My depression is like being on fire and putting out the flames is hard cause it's like an oil fire where normal tactics don't work.

People will try and give me advice. "STOP. DROP. ROLL" Which in any fire situation is super helpful advice and I'm super thankful someone tried to help me out at all.

So I'm rolling around in flames now and nothing is happening to cease the anxiety. Literally I feel like it's getting worse the more I roll around on the ground with my peers still shouting out advice or better ways to roll.

Now some are so kind that they may roll around with me to show me how easily done it is to dismiss the feelings and 3rd degree burns but really it's a disaster.

A community of rollers find me and we chat online and share rolling techniques and controversies of fire related deaths, support systems and rallies to end our fires by government mandated fire extinguishers for everyone. The fire hurts less that day.

Weeks are going by and I'm here still on fire but now there is a heard of rolling people with me, rolling like potato bugs or how people roll playdoh. Whom inadvertently draw in more people and experts on fire to give advice and some kind enough to roll around as well but they aren't there just for me but because people see their loved ones on the ground rolling, so they assume they are on fire too. Which is great, please help us.

So now news sparks of awareness scortching the nation that people are on fire. So campaigns are established and wristbands with "STOP. DROP. ROLL." on them being sold. Celebrties rolling on TV, talking about their oil fires. Have weeks like, "People on fire Awareness week" and petitions for every American getting the divine chance to get their own fire extinguisher covered by an agreed medical plan.  Which then people who think the fire is a lie gain a voice, even when talking to people on fire. They claim false accusations and attention seeking from lazy rolling people. Also a small group  of nihilist emerge with the belief of letting the flames **** people. No one listens to the nihilist, thankfully.

This all creates this unique  debate of flaming people ethics between multiple sides. People rolling. People showing people how to roll. People debating on the technique of the roll. The people who want people to have fire extinguishers provided by the government. Those who disagree with the concept of fire and then those who don't have an opinion or want the world to burn. Yet still even with all the coverage, attention and debate people a still on fire and no one is bothering to ask how.

So back to me still hot with embers but not feeling so warm. Dissociate deeper with bubbled skin but come to it enough to address my problem even though I am discouraged by all the attention people on fire have been getting and internally debating on if I am burning that bad.

I live with burn marks and scars but i dream of one day having the ability and strength, to jump into a body of water and cool off with steam blistering off my skin and smile back at those who roll and say "I'm fine and you can be too."

All I ever need is time and a cool place to ease my flames.

I dont fair for personalities of cult cookie cutters aesthetics.

It was never what you are, only who.

But people are who,

and attack what.

They wear red and blue,

And rainbows too.

Surely a color or a shade is there for me,

Of course,

Grey...

Boring blend.

Not loud,

Not a trend.

Nothing to talk about.

Just sitting silent 2 am surrounded.

By colors,

The violent offended.

I wouldn't say in the middle is for me,

No I don't fair for the aesthetic personalities.

All these colors and directions weren't vacant,

Grey,

Blank in the cold up for the taking.

Grey.

Buried beneath the colors and ignored by light.

Grey.

Old screens

All Grey.

And left alone.

That's my party.

I don't fair for aesthetics and personality.

Cookie cutter cults,

Grey on an old screen.

Reruns in color.

When does "it" start?
That thing that adults said.
I don't think I am cut out for "it."
I'm a sap to be appreciated
I'll keep up with appearances
For now.

For now I'm going to be the best at being
Me.

Brothers and sisters,
I sit warding cynical language to the illumination of my desktop.
Bartering darkness with small doses of snickering blank stares.
My pretention is strength.

Mediocre-core, I dub my passages.
Incomparable senseless steads I ride in stanzas
Through time, He was once a child warrior.
So masculine before now.
I wouldn’t call balance a chance but a imperfect standard.

All ball, no beam.
Steps are often not taking for balance.
I burden myself with Erie

Lake of which my family took refuge in supply
Something I wouldn’t understand
Traumatized by cold weather let alone starving.
Burnt tires in my nostrils in protest to movement  
I fund my own campaign of self deprecation
Laughing at my own actions,
unkindly ripping myself apart.

The smiles I paint on paper faces are bleeding ink
Smearing on my hands, red dripping from gums.
I am laughing.
That’s how he would of wanted me.
To see me smile.
So cynical and backwashed blood in my water.

He argued who should laugh at his jokes.
At his mishaps.
At his blunders.
At his failures.

He said it was “for him”.
"That’s what it is", belly juggled in hiccups of air.

“I am the man who laughs at himself.
If I can make myself laugh I am happy.
Not a jester for common cynics.
I AM Scaramouche in MY play.
The king is me.
The queen is too.
The crowd is amateurs looking for my intoxication.
I will give them tastes of beer but I drink from the tap.”

Thus bent over and *** crack smiles flatulence, hyena and exit.
Regular here, a Griffin in abuse to my sides.

My uncle.

