Been gazing.
Looking.
Peering at things
I aught not to.

I see it clearly,
the sky through
a closed window.

I no longer just leer
at my faint reflection
in the glass.

I been looking,
gazing at you
for far too long.

Been taking down my mirrors.
Been changing up my song.

Dude this website ******* ***** these days,
does anyone know of any alternatives?

Veiled silhouettes
Of horsemen galloping all out,
Cast in black against the twilight sky.
The beating sound of crashing hooves,
Like a heartbeat, like the ticking clock of doom,
Pound louder and mercilessly into reality.
Torches ablaze with hate come careening through,
Shattering the uneven glass windows,
Buildings go up in a funeral pyre.
Coughing, screams of dispair, a cacophony
Of misery, an apocalyptic wind chime blowing
In the smoke laden wind.
Blood flows and the red,
The red screams my name
As it runs through the hardpan,
Spelling out my destiny
In little crimson rivulets.

I can taste it now,
A desert in my mouth,
As I walk west
In solitude.

Slipping into
Something more comfortable;
This sordid state of mind,
Feels almost
Familiar.

I've been here before,
Angry and petty,
Wading through red water,
Knee deep in my contempt.

Sometimes the little things
Can have the biggest impact.

Meanwhile the grand scheme
Goes on, obscured by routine.

Blind to the signs,
Willfully or maybe
Just through a
Simple lack
Of self
Examination.

Is there a benefit
To being ignorant,
To feign stupidity?

Laziness,
Motivation and the lack thereof.

I am saturated with sudden
Icy clarity,
As the autumn sun
Tickles my memory
And paints my heart
With nostalgia.

To live in ignorance,
To merely waft through existence...

Or to change?

Time is short.
I know I've been here
A thousand times before.

Ice cream for breakfast
now that Mom's dead.
All my pants are napkins
now that Mom's dead.
Stay up as late as I want
now that Mom's dead.

Nah, can't do it.
She's gone on the outside,
but I can still hear the echos of her voice
on the inside.

The louder she gets
the more I know
I'm ******* up.

My guilt is a reminder
of what's a good or bad decision.

My guilt is my mother
slapping the back of my head
from the grave.

My sense of self worth,
my sense of what's right and wrong?
That's my mother saying she loves me
from the great beyond.

I threw a bunch of old photos out,
and it's really bothering me.
Not like, constantly, but...
I think about it every so often.

I'm astounded at how awful it feels.
I don't think there's anything else,
at least as much as I can remember,
that makes me feel this way.

I think it's because it's not... Hmm.
It's not just something bad that happened to me.
I think it feels so awful because,
it was just a hastily made decision on my part.

It'd be one thing if they got burned up in a house fire,
or even if they got ruined or lost in a big move.
I could tolerate that kind of loss, that kind of fate.
But the fact that it was me, that I intentionally
went and discarded them, especially after having
them for such a long time...

That's the part that really digs into my psyche.

A leaf fell slowly,
Wafting in the autumn breeze.
I saw it mirrored
In the water's reflection.
I met my eyes again
Before it touched down,
And watched myself scatter
Into the ripples.

The water never calmed down,
The wind was pushing steadily
Into the sleepy boughs and limbs.

The trees all stretched
And sighed,
And shook themselves free
Of the summer growth.

They showed me how
Not to focus too much
On myself,
But to see the scattered refractions
Of everything else.

And I breathed in, raising my head.
With a hand on my cheek and
Feeling the stubble there,
I wondered how long
I'd been just staring
Into the eyes
Of the face on the water.

It's not a car wreck I fear,
not an illness or disease.
I don't fear cardiac arrest,
or slipping and hitting my head.
I'm not worried about getting killed,
death will come
when it deems me worthy of harvest.

I'm not afraid of death, I'm afraid of wasting my life.
I'm afraid of living a life laced with routines,
routines that crept in over the years
and make time fly on fast-forward.

I'm afraid of opportunities, missing them,
letting them pass me by
so that I may yet reside
in my comfortable fast-forwarding life.

I'm afraid of the adventures,
the ones I skipped out on.
The ones that happened
while I was sitting here comfortable,
and alone.

