Twisted guts while trying to pretend to be someone that I'm not.
Excusing myself after a Freudian flub.
Retreating to the bathroom to throw my guts up.
Hoping no one will notice me lying in the tub.

Draw the curtains and close myself off.
I'm not the person I wanted you to believe I was.
Now I can't leave because I've overcommitted to the cause.

Sleep in porcelain and dream of what I've lost.

I want to get inside your head.
(The deepest part of your bed)

I want to crawl under your skin.
(The driving force to your sins)

I want to haunt all of your dreams.
(So you'll never forget me)

I want to always be there.
(So I'll know that you're okay)
You don't have to be scared.
(Just believe in what I say)

"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.

If I fell,
would you catch me?
If I climbed,
would you follow?
If I spat out all my insides,
so that I was empty,
would you attempt to fill that hollow?

Can you help me find a remedy for this swollen heart?
She says it's just a side effect of all the alcohol.
"If you let me have my way, I swear I'd tear you apart."
She says I'm getting my aching organs mixed up,
and it's the liver that's in need of a detox.
****'s all out of context.
I told her to forget it.

"One of these mornings will be the loudest you'll hear,"
but my head's still ringing from the echo of ten years spent ignoring alarm clocks.
I can see the too-bright light at the end of the tunnel,
but I'm getting off at the next stop,
and I can keep hopping these cars ad infinitum.

"A long time ago, we used to be friends,"
but I've broken half-a-hundred promises since then,
and I'm in no condition to up and replant these seeds of doubt that my family tree dropped nearly three decades ago.

This ain't the song to end it on.
And these aren't the words either of us ever wanted to have to regret not saying,
but why can't you just say what you mean?

"We met one day in wet cement,"
and our swollen hearts have been slowly hardening ever since.

A well oiled machine.
Its gears daily greased.
Cogs turning for centuries and shooting out steam.
An army of engineers to keep it running eternally.

Behind the smoke screen,
a lone projectionist screams for the audience to open their eyes -
to stop listening to the churning of mass produced lies.
(Shortly afterward,
he dies.)

A well oiled machine.
Occasionally leaking blood from its seams.
An army of janitors assigned with keeping it clean.

A lone visionary decides to alter the design.
Creates a switch that will turn all fog into light.
(Right before he goes to flip it,
he dies.)

A well oiled machine.
Built solely for the purpose of spitting out smoke,
and beneath it, a graveyard
of those who tried to throw a wrench in its spokes.

Connecting the dots of isolated spots,
like how our ancestors drew lines between stars.
Seemingly arbitrary and haphazardly placed,
yet somehow defining what we are.

Empty Girl.
Dead-eyed queen.
Cut her personality out of a magazine.
("How to Play Coy to Get the Boy"
- turn to page 3.)

Garish girl, way overdone.
Blank face heavily caked in makeup.
Paint on another fake expression.
Please,
don't make me laugh.

Thickheaded girl devoid of thought.
Owning nothing that can't be bought.
More like everyone else,
than anyone else.

I want a refund.

Because we're still alive.
Because we still write even though we've lost our minds.
Because we still breath, still struggle, and try.

All the while,
we smile the same way at both virtue and crime.
(Because we're wired to think in rhyme.)
Because we've got such short lives to live,
and need creative ways to bide our time.

Because we're insane,
but don't want to die in vain.
Because we want (just once) for someone to understand what we're saying.

We each sculpt custom-made trophies for the weekly readings,
then award them to the ones we admire most openly.
Because we keep no secrets.
We're against privacy.
We're against conformity, contentment, and sleep
(because we always lose count of all those sheep).
Because we've got all this fur and such jagged teeth.

Because we're interested in exploring what's underneath.
Why do you think the way that you think?
I think it's because of this,
don't you disagree?
Ha, that's a laugh.
Now let's have a drink.

Because we celebrate victories and failures the same.
Because we elevate sorrow along with anger and pain.
There's something to be said of all these fireworks in our brain,
so let's give it a good effort in trying to explain.

You can join too, if you'd like.
It's really quite easy.
You've just got to write,
and every now and then,
recite.