I woke in shock vibrations from my screen.
Forensic analysis deduced irregularities as the time provided evidence.
This was not a humorous hour.
I spun in my current room
Dreading sheets over the sun.
Pulling lashes out of my eyes.
I lost the battle to the hour and checked the joke.

My sister said it wasn't funny.
He wasn’t laughing when he left us.
He did get the last laugh and on no ones terms.
I wonder if that was something he can remember
Chuckling excessively in waves of inhales.

No one laughed at his side rigorous.
Not a single smile in the room.
As 1200 miles of anxiety took me to his grave.
Waking in California sunshine and resting in Buffalo wind.

I wasn’t a funny person compared to my well rested uncle.
He unveiled a Irish swagger in a ballroom of stuffed necks.
My uncle broke the rules for Carpe Diem, pushing comfort aside.
One by one, family members dismissed my clown.
They were ashamed of themselves, they can't laugh.
They don’t know how to laugh.
Such seizures of breathe at his own voice.
You were in the ensemble yourself, seizures and grasping.
Your stiff neck with red anxiety,
feeling the palms and stares of relatives beating your face.

"**** 'em!"

As I lose sight of my surroundings
I imagined him for the last time explaining the world to me;

"Look at all of this limited moments
No TIME!
No REASON!
**** trying to be stiffed neck down to your *** crack!
You don't have an *** to begin with!"

My Uncle, the Meta-modernists first.
I doubt he even would care to know what that even means.
And I loved him for that raw innocence.
Sheila LaBeouf  could of learned what infamy really was;

One 12 pack,
A BBQ
Horse **** Country for suburbs.
And my uncles shadow.
With that he was never alone in blue skies or gray

Juggling blubbering soul, translating to joy.
I didn't hear sobs, just sobering up.
I feel so clueless now since I turn back on my chair,
Documenting my Uncles success in influence.
I picture shakes coming from his rest, hallow rest.
Uncertain to if it is the snores or alertness of his nephew, taking refuge in his teachings.

I am a drowning man, in a pool of bodies that most men would go to another dimension for.

I am in a sea complaining about thirst while men live in deserts.

I been atop of mountains of pleasures.
Valleys of thighs and handfuls of sensations.

My mouth is full and I’ll still claim to be starving.

I’m an ungrateful little boy with an empty bowl of ice cream after devouring it.

Im a black hole ******* in a galaxy of time and space and my eagerness is a rampage.

I’m one privileged **** away from pornographic Mount Rushmore and I’ll ask for a bigger head on film.

So what is my problem?

My problem is all I ever wanted was to be wanted.

All I ever needed was to be one persons desire.

One finger to touch me and kiss my innards.
Spit into my face real companionship.


Somebody to hold it all against me with the cheapest pick up line. I love you.

I ****** my way to the top of my problems.

And I cannot unfuck myself out of the past but I can prevail in her presence and forgive myself a little each day she wakes up next to me.

I am so lucky to have her.

I must learn to hate myself less than how much she loves me.

That’s my problem.

I’m complete but I still feel completely guilty.

Posting is a hard time for me as I have posted myself in a T shape martyr for the benefit of my own well being. My own ego stroke. No more.

Not for the last few years.

My mental health sings sober for the first time.

I have become boring.
I am no longer a woe.

I am smoothed brain.
A Normal-Bob.

I tried to be somebody through words and ended up with nothing to say.

My cliche is showing where I thought my heart would be.

Today I am happy. Tomorrow too.
I’m willing to try again.

This sober love affair with words.

No cheating with a drink or a smoke.

It’s just me and the world now.

We are polluted but in love.

It’s worth trying.

America

I saw people crying gas, shedding rubber bullets, while sinking under the law

America you act as you missed a mark and they are essential to a red dot on a forehead.

Target me if you will.

You colored me sour milk long ago.

Spoiled eggnog at room temperature on a consumerist Christmas morning.

And that makes people like me rotten to you.

**** your brand
and expiration,
**** your synthetic hormones.
**** your led.

Take back your cammo and trauma.

America everyone watched you hold him under knee for 7 mins on YouTube.
Pleading to let go,
Gas tears justice out of their sockets and breathe.

America you watched men go to prison and didn’t protest.

America you are more concerned over buying Christmas out of toilet paper.

America there isn’t a **** good intention you won’t red line into the direction of hell.

America why did it take two months for a black man to jog into news relevance?

Why did I learn just last year about a book that directed my friends grandparents to where it is safe to drive their family or go on trips to avoid trouble?

America who writes history?

America, why are you always confused and looking at me, wondering who I am talking about?

Always a privilege to forget and then sweep.

It’s always my privilege to just sleep.

My privilege to watch them die in safety.

My privilege to watch them be detained.

My privilege to only write about it

And my privilege to watch it not be me.

The milk is burning and there is pepper in my lungs.

