I was the one
That had your back all of these years
But something snapped inside
I was tired of all the lies

How you'd-
Be with me
Come to me
But

All the excuses
You made
Not to be in my corner
When I needed you the most....

And now I-
let you go
Because it's whats best for you
It's whats best for me

After all the girls-
After all the guys-
I ended up
Right back at your side

But I guess
This is-
what's best

Because
All the excuses
You made
Were just
Getting in the way

Of what is-
Best for you
What is best for me

Please stop trusting me.
I love you but you think that's a good thing.
It's not.

Stay away from me.
Don't you know that I'm poison?
I am.

Things don't work out for me.
You say someday they will.
They won't.

I love you so much more than you could ever know.
Go away.

Your rage erodes
through your smiling teeth
and makes holes in
your throat,
spluttering
corrosive through your hearty laugh.
Your rage is like battery acid on your tongue
fueling your acerbic words.

My rage is rope making the ring in which
me, myself and I
battle it out in my head
cyclically.
My rage is a steely triad of me, myself and I
in my mind,
a metal mental instrumental
triangle tapping incessantly
ringing the ting ting ting of
soft subtle slurs.

Our rage is visceral.
Eternally internally infernal,
crackling embers dying within
leaving us shells of ourselves -
warm bodies with blackened ash souls
daring not to breathe should someone notice the smoke.

Like a constant meditation,
in between my daily to-do list,
thoughts of the weather,
what I was going to eat next,
deep inhales,
and seemingly interminable exhales,
he was the mantra my mind would default to.

*~Ohm is where my heart is

I write  poems for people endowing love,
It would be comforting to receive one instead, for a change

Here is an apology
For each tear, every cut on your heart
And everything you feel you deserve one for
But never got.

Here is that apology which couldn’t reach you before
For your lost years, or lost months, or lost weeks
For the sound your bones make when you pull up from a non-sleep
To join another meaningless chase.
For the voice that no more chokes
On hearing, or saying, the word sorry
For your uncontrollable sobs of yesteryear
The memories of which you’ve swept under your chest
To be crushed by the burden of this same meaningless chase we know nothing about.

I cannot mend what is lost
I cannot even change what got wasted but I can hope
And I do. I hope for peace to find you and provide you with just as more strength as you need
Just more strength, as always,
Until you become your hero.
Again. Only this time more truly.

With love.

“What is love?”*
A question that swirled around my brain for hours. 

Love was just a fancy word for meaning “getting ****** over”…

Until I met you.

When I would love, it was never sober.

I didn’t know when to put the bottle down, to say enough was enough…

Until I met you.

When my lover went down on me, 

My ******* were bluff…

Until I met you.

If someone ever asked about my lover,

I would freeze up and say, “ask him for yourself?”…

Until I met you.

Making love was always a chore,

So boring and unsatisfactory…

Until I met you.

How was I ever going to get out of this never ending loop-hole called “love”? 

It was the moment I caught your eyes gazing at me from across the seats of that smelly, old bus.
It was the moment when your words became my favorite song. 

It was the moment I couldn’t stop staring at how blue and beautiful your eyes were.

It was the moment I wanted to say “I love you”, but couldn’t…

Art is the structure of currency,
Money holds a value even though it itsn't worth the paper its printed on.

What created its existence was a question.
What is the value of anything?

Art became the price of life , enslaved by its creators, Art was now controlled by the very thing we were creating, Money

Slave unto itself , by the media they made , controlled by the makers of our own creation we were fed.

What was fed became federal,
reserved for times value for the measure of work it takes to keep life sustained.

Life cannot be without money, just as money can not be without art or there is no Trade.