"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,"
Said the blind cyclops in his customer review,
which is filed in the Physically-Disabled-Yet-Still-Insightful folder of our Customer's Reviews.
A folder seldom perused by our super,
who seems to prefer deferring all menial mentally-unstable issues to those who are new to the feild.

I hesitate to inform them that "field" is the type of word that I've always been notorious for misspelling.

There's something to be said about a whole lotta nothin',
but I'm not about to say it.

You're like a unicorn in a world full of mules.
You are a treasure in a room full of tools.
A patch of bright color in a washout of gray.
Whatever "it" is, you've got it in spades.

****** down a twisting whirlwind of limbs.
Scream your heart out and I'll breathe it in.
Pump that bad blood soaked in sin.
I've been waiting for you.

Feel the pressure bearing down.
Sink into the underground.
Confluence of earth and skin.
No one can save you now.

Hurtle through the halls of hell.
Slip inside the deep black void.
All of what was once yourself
and your soul is now destroyed.

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.

The violinist plays as the artist takes down his paintings.
Nothing sold today. His spiraling visions of figurative
meaning behind the sentimental moments that he can't forget
have failed to make an impact on the passers-by,
once again.
He drops meager change into the case
of the musician.

The human statue breaks her frozen form
to act out a five second tragedy as he
makes his way down the avenue;
free of charge.

His fanbase is of the kind that can only
sympathize. Endeared to him not through the way
he spreads his paint, but from his passionate speeches.
When he explains the reasons behind each minute element,
they can't help but to relate. How he reaches
to define every detail of what would otherwise be
just another memory.

The little chitters of charged words crying like a chorus line,
whose notes echo off chimes of crystal.

The shakes and jitters of hot nerves dying,
with eyes homing in like a missile.

Tiny critters curled up tight in their respective chrysalides,
awaiting the day they sprout wings.

My current state of mind is electrified,
but oh how the body sings.

When there's nobody else
There's always this
And when the wind blows west
My legs will go east

Sitting in the back with a torn flannel sleeve
Listening to someone tell me what it is they believe
I start to think that if this is life, I'd rather stay asleep.

There are so many things
Which I cannot see
But oh how I try to
So desperately
Leaving me in a state of doubtful wisdom
I start to believe
That I'd have been better off if I had just stayed asleep
There aren't any **** heads like you in my dreams

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

Every poem I ever wrote is nothing but a sticky note,
with keywords written to remind me of all but forgotten memories.

Three is a
magical
number, sure,

But I've my
doubts about
this structure.

Sounds stuttered
and vaguely
Robotic.

"It's awfully hard to lead when your veins are full of lead,"
I said.
"At least, that's what I've read."

"You read too much then," she said,
then dove off the deep end like some kind of bird.  

I'm having trouble with compiling a digest of everything I've ever heard.
Which is to say, I find it all hard to digest.

Converse with one to get some kind of outlook,
only to desert those notions for the exact converse.

The answer's buried somewhere in a desert, underneath a billion minute grains of other answers,
but the words still flow like leaves in water,
and every minute of it just leaves me feeling number.

If luck be a lady, then I've got her number,
but who be the drawer?
And which drawer did I file it under?

Cigarette smokers are like dinosaurs -
a thing of the past.
Maybe more like dragons,
with all that smokey breath.
I'm not saying it's cool though,
it's really rather grotesque.
All these stinky dragons chasing their own death.

I'm one of them too,
but I try to hide it from you.
I'm a self-loathing smoker,
like a self-hating Jew.
But I'm hooked on these things.
What's there to do?

Sometimes confusing what we want with want we need,
and when it all falls apart;
oh, how we bleed.

Whether a steady downpour,
or a soft, subtle drip.
"I'd rather be alone right now,"
but we're together in spirit.

The silent one.
The stoic one.
The prideful one.
The hot head.
We've all been hurt before.
Oh, how we've bled.

But a stone's blood is cold,
and the darkest shade of red.
If and when it flows,
it only ever does so
slowly.

"You take care of yours,
and I'll take care of mine.
Now, if you don't mind;
please just leave me be."

My dreams were wickedly serene
With a dose of literal fantasy
Warping my life as-of-late
Into some kind of joy ride
That my subconscious did create

How sweet it is to tap into that
Without even reaching
When I awake, sometimes I wish to go back
My own attempt at leeching
Grabbing for handfuls from the deepest depths of my mind
and pulling them out
Examining the grains
Just to find
A warped and twisted mesh of real life best left
Behind

My life can't wait for my dreams to catch up
There comes a point where dreams aren't enough
To make sense of this constant bombardment of
of . . .
of . . .
How strange it is to find that word without the next
what a trip we take to the new day from the one that we've left

I have trouble defining what life is
Because I can't think of a boundary to what it encompasses
Every waking thought?
Every sleeping plot?
(for more often than not,
my dreams seem to be of a movie.
Scenes from a screen that I vaguely remember to have seen. . . )

When does real life end,
and non-life start?
Can we even comprehend what it means for life to just
Stop.

I never really got to know you before building you up into an emotional vortex.

I could argue that you ****** away the best parts of me,
but we'd both know that I was really just looking for an excuse to shed excess weight.