I tuned out Americana
and gave my knee with Colin
and held up my fist.
And my friends.
And I held them into the air
and showed you they exist.

They are you.
You are them.

America you were there and watched me hold him

And saw his eyes rolled back,

Dripping with milk.

America you gasped and covered your masked mouth with me.

You flinched as you saw the boy in my hands.

Such a young boy.

He breathed and cried gas.

And he still demanded more.

In his eyes,

milk white.

He wanted more.

He wanted to be back in there.

But America you wanted more,
and swept the milk and black under the rug.

Body shaped mounds under your towns foyer rug.

No wonder why you trip every other step and it costs so much.

America, why is 12 and 13  embroidered on it?  How much for that?

Why do you wear boots indoors and why do they look licked clean?

America why only one month of excellence is allowed when it’s everyday?

Does economics have to have victims?

Where do you get the money for the rugs but not the streets?

It wasn’t self made and stop saying it was.

It was billions of lives stolen and
now  money is no good.

We don’t take chips off of black backs.

We will not rehabilitate your withdrawal from slavery.

America this is only one symptom.

America you are diagnosed and the rug is molding, stiff rigor Mortis

You are and will always be
Rustin,
Johnson,
Young,
X and King.

You are and always will be
Floyd,
Meech,
Harris the 3rd,
Meek Mills,
And Bland.

America you took black and used it for green.

So why do you keep shooting yourself?

What did preparing for war do for peace?

On whose tab?

Did you need blood to ink a dollar?

Or you milking me for it?

America you gun pointed porches and red dotted foreheads,

while they stood hand-in-hand on court steps between your blue lives with black lives risking what matters.

America when will you call this a suicide attempt?

We are sick of being depressed and you are a tree with many branches blacking the sun.

Are you gonna hang with them this time, America?

Or take score beneath a moldy rug you have the privilege of walking all over?

America, the rug doesn’t even cover the floor.

Bare it all onto blank sheets or black and fill it all up with what the universe is  made up of; something that matters.

Today I am a stubborn nail and the world naturally carries hammers so here we are, stud.

But I have one too, so like we're good?

But being a contradiction wasn't enough to me I wanted to be a cliche. I wanted physical proof I am not well. They say it's all in your head, but like if it's actually in your head, it's still something they can't see so it's not there, stud.

But I can't hammer this tumor to a wall and call myself fine, This is useless to me.

A nail has been given a hammer and I was told to “see what happens”.

Naturally I want to swing.

I'm like you.

I don't enjoy breakdowns.

I find a nail sticking out of a wall annoying too.

But I know I just can't hit myself with a hammer to feel better.

And like that;
It was midnight again.

Nothing new

There wasn't anything cured;
nor there was anything new.

It was just midnight.
And everyone cheered around me.


Happy to be alive. Or for a moment aware of life.


While I stared at midnight,

into its face.

No TICKS to mock me.
Nor a TOCKING back apathy,
to me.

We both had a moment...

          ... alone

for the last time.


And nothing special came from it.

It was perfect.
Almost like it didn't happen.

Taste is 5 letters long and
I'm feeling all 5 senses on my tongue

Your refreshing lips
Your porcelain smooth fetish of my aches harbors
Your calls echoing and waving into the bay between my ports
The sight up to the sunlight blossoming flowers in your rolled eyes.
The blues and white foam breathing into me.

I want you how you want me.

In between gasping for truth.

Blitzing language and foreign words only your body can understand with my mouth.

I'm so lame
And you are the pinnacle of sway swagger and justice before the judge and executioner
And I am Sisyphus before Hades and Persephone, pleading one last chance to beseech my love of a gaze into her eyes before I am ****** to punishment for trickery.
To con myself into your arms and feel what life was really meant for.

Babylons eroded
Mesopotamia flooded.
Egypt dried
And America polluted.

Murderers and heroes.
Gods are liars
Man tell the best stories
Women dream reality
UFOs are from Earth

Life is Hell.

You are becoming the last person alive to have a pulse and not a cellphone charger.

You are the last voice I heard ever and the one I only needed.

Time are pieces of papers before fire.

And I use matches to unlock doors and free myself of guilt.

I cannot control floods or the turning of the earth.

I can only speak for fires sake.

I can only speak for tomorrow, if I gain a spark for today.

We can burn it all down
And kick the sand in the deserts around the Nile.

Or banish Gods
And scorn men.
And let women dream.

You can live in Babylon or live back between the Tigris and Euphrates.

Or drink from America's murk.

But we are looking at these keys blazing.

And never looking back, dropping them in doorways.

To ash our cigarettes in the rubble of yesterdays pain.

Together.