You know, Magic
That feeling you feel when you feel like a part of everything that's going on
Where the mood of the evening becomes you
And you smile and act but you're no longer acting of your own volition
You're going in tune with what's going on around you
And it feels so right
Like lucid dream flight
But by the end of the night
It's gone
And you're left alone in your bed
With these thoughts in your head
Wishing that you could be part of a moment without an end

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.

If I were here,
before I got here,
then I swear I arrived on accident.
I think I'll leave before you get me to believe that this is all just a concraxodent.

Make peace with the thing you fear most.
Make love to your Self and dance with the ghost.
Make amends with the villain and **** your heroes.

And in the morning, make toast.

He says he misses the days when we used to do nothing.
I said those days are dead.
She says it's like a high-pitched whirring noise way back in her head.

Everyone's so salty now, trapped in a can of mixed nuts.

She says his stasis is driving her insane.
He says she's already wasted the better half of her brain.
I said it seems we're always caught between two extremes,
but I could give a flux.

Sometimes I feel that I want something more,
Then sometimes I'm content to lie down on the floor,
And I can't help but wonder
If this is all that I've been searching for.

Just a strange place to lay my head,
And foreign surroundings to make up my bed,
Then I can't help but wonder
If this is a scene from a book that I've yet to have read.

The first time I went to Disney World,
And we were crossing a bridge,
I asked, "Is this all some part of a story?"
And my grandma said, "Of course it is!"

She was referring to Cinderella.
You know, the one who met that charming prince,
But I was talking about all of life,
And I've felt misunderstood ever since.

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.

I am no stranger to darkened rooms.
The sun may be shining
but I'm in love with the moon.
She's full of sympathy for my lonely plight.
I am no stranger to the night.

She hides behind clouds, but I'll see it through.
I wax and wane with her many moods,
and when she's full, I'm filled with hope.
She shines on me so that I don't feel so alone.

The pilot's off the wagon and on the sauce,
leading his pod to rot on the rocks.

She said I'll see you later and I said why not.
Steak dinner, body massage, whatever gets you off.

Short of breath and out of my depth.
Low on cash and I don't want what's next.

Wrung out, tapped dry, limped ****, heavy sigh.
Asking Gungan questions like, "are we gonna die?"

There's a storm abrewin'
and everyone's gone insane,
but I've never been much of one to mind a little wind and rain.

There's a prevailing sense of panic,
but I've got Bob Dylan in my head,
and I bought a pack of smokes 'cause you can't smoke 'em when you're dead.
And if it is my time to go,
well then I'll make good food for worms,
but if it's not then I'll give thanks for shelter from the storm.

Lately, I've been thinking,
that maybe I've got a lot more left to say.
And maybe I got lost one day along the path that I'd subconsciously laid out for myself way back when.
I think you've been helping me retrace my steps.
I think that might make you a friend.

I've been thinking lately,
that maybe there are far too many words left unsaid.
Maybe I ought to stick around long enough to say them.
Maybe that makes me better off than dead.

My head has been swimming lately,
with all sorts of fantastical fish.
I wish I'd met you sooner.

Maybe the path that I long ago left is a little less buried than I thought it to be.
Maybe a shovel can dig a future as well as a past.
I think you've pulled me out of a grave.

This is my way of thanking you for that.

Here's to you getting whatever it was that you wanted.
Here's to me never figuring it out.

I clearly saw your drinking problem laid out next to mine
'Tis the season
No big deal
It's fun, it's harmless, it's fine

But some part of it still makes me sad
There's something I still miss
When you told me how your mother was crying
And said, "I hate seeing you like this."

You really did have a one-tracked mind
To just keep drinking more
Who the hell am I to judge
We've all been there before

I was just so tired and sad
And maybe slightly bored
Sometimes the habits that we have
Turn into such **** chores

We both know that we're better than this
Let's will it to be true
We'll leave this place together, man
And start our lives anew

I filled it then spilled it.
Think I'll quit so I can quilt it.
Some kind of design that reflects this patchwork mind.
You might laugh or cry,
but it'll keep you warm either way.

I didn't even feel like being awake today.
Had a dream where I crawled through dinosaur ****.
Stegosaurus didn't see me coming,
but he was still prepared for it.