I tried a trick that I half-remembered learning during that short eternity when I lost my mind.

It worked.
We were both surprised.

There are bones in this bed;
abandoned teeth and torn out ribs.
If one were to sleep in it,
they'd dream of falling into a bottomless pit.
An endless abyss.
A pool of tortured spirits who have long since been devoured by it.
They'd have nightmares of bared fangs
and bled veins
to wake up drenched in sweat -
swept up by a river of tears;
to live the rest of their lives suffocated by inexplicable fears.

We are the things that get swept under
rugs. A ***** mass that the world strives to keep
hidden. Flecks of skin and strands of hair. Toe nails. Trapped
in the carpet with the bodies of the bugs
of which we have been bitten.

Gaze not upon our swollen parts;
inflamed. Your eyes will entice us to spread
rashes. The forbidden always in our thoughts
like stubborn mattress stains.

We are the things that live in closed
closets. Tearing at the threads meant to keep you
sheathed. Disembodied torsos on wiry hooks. Scarves. Chewing
holes through the garments with worn-out teeth.

Chills will let you know we're near
as you toss and turn in bed. We are the shadows that
watch you while you sleep. Our goal is to fill you with fear.
Your soul is ours to reap.

Santa's a ****, and he brought me no presents.
So what if I've been a bit unpleasant?
I did it on purpose!
You see, I've just grown so cold,
and I could get some use out of a few lumps of coal . . .

Life is a joke and death is the punchline.
Don't forget to laugh.
I guess I'll remember to next time.
This one's all ******.

Life's a ***** and then you die.
If you're lucky,
there may be some people who cared about you enough to cry.
Though it won't mean much when you're no longer alive.

Life is a riddle and death is the answer.
Who asked the question?
Who gives a ****?
The universe, god, and the laws of energy can all **** a ****.

**** being alive.
No, seriously,
**** It.
I'm sick of living.
I'm so done with it.

Leftovers from a party complete with drugs and drinks,
squares and queers.
It was a good mix.
Video games and ****** antics.
First to wake from the strangest dreams;
I'm just cleaning up a bit.
Something to do before I rescue my keys.
(They're currently being held hostage.)
I think we can save the graham crackers,
but there's no hope for the chocolate.

I really love it here,
have I ever told you that?
This untouched land smack-dab in the middle of all these
tourist traps.
There's enchantment here.
The buddhist temple down the street just makes it complete.
One morning,
when we're all bleary-eyed and hungover,
we should go meditate.

"Adore me!"
"You bore me,"
and I am not like that.
Domestic goddess take a hike;
please get off my back.

"Ignore me!"
"No problem,"
I said into the wind.
So much for happy endings;
now let the truth sink in.

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

Supercilious satirists sipping scotch with seriousness
while discussing super silly stories
in a state of semi-deliriousness.

They're pushing you to do it-
To finish what you started.
They're giving suggestions and making edits.
Performing audits.
They're saying,
"Maybe if you just changed the wording here, the theme there, the meaning throughout, added more heart to it."

It's clear, and to be honest,
They care about it more than you ever did.

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.

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.

Okay, I'm for it, but before we get to it I'm gonna need another one.
After it goes on for long enough, it all starts to meld together,

Blend this moment with the next one.
Pour this night into tomorrow.
like mush.

It all tastes the same.

A fleeting feeling followed by a slow rush.
A stride that shakes off dust while growing mold.
A flavor between bland and bold,

How far can you stretch?

Barely handle staying this way for just today.
Suicide pacts in place in case we happen to grow old,
with a color between tan and gray.

Let's do it again either way,
Spending too much time looking at it can result in loss of appetite.
just once more,
for ol' time's sake;
let's have one last night.

Everything else is alright, it's just our lives that're mistakes.

I don't feel so good anymore.
You really shouldn't play with your food.

Point me in the direction of somewhere that isn't just more of this.

I want to go home.
*The trick is to eat it before it gets cold.

Left wing to the right wing,
and in between - almost everything.

Spin it back to the first track,
then move ahead - no turning back.

Spread them out,
now we're flying.

A feeling with no reason to doubt.

I'm quite taken with you.
You're the apple of my eye.
Like a chocolate fudge sundae on a Friday night,
You're as sweet as pumpkin pie,
But my teeth are prone to cavities.
I dare not take a bite.

When you're twenty-five,
and find yourself watching Pinocchio -
completely horrified,
then it might be time to reevaluate your life.

(When you're lying in a field next to a bar,
singing a song while out of your head,
and your friends call your name because they don't know where you are,
so you stop singing because you'd rather be left for dead,
and later you're crying in your best friend's car
while thinking of all of the terrible things that you've said)

When you can't handle people being nice to you
because you think you don't deserve it -
when you can justify substance abuse
because you feel that you have earned it,
then it's about time that you grabbed the wheel
and turn it.

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.

A good kid,
just caught up in the mix.
An inescapable situation turned into a monument.

With every fountain passed,
he trades a hard earned coin for a wish.
Just hoping for vacation.
A temporary relief from the horrible sound embedded in him.

The truth is a problematic ensemble of violent violinists.
He's tired of of hearing it.