Boy, oh boy
Will boys be boys
And oh boy, that’s gross to say,

I at least get that,
I mean I try to but here’s to trying

Kind of like trying to speak for women
Or anyone that isn’t you,
you should just not do that…

There’s a difference in defense for the good of all
And then, there’s what we were talking about 50 ******* years ago

Oh, excuse me 30 ******* years ago,
Last ******* year…
2 ******* days ago…
OK RIGHT THE **** NOW…

But I really want to go back to 69
Oh, The Summer of love…
Or the summer of forcing a woman to go to court over the ability to receive an abortion only to be decided by a group of old men if she has any rights over her body to receive a safe medical procedure, all while  the media doing no one any favors guiding a blind division nationally between people and God fearing busy bodies, calling her names and questioning her character as a responsible person, in a not very god-fearing tone, all while forcing Ms. McCorvey again, to get burned more for prolonging an unwanted pregnancy due to waiting on a decision that is determined in court by that aforementioned group of men, which is like the sportsman’s equivalent of just killing the clock to win a game but it isn’t a ******* game it’s a woman’s body, which clearly they didn’t care anything about just as long as they get that **** baby in the next 6 months or so, but as stated above it is indeed unwanted, so really who is going to take care of the ******* baby because we know how much people just love adopting ******* children?
Let’s ask 25 republicans!

But some people talk of 69 differently,

Some remember the Beatles.
Some recall Charles Manson.

Kind of like today
Some say we are putting god back in our government
And The rest of us in 1972 to 2019 are wondering who the **** invited god?
I never knew God and every white person’s, “one uncle” has the same opinion.
Amazing!
But Uncle Alabama shouldn’t speak for God.
Wait until he finds out she’s a woman.
That’d be a kick to the unregulated nuts we can just spew anywhere, like a natural ******* disaster.

That’s what the name of this ******* poem should be,
but it’s not.

Sincere, *******.
That’s what I call this one,
That’s what I call the last 2 and half years too.
And this poem.

And telling women what to do with their bodies.

Some people would think differently.
But I don’t think some people think.

I woke up with a universe dried to my hands.

Post observable,
Post ****** of;

    water,
    seed,
    death

and
fingernails,

scratching at a birth canal.

Who is hungry?

In support of health
tired, my mind body and soul
Goodbye to you noise

The lie is in the mirror and on our screen.
That like button lies to you
Social media is a salesperson
Each photo uploaded is expired meat
Sold as butchers choice.
We are all tagged and complacent on the block
Glee to be valued and chopped.

Every like charges dopamine into a dope-fiends melancholy viens.
I'm high and heart-liked, thus beautiful.

Where's the button to scream?

When did I become disposable income?
I was so poor,
I know I must of seemed like a steal.
My bones are made of dehydrated milk and skin of a mothers welfare.

Support came with regrets, you know.
But how you managed to squeeze a penny from a SNAP of my belly-

You must be good with money
How you,
Leave pockets empty with no change
not even a wallet with a memory to care

Eat your heart out through an ***, Jeff Bezos.
Silver spoon deeply exempted and certainly a love affair.
Don't choke on *** of cold hard ****
It's free of charge,

I can't even save a seat for my fathers cooking;
(also dehydrated and distant in taste and substance)
let alone read a book written on saving money for someone special.

I had a bid in those texts you invested in
I hope you are rich and get all the love
Certainly someone must.
Cause I feel I am getting hungry
And you are getting,

delicious.

5 people just before a walk.

1 decides to stay;
Separate from the flock.

4  people out in the shade
1 saw her shadow and out she plays

3 people who don't want to be alone
2 begun to march and left the other on his own.

1 person out in the cold
Sad and lonely, he goes home.

I watch actors make rules to love only to break and reshape when others enter stage.

How many walls to build to break?

4th
16th,
64?

Solar eclipse wore the chorus
like the string show,
that pulls on his connected joints to the plot.

Sandbags releasing more tension
than stent  
   to artery
       to a heart,
a BURST
               of emotion across this platform,
       rain into the audiences eyes in musical crimson cascade shards of glass for sentimental effects...

That plunger pulled precision ******
from the veins of the actor,
shamed to have said, "I love you", ever again.

Shame on the red spector , the actor and the writer. All shadow, casting doubt into what it means to relate,
to touch.

June 29th, 2017
It’s been 1 year, 4 months and 19 days.
For 1 year, 4 months and 19 days.
Count the acidic tree rings
Nearly 504;
Bright
A.m. eyes
On East Ferry,
in contrast of noir
I say, man;
June 29th, 2017.

It’s time to get a new calendar,
Cause I count 5,000 dollars later
and not a sense of a cent
was fined for my remorse.

I’ve been fine and fined.
Holes in my pockets
dropping seeds of change
planting fines

Into puddles
and potholes
showing deep interest
into the alignment of my car
stalling my engine with debts.

19,000 dollars and growing later;
I learned what trigger warnings cost
and ironically
I wrote a paper on it.

Don’t get me, wrong I am grateful
But, I had to rip holes
into all my jean pockets.
I mean, **** it,
I never had much going in
And I should quit smoking
My lighter is dead
Only blue and red
Sparks lived well in my mirrors
On, June 29th, 2017.