I fear the friends,
the ones I never made.
I hear their strange voices
while I whistle along,
working my comfortable job.

I'm frightened, you see?
Not of death, nor misery.
I'm terrified at night,
when I lie down in bed
after another day spent
In this comfortable life.

Better off not setting foot
on her snowy inclines.

Wouldn't want to slip.

Don't feel like a climb.

Would rather just stay the **** inside,
from this safe distance I can yet admire.

The rain drips.

It paints splotchy little designs.

I hope it helps to
put out her fire.

Quick, man.
It goes ****-ing quick.

Woke up today
about thirty,
even though
I fell asleep
about twenty-five.

It's slippery,
your boy needs traction.

Sick of spinning my wheels.

It goes quick.

Blue
and green
and purple and pink.
Tight
and loose
and acutely obtuse.

Be mine,
do you have
the time
to complete
me?

Or are you busy
being
you?

More than a trope,
still I'm roped
in.

Deserving,
no,
demanding
of more
than just
being something
to adore.

The demon is singing again
and I find myself humming along.
It's the same rhythm it's always been,
it's the same familiar song.

The demon is singing again,
swimming in the fugue.
Amber, green and clear glass,
drowning it in blues.

People want you to believe
that happiness should come easy.
That life rains it upon you
like a brief and pleasant rain
during a hot summer day.

They want you to think
that if your life doesn't bring
those little drizzles of happiness,
something must be wrong.
Wrong with you,
wrong with your life,
or that other people
are oppressing your happiness.

What they don't tell you
is that happiness takes work.
It's a conscious decision,
it's constant maintenance of the mind,
it's a light in the attic,
it's a reminder to not look down,
to not look behind.
It's an internal war.

Happiness starts with a decision,
and it only gives up
when you do.

What was that old guys name?
I think it was something like...
Uh....
****, I can't remember.
I remember it was odd though,
the kind of name that really
sticks with you throughout the years.

Right...

Anyway this dude turned
to face Lukus and I,
and called us a pair of
"controlled knuckleheads."

We were drinking at some bar
in Phoenixville, it was the night
that Lauren ditched us
and we had to walk like ten miles
back to his dad's place.

It was my fault she ditched,
but it was my fault that
she was there in the first place.

I miss Luke.
Hope he's doing well for himself.

Man if I really didn't give a **** about anything,
I would eat Warheads until my tongue bled
and my stomach erupted with ulcers.
I would eat sour patch kids until
my stool was black with blood
and my lips cracked down to my chin.
I would **** on lemons until my teeth fell out,
and my eyes watered like when I was standing
at my mother's funeral.
Man, even if I didn't give a **** about anything else,
I would always love sour things.

The road of indecisiveness
is paved with dead squirrels.

I started on a high enough rung
To be able to see everything
Caught in the momentum
Focused solely on climbing

One day a loved one fell
Above, her rungs ran dry
And I finally looked down
To meet a million other's eyes

That's when I realized
It wasn't just a climb
It is infinite skies
Of other people lives

So instead of reaching
For the next step above my head
Maybe I should be lending
Those below me a hand instead

Because at the end of the day
None of us make it to the top

It's been more difficult
lately
to separate from my thoughts.

Don't believe poetry.

A dip,
quick.
Maybe more
than just
the tip.
I want to
take a dip
in your
rushing waters.
I want to
get wet.
Come, and
soak me.
Kiss me.
***** me.
I want to
give you
something.
I want to
leave marks.
Your skin
as my canvas,
this is my art.
I'll take the pain
from paint,
I'll take the rush
out of brush.
I'll take handfuls,
I want to
pull you apart.
I want to feel
the beating
of your heart.
I want to grasp
your mind,
I want to hear
that you're
only mine.
I want to see
me, reflected
in your eyes.
I'll take handfuls,
and I'll take
my **** time.

Ma'am now don't you see?
This conversation,
As fulfilling as it may be,
Try to keep it short and sweet,
Because I got business at the bottom.

Close your eyes, come with me.
Flying south on vacation,
Landing strip lined up beneath,
My tongue, my mouth, my teeth,
I got business at the bottom.