How exhausting it must be to be the enigma.
To mean everything and nothing at once
to everyone and no one in particular:
To let them down just to pick them up;
to make everyone go nuts.

The grizzled general grinned,
this was it. The enemy stood no chance.

"Alright men, chaaaaaaaarge!"

The ground shook with their thundering steps, the sky split from their bloodthirsty roars. The bravest of men would've sent his chainmail chittering from the shakes at the sight of it, yet the enemy stood their ground. In fact, they held their positions as if they were frozen to the sands.

Seconds before impact, the general realized something wasn't right.

It was already too late - on either side of the charging column, the arid land sprouted with life. Not flora nor fauna but full grown men sprang up, tossing away their dun-dyed coverings while simultaneously readying their javelins.

They loosed them at the charging men just as they met the armored dummies they'd erected days before.

The general ground his teeth as the left and right edge of his company collapsed. His left, then right eye twitched as the flanking forces squeezed against what remained of his army.

It was over in minutes. His men, decimated.

He'd never lost a battle before.

He spat, cursed, then urged his horse forward at a gallop to meet his fate. He'd finally been outmatched.

Whip crack in the back!
Suffering from a heart attack,
Your face is looking pale and your jaw is looking slack
Go back, go back from whence you came
Once you enter here, you'll never be the same
This outpour
This rage
This fire of sage
Bush
Ignites in your brain.  internal organs turn to mush.
Of course discourse leads one off course
To slide face first into the blackened dirt.

Now work, now work.  As hard as you can
Break your back for the consumers and your soul for the man
You stand
You try
But your knees go wild
And your bowing once again
As if to be admired

I climbed a tree.
Earlier this morning.
I mean, yesterday morning,
I think.
There was this person on top of a tree.
He had climbed up it himself.
That person was me.

See, the thing about talent is,
it never really dies.
Sure, it hides from time to time,
or rather, it hibernates.

An ode to all those lower-middle-class kids raging against their own insignificance,
romanticizing their circumstances and chasing cheap bliss.

An ode to all conversationalists,
who kiss each and every sentence with well read lips.

Here's an ode to those who,
while watching a meteor shower,
remember to make a wish.

Don't ever fall in love with your own tragedy.

How much of my history can you read from my mouth?
Can you make some sort of sense of what my life is about?
"You ought to quit smoking.
It's bad for your gums."
It seems my teeth are paying the price for how I like to have fun.
I dread the sound of that drill,
but I'm here of my own free will.
Please don't tell me that I have a cavity.
Ask me about my flossing habits,
and if I've been experiencing sensitivity.
I have.
You see, I've been having these dreams in which I'm spitting out all of my teeth.
I looked it up in Zolar's encyclopedia.
It reads:
Teeth falling out = death.
It's been ******* with me.
I found some other sources which state
that losing your teeth in dreams is a subconscious way of expressing anxiety.
Sounds about right.
I've been waking up in hot sweats every single night.
With a weight on my chest that feels like the precursor to death.
I've told my favorite non-friend about how lately I've been feeling a sense of impending doom.
Like I'm headed towards disaster.
She didn't have anything to say about it.
I guess I've always had a flair for the melodramatic.

Do we all just come here to share our spirit of the stairs -
the things we wish we could have said
to the ones who don't care?
I wonder, what would they think if they read?
"Man,
what a freak -
so ****** in the head."

Do we choose to be poets,
or did it choose us?
If I told you writing is a roller coaster,
would you get a head rush?

Perhaps it's just that we care too much.
Painstakingly fretting over every word.
Is anyone even listening?
Tell me,
how much have you heard?

The varying degrees of them plus me
leaves a suffocating heat.
Please help with collecting these parts of we, as this is thus and such.
No thank you.

I like telling you things that I won't remember saying.

Love is like stepping on a nail,
then running.

Seriously dude?
You're going to ignore me for doing something that I really want to do?
Haven't you ever felt passionately about anything,
or is that just too uncool for you?

What have you done?
What are you doing?
God forbid I try to find myself.
Hey, friend, thanks for the support, by the way.

If it's not cool enough for you, then get lost.
I'm better off without you,
so I don't care what you say.
The last thing I need is another reason to doubt myself,
so you can just go **** yourself.

I'm still going to do it, anyway.

Left the bar to run home real quick because I couldn't shake the thought that maybe I'd left the oven on.

I didn't.

You funny.
I can be funny too.
I've got a functioning funny bone,
just like you.
Watch me hit it on this thing.
Ouch!
Hey, wasn't that funny though?
Didn't you see?
Let me tell you a joke:
There once was this guy who set out to type a joke,
but halfway through it his funny bone broke!
Ouch.

This one time, I traded cigarettes for jokes with a few of the homeless folk who live in Orlando.
I was still in high school then, but I can still remember how they went!
Well, actually, I can only recall two of them.
They go like this:

"If you have fifty ***** and fifty politicians in the same room,
then what do you have?"

"Um, I don't know."

"A hundred people who don't know **** about ****!"

Hahahahahahaha

"What do you call a *** on roller blades?"

"Hmm, no idea."

"Rolaids!"