From the wall I was chained to,
I enrolled into college
My mom drove me home from my first class.
My lawyer wasn’t much of a lecturer,
He spoke math for 1,400 dollars

250 and 9 weeks.
106 a month for 52.

That’s enough math for this semester.

I drank with my night instructor on Mondays after 9,
He wanted to hear my music
We drank whiskey salted potholes on Allen
I counted his tree rings to 4/4 measure in regret;
20 years steady.

I graduated on a Tuesday morning,
I didn’t call him back to thank him for the irony.

I acknowledged our acidic rings
With glass cheered laughter
Swallowing thanks for each other’s company.
9 weeks and I don’t recall ever leaving the room.
43 went after,

And today life is that,
Paid for in lessons,
No need for pockets

I am those potholes
bumping coffee all over me
20 mins late to my first class.
I can repave them
but they won’t stay filled
It’s OK to want smoother roads to school.
I’m late but I’m here

I’m a mess.
******* would see art.
People have his eyes on me.
I want to be framed and splattered
on the walls of your home
A household mess .
It’s OK to have a passion.

Look into my tree rings
How old am I?
Its restorative to count
27 rings of rebirth
Look at me still growing
I believe I can grow in Paradise-lost fire
Or in Buffalo salt

I am my flaws
I counted them

My alcohol abuse,
One beat of 2,653 in 2017
I don’t know how to put an apology
On a music sheet.


The Jazz fills my potholes in the morning
before these hallways

My grey area is stained glass in Villas library,
Each step is eclectic
From shoe up and over is stand still art

Lighters flash cigarettes burning
But prints pictures of thankful new memories

With all of you in it.
Thank you for helping me with today’s date.

My depression is like being on fire and putting out the flames is hard cause it's like an oil fire where normal tactics don't work.

People will try and give me advice. "STOP. DROP. ROLL" Which in any fire situation is super helpful advice and I'm super thankful someone tried to help me out at all.

So I'm rolling around in flames now and nothing is happening to cease the anxiety. Literally I feel like it's getting worse the more I roll around on the ground with my peers still shouting out advice or better ways to roll.

Now some are so kind that they may roll around with me to show me how easily done it is to dismiss the feelings and 3rd degree burns but really it's a disaster.

A community of rollers find me and we chat online and share rolling techniques and controversies of fire related deaths, support systems and rallies to end our fires by government mandated fire extinguishers for everyone. The fire hurts less that day.

Weeks are going by and I'm here still on fire but now there is a heard of rolling people with me, rolling like potato bugs or how people roll playdoh. Whom inadvertently draw in more people and experts on fire to give advice and some kind enough to roll around as well but they aren't there just for me but because people see their loved ones on the ground rolling, so they assume they are on fire too. Which is great, please help us.

So now news sparks of awareness scortching the nation that people are on fire. So campaigns are established and wristbands with "STOP. DROP. ROLL." on them being sold. Celebrties rolling on TV, talking about their oil fires. Have weeks like, "People on fire Awareness week" and petitions for every American getting the divine chance to get their own fire extinguisher covered by an agreed medical plan.  Which then people who think the fire is a lie gain a voice, even when talking to people on fire. They claim false accusations and attention seeking from lazy rolling people. Also a small group  of nihilist emerge with the belief of letting the flames **** people. No one listens to the nihilist, thankfully.

This all creates this unique  debate of flaming people ethics between multiple sides. People rolling. People showing people how to roll. People debating on the technique of the roll. The people who want people to have fire extinguishers provided by the government. Those who disagree with the concept of fire and then those who don't have an opinion or want the world to burn. Yet still even with all the coverage, attention and debate people a still on fire and no one is bothering to ask how.

So back to me still hot with embers but not feeling so warm. Dissociate deeper with bubbled skin but come to it enough to address my problem even though I am discouraged by all the attention people on fire have been getting and internally debating on if I am burning that bad.

I live with burn marks and scars but i dream of one day having the ability and strength, to jump into a body of water and cool off with steam blistering off my skin and smile back at those who roll and say "I'm fine and you can be too."

All I ever need is time and a cool place to ease my flames.

In an epidemic of black eyes
Cyclops people lose.

                                          A right
of passage into womanhood is

a HANDS ON
approach.

                                           A right
hook with a bow tie in the
        
                Vmiddle Knuckle.

  L
      O
   V
  E

From index to pinky
And all over her body.

Seeing this from one eye
Is the luck of having two.

"Thank you.", I say.

With half my mouth in silence
As muted screams escape the smothering hand that says LOVE.

We Shepard children,
we raise them on farms.
When it's time to ask them for identity, they form into clouds.

How can we ask them to identify self in an overcast?
Can you see an adult when they experience rain?

I see children in coats holding hands, Staying in line.

I see the Shepard staff,
Still at large.

Automated to wind by reaction.
Punishable and feared.

