I'm seriously considering blowing my brains out, Gray matter that used to hold my consciousness now plastering the walls behind my carcass. Blood Art, a new cultural norm for an over populated planet. Euthanasia be dambed lets **** the innocent, the consumer, the ******. I could cure this planet of all it's problems if only I had more ink in my pen and more shells in my Shotgun
I need someone who wreaks of cannabis A guy with moscato sitting on his lips With the stress of nicotine on his mind And the threat of bankruptcy in his kiss One who makes it snow when he sniffs And lets me go when he finally quits
there must be a place where broken words go the ones without a limb not fully formed not spoken right not heard
there must be a place where broken words go the sentences left uncompleted the trailing words that never left the lips the "but" and the "and" that were always left hanging
somewhere between silence and speech there must be a place where broken words go full of stutters and writers block sufferers somewhere between the "i love" and the "you" that never followed or the "wait" that was whispered into the air the "please come back" that made peace with dying on the corners of a turning mouth
there must be a place where broken words go the words spoken but never heard the letters written but never posted the train of thought that crashed into the clouds the words in the bottle that traveled the sea but sunk to the bottom before it could ever reach
there must be a place where my broken words go the stains on my diary that didn't come from a pen and the letters on my thighs that don't make sense the things i could never say and the things i said that came out all wrong all the broken alphabets in my song that cry for salvation for one more chance
there must be a place where broken words go there must be a place i can call home.
we are always asked to understand the other person's viewpoint no matter how out-dated foolish or obnoxious. one is asked to view their total error their life-waste with kindliness, especially if they are aged. but age is the total of our doing. they have aged badly because they have lived out of focus, they have refused to see. not their fault? whose fault? mine? I am asked to hide my viewpoint from them for fear of their fear. age is no crime but the shame of a deliberately wasted life among so many deliberately wasted lives is.
I write poetry, Just not for everyone, to cry, or to laugh, or to feel for me, But for myself, To read them later, to recall the times, I was happy, or In pain, reminding myself, to look up, and move on.....