Woke up only to take a shower.

I've got about six hours 'til I have to be at work again.
I'll just daydream about poaching mammoths,
and pretend I have friends.

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 was writing something amazing up until my phone died,
and there's something to be said about the techno-ego-logical sort of life.
But I won't say it now because greater men have said it before;
and surely they'd have no respect for just another social-media *****.
Like how blogging has become such a ***** word,
so let's just call it poetry.
Disguise our senseless needs to vent feelings through rhyme and metaphor.
I've become everything I've always hated.
I can date it back to the day I acquired a smart phone.
But I'll lose no sleep over confessing how it makes me feel less alone.

How did you know what I was thinking
When I was thinking about holding your hand
You grabbed mine first
Like some line in a verse
And I can't begin to understand
Synchronized randomness in a world of no consequence,
Or minds tied together in a net of one consciousness
Can you read my thoughts though?
Then I want you to know
That you are beautiful
Right down to the bone
Throughout your very soul
And if you can't read my mind
Then you ought to be told

She has no qualms with the status quo.
She wants little more than a family.
The white picket fence,
the red painted door;
that whole idyllic suburban fantasy.

Just that, and nothing else.
She feels it's all she needs to be Happy.
A cozy pleasant house,
and a perfect little family.

She wastes no time on iconoclasts.
She thinks they're silly and make her laugh.
Never been one to be impressed by taste.
She'd rather have a humble man
with an honest face.

The doctors said the chances were slim,
"but stranger things have happened still . . ."
Not a candidate for contraception.
She'll never have to go on The Pill.

Her standards have changed in light of the news:
Nevermind prince charming; wit, grit, or being wooed.
She's got her dream and intends to follow through.
She's just chasing a miracle.

All those men caught up in the latest health trends;
"That's your best bet," he says -
that's what her doctor recommends.
She swallows her pride and takes them for a ride,
all the time hoping for a godsend.

Prince Charming is the last thing she needs.
Any chance at true romance is something she could do without.
She's just looking for potency,
and a very high ***** count.

She's okay with ending up as a divorcee,
a single mother - even a widow.
She's willing to go through whatever it takes.
She's still holding out for her miracle.

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.

Choose your target,
and choose it well,
for everything you say about them
is a reflection of yourself.

Regret is a vampire,
and Guilt is supposed to be a thing of the past.
I thought I killed it already,
but it just keeps coming back.

I (used to think I) love(d) someone.

Daaaaamn, check her out!
Yo, that ***** is VERY PRETTY!

I (know better than to) believe that nothing is impossible.

Maaaan, I would  HOLD THE DOOR OPEN FOR  that chick all night long, if y'know what I mean.

I (pretend to) listen to what other people have to say.

I hear ya, but me personly, what I'd like to do is  MEET HER PARENTS  while wearin' A NICE SUIT  and have a  PLEASANT EVENING WITH STIMULATING CONVERSATION.

I've (given up on all my) dreams and ambitions.

Maybe even bring  A BOTTLE OF VINTAGE WINE  so that I could really  MAKE A GOOD IMPRESSION, if you know what I'm sayin'.

I want to (believe there's no point in trying to) make the world a better place.

**** bro, you are one  RESPECTABLE AND STAND-UP  ********, you know that?

There are people suffering in the world,
(You could call me a *******,)
but there are people protesting it.
(I'd totally be into it.)
With socio-political religious divides,
(I'm into negging.)
driving confirmation bias.
(Choke me, beat me, bruise me, please.)
Everybody is just people,
(I like that you don't like me.)
and everybody deserves to live.
(Tell me again how worthless I am.)
Let's stop weaponizing our hatred,
(I just came when you hit me.)
and embrace each other as brethren.
(Death excites me.)

I wish they had an app where you could record yourself making vague responses like:
Oh yea?
Mhmm.
Really?
Uh huh.
No kidding.

And then could answer a phone call with said app, which would play all of these pre-recorded responses intermittenly while the person on the other line blabs a bunch of ******* drunken nonsense to someone who they believe is listening.