Straight line children
Along the fence

Straight line children
Group project: independence.

Happy Mother's Day
to all you momma's.
Independent,
Strong,
Hard to find.
Knee deep in crumbs
On all fours sticking to the floors,
Still able to bench diapers
And my *******.
And to all their Momma's too.

All you new Momma's,
Soon to be Momma's,
To my boys baby Momma's.
All you Momma's full of drama.
Sensational Momma's,
Smoking hot Momma's.
Past Momma's,
Grand Momma's,
Earth Momma's,
Outta sight, space cadet Momma's.

You, time traveling Momma's .
You, hair dying chameleon;
Momma's.
You, extreme,
You, soul relief,
You, highly elite,
You, out of reality,
And in my dreams
Momma's. 
You heart deafening,
Eye crossing,
Hand numbing,
Cosmic beckoning.
Momma's.

To my sister; a new Momma,
To my older sister; seasoned Momma.
To my;
Step,
Bio,
Grand,
Adopted,
And future.

Thank you for being the message this man wouldn't of heard without you.

I want to apologize,
Ahead of time
for my, my,
My isolation

I'm certain you've heard it before
If I have to leave I must go
Don't judge me for my, my
My miscommunication

I'm not trying to bring you down with me
If I have to go, just let me leave

Don't want this to be so melancholy
I just want to be lost with nobody

Don't let me bring you down.
I just can't care anymore.

I been so carried up, with all these affairs,
all these stupid affairs
That don't fair with me

I can't complain about a predators trap
If I lazied in her hungry attack

But lately, please excuse me,
And the stomach aches
It's been acidlicy displeasing living as her bait

I'm just trying to make it all by myself
Without that woman, that lady, my mistakes

Don't let me bring you down.
I just can't care anymore

That woman came and get me
And then left my heart to break
I feel the pound gate closing
I feel the cage just the same
It must be so easy to let a man fade
Oh, I'll just hurt you just like that scarred day
Next time someone loves me
You'll be making all the mistakes

Don't let me bring you down
I can't care anymore.

Every child broken into a crayon box colours the same.

Jimmy and Bill would know.

The Knight time radio.
Their Daytime TV.

Technology gave us colour in our boxes for entertainment
And Two turn tables to scratch out the screaming.

55 inches in HD wasn't big enough to scribble on

Perfect reception but no one listened to the colours snap.

No one bothered to question why the paper is off the crayon.

I think of all those lost crayolas
being used for shadowing.

A cover inside a cover,
where pages should be in a book.

And here we are,
still drawing in black and white.

Lets get back together.
I swear this time will be it.

Lets get back together.
My god, how I couldn't exist.

Let's get back together.
Not because it's 3 a.m. and I'm lonely.

Lets get back together,
I was meant for you and you for me.

Lets get back together,
This time I won't leave or cheat.

Lets get back together
I won't text other girls to meet.

Lets get back together,
cause you complete-

"No."

But I love...

"No."
...

...

******* too, I NEVER LOVED YOU !

Simplest of names,
So plain, But how I love to say it
A promise for warmth in igloo block prison eyes
And tone of Daria,
just whelmed enough to respond
A chance of sarcasm is air
Venom in plain daylight.

Plain tone.
Plain mood.
Plain old abuse.
And most would take it from her.
As she would and certainly has taken it from us.

Petit feminine fighter with no haymakers or KO records.
****** face, that rested war and peace between chin and brow.
Baroness of motherhood or is it the queen of hearts and depression?

Stars and music always forever
Anchor tattoos with a key to a heart, now a predator.
Forever enchanted by the la-de-dah and bleeding heart affairs
A savior in no motion or fashion but I dare not call you hypothetical

But a standard broad, beauty and-
So shameless I celebrate seeing you, awkward and so ****
Cleopatra, to be a bit dramatic-
Yes Cleo-mantra, I collectively disintegrate all charm and physical form
And you,  unfazed or unimpressed with either detail of romance

My friend, compromised by style and NO amusement.
There is much more to you than ****** faces and belittling arguments.
There is more to you then practicing soapbox rants in your kitchen.
There is more to you than a shallow mothers intoxications and material.
There is more to you than the new hair dye or the wigs you collect.

The things you store in the boxes cluttering your room with everything not in those boxes
The clothes on your floor, decorations from your teenaged 3rd or 4th personality.
The smell of perfume and coffee and more perfume all over,
stuck to papers, next to wine bottles, borrowed and never returned books, unfinished snacks,
used paper towels, lipstick stained mugs and glasses, your sons toy I stepped on 4 times,
pictures of gone lovers and notes, your license; now found again after the second time ordering a new one.
And…it's expired,
Then finally under the aftermath of years, doubt, clutter, your cell phone vibrating in the fray of sheets.

"found it."

Least we forget that, as we forgot we are both in this room together.
You are so much more than this mess I picked up for you countless times
And though I complain I will pick it up for you and not ask your permission
I won't scold you, I can only exhale failure and help.

