Do you see this?
I swear it's right there, hell you have said almost word-for-word, verbatim **** near to what I'm portraying.
I can't believe this.
I don't believe in curses in regards to the mainstream take, but it seems I've chosen a path seemingly forsaken.
I can't shake it,
This feeling of universal knowing creeping up my spine and reigning down from the sun, the divine link of this earthen station.
This sensation,
This ditch of difference that grows fatter and starves the matter of its reason, alienating me from those closest in relation.
It hurts me,
Worse than anything else I've ever experienced, and I've had one very unorthodox life,
When I see
You'll never see me.

Forgive me.
I know there's nothing I can do or say to show you what's red when it seems to be blue.

Lightning,
An element profound in its flash of expression, existence; as the Tahina spectabilis; as my sign.
Enlightening:
Embracing death and life with no suggestion, no alibi, no lies, no deception.

Do you see this?

A senryu is
Just like a haiku, except
It has ******* *****.

You give me hope,
though you lived so far away,
in both time and space,
and no one remembered your name.
Quite the inspiration,
how you changed such rigid ways.
Quite the shame,
how you were forgotten in a day.


You shed the skin of a God-King,
all semblance of some divinity
that's somehow out of the common reach,
though we are all of the same being.
It's like you called "*******" immediately,
and began to deface
all the dogma and absurdity
of the human race.
You lived in equilibrium
with the science of life,
in a society full of peril,
fear, deception, and strife.
You could've turned backs
and fixed them with a knife.

But you didn't, you were in pace
with the universal grace.
You saw the waste that comes
from fanatical embrace.

But they killed you.
They didn't like your game.
All laced with change,
drastic change,
that would uproot their place
of power. So deranged.

They wanted you forgotten,
and so you were, for so long.
But now your words are resonating,
your anecdotes and songs.
You were the epitome of strong,
never faltered in rights and wrongs.
So now I hope your message carries on
to those aware enough to sing along.

I don't want to write. I'm not in the mood.
But I have to do it. It's a thing I do.
So, sorry y'all. You'll have to bear with me.
I can't even get drunk right now. Oh the misery.
If you want to skip the *******,
Click down to the ******* squiggley.
I write when the overwhelming reality
Of post-happiness and emptiness surrounds me,
Drowns me in the grip of the undertow
Issuing from all those things I knew
And wouldn't let go of. So they grew
To be stones immovable, the blue
Churning to make room for their slow
Descent into the unknown.
All this is, is my effort to make a bubble.
Whether to signal for help or help myself,
I don't know. I guess whichever is less trouble.
The lovable, down-on-his-luck, real distant
Misfit who knows exactly how to fit in.
I suppose that's me, if you choose to believe
This is me that I'm being. I won't be
Fooled so easily. For indeed I am the fool,
The fool who used his hands
To take food from other lands
And ran on his two feet
After kicking something sleeping.
Something sleeping selflessly.
Something sleeping just for me.
Hell I had to wake it up,
I'm not worth a price so steep.
Everyone should have their chance.
I ****** mine up, so **** me.
~
I told you all to bear with me.
If you've stuck around, that's nice to see.
I don't care either way, the point this is making
Is no point at all. I just need to write.
It's like pressure being taken off a really filled balloon.
It's like somehow quieting down a goin-ape-**** baboon.
Take one is always great, until you record over it with take two.
My lines aren't always great, but you'll snort em up anywho.
I know, I'm all over the place. But these words, they stick like glue.
Maybe that's why I need to write. Maybe that's why I hate it, too.
They never seem to come out right. These words hardly fit any shoe.
Yet, I need something, somewhere to start.
Bleeding heart poet? I'll play the part.
Evolve like a **** to a shart, and become
A mean-spirited thing. A bled heart sum.
A regular in the slums
Breathing trash-burn oxygen.
Looking up at the sun
Wondering where my moxy went.
Burdening my pen,
Which shifts it to the page;
Estranged from the tangle
Now, this unaimed auto-ramble.

I suppose everything should have an end
If only to leave openings to begin again.
But knowing me, I'll probably nail my shin
And fall to the ground, oo-ing and ahh-ing when
It's time for me to get off the stage.
Just take a look at my life, any page.
You'll probably wonder how I've survived on such a wage.
Well, I'm thrifty, *******. I'm insane.
I'm like a perfectly fine cat, but with mange.
You won't touch me, but my own kind will still play.
And if you do, my disease spreads like a plague
And consumes you until there's nothing left but disdain.
Please try to pet me so I can run away.
I want all the attention, without any of the danger.
I know you've fed me....like, every single day.
But that doesn't change that we are both predators.
And that hand that feeds will meet catastrophe
If it happens to wander too close to me.
Cliche time: it's not you. It's me.

So I write and while I'm writing
I find the signs of my demise
Comforting in light of my shortcomings
Falling in place along these lines