Kiss this goodbye
Somewhere beyond the clouds in the sky
Something is falling
Slower than I
Have fallen before
A monster hides on the other side of my door

Bid thee farewell
I am forbidden to tell
Of the place where they've hidden
Of the place I will dwell
Of the things I have found
My mind is still . . .
Reeling

Sliding, finding nothing now
The sky is north
The sea lies south
I open the door and try to get out
Open the door and try to get out
Open to try how to figure this out
A monster no more than two eyes and a mouth

The great thing about a slow-cooker is that you can make one meal on Sunday and have dinner covered for the rest of the week.

The downside of a slow-cooker is that you'll be eating the same thing for dinner all week.

I'm going to come back to this one and write it when I'm sober/have a free moment. I just don't want to forget it while it's in my head. I'm just posting this now as a sort-of mental post-it note.

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.

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.

Stop it.
Just stop.
It's never really been that bad.
From the way you carry on,
I've got it in my head:
You're only happy when you're sad.

I wonder how many people have ever felt like this before;
Cowering with the knowledge that there's a rhinoceros on the otherside of their door.

She says I'm just a little too lonely for her.
She says she can't be bothered by a lone ivory horn.

But I was born to wallow,
in a puddle that the better beasts know to avoid.
I was born to swallow mud and cough up fertilized bone;
to choke on marrow while distant gardens grow.

She says my spine can't seem to find the right way to write itself.
I told her she's wrong.

I told her that I can write like a mad man,
that I can grip words and twist them with burning fists that punch holes through preconceived notions like some sort of metaphoric hadouken.

She says it's too vague,
that I've been swept up in the plague of Easter-eggs and internet memes -
that my bad posture and pessimistic mentality are just a reflection of how broken things really are.
Basically, that I'm part of the Problem.

She says that I'm ******* in the wind in a river that's flowing downstream;
That I'll never be able to reconcile the difference between real life and just dreams.
That I'm swimming in ten different types of reality and the only one that should matter to me is the one I can't seem to see.

She says a lot of things,
but I've had it.
From here on out,
I'm not listening.

I am guilty of projecting. I will turn you into a goddess
in my mind to deal with the anxiety of
the fact that you might actually like me. I will like you back,
to an extreme; to the point where it's scary,
so that you'll stay away from me.
"Oh yea, watch out for that one. He's crazy."

Vain girls are attracted to it.
They like the way I paint them in my dreams.
As if fulfilling their own of becoming some sort of
Aphrodite. They build their confidence off of my idolatry.
I've seen it go to their heads.
It makes me kind of sick.

I will use you. The fantastical female;
my muse. You inspire my more neurotically infused
writings, and give fire to my self-abuse.

A few times, I've gotten the one I desired. Always through my words.
Forced to deal with discrepancies between fantasies and the truth, I fall apart.
Invariably, they were emotionally damaged;
prone to crying. I'd give them my shoulder and wrestle with the thoughts
that I'd fallen for a girl so much like my mother.
**** you, Freud.

Now I know better, but I can't fight my nature.
So I've embraced it. Taken it to new heights. Turned it into an art form.
Mentally magnified mistress, watch this:
I will take everything you've ever said (which I cannot forget)
and reflect it back at you through my poetic psychotic lens
Freaky, is it not?

But it's also kind of fun.
If you can appreciate the irony,
then I think you might be the one.

Left to my own devices,
I go to places that aren't very nices.
But you believe in a spectrum of sorts.
One I used to live on before I blew it all to bits.
Sometimes I wonder what the incentive is;
The reason why I keep you arounded.
Times like these, I see what it means.

You're my canary.

You keep me grounded.

Green is the color of envy.
Green is the color of American money.
I need that money in order to survive.
Green rhymes with broccoli, kale, and dandelion.
But only not at all.
Green is just a scientific thing,
like chlorophyll.
Green is just a color.
Green doesn't mean anything;
It's just a misunderstanding between each other.

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.

"How was your weekend?"

"Oh, I wouldn't even know where to begin.
Just full of ups and downs;
very high and really low,
with absolutely no middle ground."

Hide in obscurity.
Cryptic visage.
Anonymous shimmer.
Arcane mirage.

Be the enigma.
Wear the unknown.
Always a question mark.
Forever alone.