Staring blankly into your screen discussing all genres of worldly horror and ways to divert.
Such plans and opinions but no federal funding!
We would pay homage to girl power and the early 90's and call her G.I. Jayne-
(Or not cause she doesn’t have that kind of sense of humor.)
But imagine a solider, a true solider of the meek.
That is theoretically, G.I. Jayne.
Has all of our best interest at hearts, our hero.
Songs of children are said to give her strength-
(She really doesn't like this kind of humor, I must move on.)

My friend truly distressed by the world she can't control from her tiny screen.
I place all comfort I can to her and understandably rejected like a stranger making rounds.
No trust comes from her nowadays, None for me at least. I can't speak for all.
I try to climb over the steep absurdity, alluding to her self-mutilation and task this is
but not going as far as just telling her this is ******* killing me.

I have no lesser or sophisticated words.
I'm dying every time we reach these altitudes.
Fingers and my tone raising at every disagreement .
How you can break me down to my atomic core and decimate miles of friendship.
My closest star in the sky, use to bring me morning tea, flowers and maternity
We now stand in quasar as our space and stardust find mass in thousands of millions of years in development
For me to be sent to the loony bin and you to prison like our heroes from Clinton to Lazaretto.

Vampiric lambs feast on their Sheppard's herd.
Breaking bread of thy neighbor
How loves call of fertility
Now the bane Bull of consumption's horn.

The Sheppard ****** to death by panic.
Unable to guide or save, is now on the menu
Prayers silenced over the band of gargling stomachs
His papyrus stand of power dissolved in crimson soup
Milk and honey crossed out of the starving mans Gospel

Warp the plains in sabbath machinery
Capital becoming its own atoned staff
The meek claims of natures *******.
While drawing a line to the factory

The staff now a fork on the dinner table' crossroads.
One seat at the table for Perdition
Groaking civilized parallel.


No hope lies on silver dished entree
Cornucopia is the decapitated Sheppard' head
Apple fastened in mouth

Olive pits replacing holy eyes for edible sight
Pickled tongue to speak holy when the belly is full
Ears dehydrated for the holy word.

As said with Christ, we dine to forgive our sins.

Lambs forgiven
Vampires forgiven
Cannibals forgiven
Meek forgiven
Hungry forgiven
All is forgiven

We are organized and all is forgiven.
God forgives in his name.

For tomorrow, we cut out our new Sheppard from papyrus,
Tomorrow, we ***** his word.
Tomorrow, we take the skewers of the Kebab
And give the Sheppard his staff.

Tomorrow, we chastise the hungry.
For his spilled blood.
For his eaten flesh.

Strength
                                                   is
                                                            gett­ing out of bed
                  knowing a part
                                                of you

                                                               ­  won't.

What do you see in me?
Every time you like a picture of me?

Is it just another pretty face you wanna put to your waist when you PM or do you seek eternity?

I'm told that everyday,
It's always just about my pretty face.

I get it three sixty-five,
I swear I can read minds
I hear it all the time
You think this is news to me?

You're speaking a lot of spirituality
Talking a lot, like you figured everything out about me.
Why don't you finish this conversation real late then without me?

I don't owe no one an apology.
If responding is an obligation consider this revelation
another blank page in your outdated patriarchy.

Do you actually believe in me?
I need more than a compliment,
I starve empathy

Are you a real human being ready for my beat
Or fiend ready to devour me?

I'm not afraid of men who can eat.
I'm afraid of a man I attract with no means.
I'm scared of someone who leaves when the table is set and doesn't eat anything.

I need somebody that isn't afraid of me.
A real head holder,
I don't want anymore fake supporters by likes and boasters.

I need completion and that's my biggest complexity.

Will you always pay attention to me?
Even when I say repeatedly, "I think I'm ugly?"

I have all these anxieties that build walls to society
I need love one second but the next second I can hate everybody

Do you still like me?
Are you willing to take a step with this girl in the darkness under electricity?

I need more than love I need all of your energy.

No more smiles with no teeth.
No one liners that are bold and weak.

If you want me,
fight for me
but this war could be over before the blitzkrieg.

This is just me.
My heart has a lock connected to a short chain
and opens to one key
I don't make copies!

There's one way in
and one way out.

Tell me what you see now...

I over heard a man say,
In all tone tailored misogyny.

"Women only write to gain sympathy;
trauma is the only word that they know to write in their tear stained diary's.
And the only "gentle-man"
kind enough to wash their emotions down,
chasing fire with gasoline.
Secretly wished he drank his filtered water silently..."

In all the heights of talks at the bar.
Shots being set off
like battles to march.
Blitzkreig novelty in subtle exchanged gazes.
Awkward waives of air strikes,
cued me to infiltrate with a statement.

If we could rewind back a bit:
Manson.
Corso.
Frost.
Shelley.

