alright
You'll grow accustomed to this empty life
You'll wake up in the morning and feel . . .
That hole again

So when that fiend comes to trap you
And you struggle ensnared
And you scream out your soul to find somebody who cares
You'll hear your own echo come back
And realize that nobody's there

Nothing ever will be alright
You've ****** up real good
Permanently this time
Spend forever in the void to repent for this crime

But this time is an illusion
And this void is made up
I am cause I am
And that one thought is enough
Everything will be alright
Because everything is what you're made of