That little strip of tissue
Connecting my tongue
To the bottom of my mouth
Is all torn up.

Every time I feel it,
The pain tastes like pleasure
And my mouth waters
In anticipation for more.

Guess you don't need
Drugs and alcohol
To hate yourself,

But boy they sure do
Make it a lot easier.

It's a silent desperation.
like screaming underwater,
or sobbing into a pillow.

It's like I'm living my life
on the razor-fine edge
of complete abandonment.

Is today the day
that I throw my phone away,
and turn up missing?

How long will it take
to hire my replacement
at work?

You can knock all you want
but there's no one home,
my apartment will be empty.

You'll find my car at the curb,
my wallet and keys on my desk,
but you won't find me.

I'll be gone.




Then I wake up,
shower,
and head to work again.

Slice of nothing
empty plate
piles of vacancy
cover the horizon
population zero
still cities
quiet interstates
heaping helpings
devoid of substance
fistful of fingers
garbled signals
snow and static
white noise
no noise at all

Gimme gimme
snow and stasis
thought not
vacuum head
intellectual parasites starve to death
digging their teeth deeper into my scalp
desperate for a taste of ******* something.

Shallow waters
jean pools
denim sheets
flannel curtains
clouded windows
hazy eyes
breadth of sun
shining light upon
nothing.

A snag
A home for a rat
Or a squirrel
A nest of wasps
A termite colony
Snakeskin litters the ground
Mushrooms bloom
The soil itself swells
In gratitude

Life begets life
Death is inviting
And leaves more room
For the living
Life begets life
Rot is food
Hollow with skittering,
Echoes of chewing
Death begets life
Circles and circles
And circles again

It started with a knife,
light chopping. Hunting for a seam.
Up on the counter now,
cleaving more vigorously.

It stood fast,
hardened hairy shell
mocking me bitterly.

I went from a chop
to a stab,
the knife bent
and it rolled off with a laugh.

Away I stormed,
with one thing in mind.
I returned and in my claw
was a hammer of the same kind.

Poised again, the countertop
now begging me to stop,
I started to swing and
it was more effective than the chops.

A crack here, a glancing blow.
Water splashed out
to and fro.

When at last I found a seam
just large enough to
force my fingers between.

With a mighty grunt and roar,
finally in twain;
the fortified fruit I tore.

Sweating and bleeding I sighed,
no wonder people stranded
on deserted islands die.

Yellow socks,
they used to be white.
Stiff enough to kick rocks,
what a delight.

The relationship between
Vivid, bright honesty to strangers,
And living white lies with those you love.

It's fun
Finding someone uninvolved
And telling them
All the things
You can't tell yourself,
Showing them
The pieces of you
That you lie about
To everyone else,
That you lie about
To those that you love,
To those that love you.

The comfort of complacency,
The smooth flow of denial,
The willful ignorance,
For the sake of continuance
Down the path of least resistance,
That leads to nowhere but the grave.

When in the end
It's the hard way out,
The difficult decisions,
That lead to freedom.

The hidden truths
I've been ignoring
Are the only things
That really matter.

Over thought,
Under done.

Undecided Decisiveness,
Choosing placidity
In place of catastrophe.

It's all in your head.

When I'm swollen and pulsing,
the roundish spot on your hip,
your skin under my fingers,
my tongue between your lips,
light from the setting sun
spread across our tangled limbs,
bits of lavender I keep finding,
your perky peaks beneath the sheets,
my tender remnants in your hands,
the congruent mixture we make
on those certain kind of days.

Paint me in your purples and pink,
and I'll soak it in.