We as men,

we got paper in that social economy.

We've cornered the market with deep pockets,
and I'm personally buying up property.
if you have any trauma on this street
all the way to the corner of Fuckitall and defeat,
your words pay indulgences
to my agony.

We as men sank the dollar down with women walking away thinking we are just crazy.

We convinced ourselves we are rich and strong...
we are rich and strong...
...rich with strong anxiety.

Too bad an ego doesn't have a mirror to flex in proudly.

When things start looking good,
We question everything-
until we ruin the quality.
We wish we could start
handing out apologies
that could clean ourselves off
of guilt and second guessing
while we simultaneously
call out to every hot body we see.

That isn't boys being boys, that's mania.
We beg for a monetary insanity.
We pay for Electro lobotomies
And we take it like a man!

Like a homeless man...
shaking his can empty,
the only reflection
that's relevant of me.

I am the Can filled empty,
emotionally starving for change.

You can invest into our **** measuring moments ,
and track how many times quarterly we lose inches to self-pity,
we trade reason and go all in for compensation!

If we had a board of executives,
they would think for...
Ehh maybe a second; (meh)
Who needs to be invested?
when hair gel and resentment are certified and cost effective?

Blame, shame,
**** displayed disco games.

These are the tools we need as men,

Oppression, projection, beard cream, soggy dreams

We stuff our pants big
With a little tragedy.

All to have this conversation.
When the dollars weak
print out sexist paper statements
to inflate insecurities.

We men, we no speak.
Cause our fathers didn't put money into a *****.
We buck up or pay up.
the only men we can hear talking
Washington, Franklin,
and Lincoln penny's.
We ***** ourselves
And waited 30 days for warranty.
And took one for the team!
One more for someone else's American dopamine !

Kronos out of this time.
the statue we built of Atlas, crumbling.
Can man no longer lift the globe and say he needs nothing?
Has Gaia come home demanding her sons to reap what is printed on a receipt?!

Men who don't talk about trauma are traumatic.
If diaries are more soaked in women tears than ink,
why do we rub their faces into their single word dictionaries?

Is it so they cannot breathe the possibilities
that their tears and ink have formed other words
WORDS that could create sentences
SENTENCES on those stained pages
and all over those PAGES
She would explain it all;

In TEARS
and INK
and STAINS

"WE ALL FEEL PAIN."

Trauma bets against us all and leaves no *** or races.

Write trauma.
Right trauma,
By writing trauma away.

Women/Men.

Hi, there someone I wanted to say hi to for sometime now but yet i never have much more to say after that.

Except you're beautiful and I wanna touch your hair.
I can't do that.
I'm not a random drunk woman complimenting another at a show waiting in line to use the bathroom.
They get away with touching and borderline ****** schoolgirl flirtation.  

That's OK.

But I am not.
I am sober.
I am a grown man.
We are in an office which just so happens to be a place where we
work.
I'm pretty certain H/R wouldn't understand the innocents of my crush.
Nor would you.
Nor would the restraining order.

I wish I had something more to say.
So I'll just not.

Passenger on leave.
        Take to whatever may stead.

Your foot steps  
         Time lining distance in hair and laundry.

From galleries
     or hallways,
Or with neon silhouettes.

You're on your way
    And I can't complain.

It's hard to know what my reflection is in this window I hold everywhere I go.

Always looking out and never in.
The whole world on speed dial and still have no one to talk to.

This is not a window to the world.
It's a door that locks my curiosity and envy inside.
On the outside my motivation and time.

The key is to log out.

Green to grey and foam
Olympic heights and beyond
Free falling snow globe

I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.

I been born to lack.
Self inflicting heart attack.
I been born to mourn my death.

I'm a plague dressed in disguise
A brooder of everything in sight.
I been born to mourn my death.

Don't bother to please.
You'll find I need no sympathy
I'm a swamp that takes body heat.

When you're in my morass trap,
You'll find anxiety tracks.
It's a disheartening,
Meglo-mockery.
Oh, Mephisto please.
Why do I do this to you my marsh queen?

Oh, I don't take, I steal.
Hearts, time and self esteem are a good meal.
Don't have any aches for me
I was born to mourn my death.

I must seem like a mystery
With dirt prints I leave behind every scene.
Taking you deep into a quagmire of negativity.

I been born to lack.
It's not my fault you got trapped.
But you were warned before,
I was born to mourn my death.

To be a Poet,
One must **** them self slowly,
To be an Artist,
One must **** them self fast,
To be a Musician,
One must **** them self in time,
To be a human,
One just dies.

We are not just human.
We are sacrifices

One last step
Through the forest before the trees are cut down.

One last flight into space
Before the the satellites keep us in.

One last read
Before the library cuts the sentence by toll.

One last champion
Before his logos show.

One last man.
Before he places the devil around his neck.

One last word.
Before they charge me for every other after.

Freedom doesn't have "a last".
Freedom is lasting.