I stepped on the clutch and shifted out of neutral,
flicked my headlights on and checked my mirrors
then eased out of my parking spot on the dark street.
The morning was brisk and damp with precipitation,
I enjoyed the rhythm of my intermittent wipers
and reached for the little unbreakable comb that I
always keep in the tray on top of the dashboard.
I combed the snags and tangles out of my beard
as the oversized tires beneath me ate up the road
in a grumbling monotone hum of rubber and asphalt.
I combed you out of my beard and replayed last night
in my mind, the dim lights and low music wafting
through my memory like a breeze through a window
that rustles the curtains and shuffles papers around.
I smiled at the sunrise peeking over the mountains.
The naked mountains, the purple-pink tie-dye sky.
I smiled at the sunlight in my eyes, at the instinctual
way my eyes squinted and my hand reached up for
the visor over my head and swung it down just right.
I smiled at the prospect of the day, at the implications
of the previous evening spent swimming in her eyes.
I smiled at the idea of tomorrow, and the next day,
and all the months and years I've yet to experience.
I smiled while I drove.

Sometimes, sometimes sometimes sometimes.

Sometimes it's hard
To not feel like a false man.
I work hard, I pay my bills.
But still,
It can feel like I
Don't believe myself.

When I put my boots on in the morning
I feel like a child trying on his father's boots,
I feel like I'm pretending.

I didn't do any of this on my own,
This apartment, this career,
Everything I've ever done.

I just got lucky.

Who am I
Living my
Life for?

Am I living my life for me?
Or for this imaginary person
That I think I aught to be?

Maybe it doesn't matter,
This over complication
Detracts from the simplicity
Of just doing. Just being.

I should give a **** less,
Lighten up.
Don't take it all
So
Seriously.

She stepped in,
As she was stepping out.
Not that it's her fault,
That's not what it's about.

Seems seldom indeed,
That I've felt so in need
Of this kind of company.
Where does this leave me?
Somewhere distant,
Some how resistant?
There's change in the air.
These winds tousle my hair
And carry a faint scent
Of bitter self resentment,
But that's no reason
To waste my favorite season.

So let's go for a walk
Through the woods,
And we can just talk
If that sounds good.

I love you silly
with your jaw jutted out
and your lips smushed up
and your eyes crossed.
I love you silly,
when you make me laugh
you also make my heart sing.

It's my fault.

Always has been,
always will be.

But I'll try my damnedest
to come up with a good excuse.
To push all the blame on to you.

Above the circling hawks,
Above the flattened cubes
Of corporate brick and mortar.
From here the people
All look like locust,
Swarming the asphalt
And coursing the concrete.
From here the sunlight
Glints off of a thousand
Cars, glass and paint.
It twinkles a bit,
And I'm reminded
Of the ocean.
Waves beneath us,
Silently crashing
Their way through life.
Stand with me
On this vista,
This precipice,
And let's just watch
For a little while.
Dressed in
The colors
Of the rising sun,
You're the perfect
Contrast up here
On the coal bank.

Nothing,
I mean nothing,
Wakes you up in the morning
Like some dude locking up his brakes
Two cars ahead of you on the interstate.

I don't care how tired you are,
How hungover you are,
How little you slept...
When you're going 80 miles an hour
And someone locks it up like that in front of you,
You immediately turn into Dale Earnhardt.
You're wide awake, checking your mirrors,
Heart pounding out of your chest.
You haven't checked your mirrors in like, 10 miles.
You're locking eyes
With the dude in the car next to you,
Hand in the air
With an expression of
"Did you just see that ******* ****?!"
On your face.

Then when you finally make it
To wherever you're going,
You can handle anything!
Ain't **** bothering you after a wake-up call
Like that. It's honestly liberating.
Food tastes a little better,
Being grateful is a little easier,
And life seems just a little bit brighter.

Coffee, take a seat.
With people driving that way,
I don't need no coffee.
And the next time you're feeling
A little too tired on your morning commute,
Don't forget,
I'll be matting the brakes
At mile marker 137
To wake your *** up, too.

I expected to wait my whole life away.
Never thought that bird would return home.
What if.
What if she didn't have meaning
tied in a note around her leg?
What if I was happy
to have some anguish to relish in?

Do I tend?
Pick something up off
the floor of my memory?
Do I find something new,
yet long gone,
to ascribe my longing for?
To apply my doubt to?
What if anguish has always been here,
untapped and brimming,
and I just keep picking things
to soak in it.

I fear it was never the bird having flown,
that brought me to such depths.
I fear I've been living in these depths all along,
and just finding reasons to persist there.

Silence echoes,
yet it sounds like laughter.