I like to believe
in partial reincarnation
that when people die
their essence is broken
into millions
of fragments
shards of spiritual glass
some with razor sharp edges
but these pieces
they need somewhere to go
so they find us
and we are made up of all
who came before us
always carrying pieces
so every new person
is more human
than the last
and maybe souls find like recipients
painters seeking out painters
and so forth
and I like to imagine
that a great writer
found my soul
but it seems far more likely
that it was the village idiots
who settled in my being

"god, i hate everyone. i cant stand being around people"
"same here, they repulse me. lets hang out some time"
seems...contradictory
why would i want to better know someone who hates people
when i hate people?
isnt that a recipe for disaster?
sure its a commonality but...

i still dont know what the allure is
i feel like an audience member
my voice drowned out by the crowd around
is it lonliness?
cant be.
when im around people i look for that.
but when im alone i search for company
not even sure what i want anymore
bouncing around from different states of mind
wants and needs constantly changing...
accepting that i can never have a normal relationship or interaction with other people
acceptance is much easier than fighting
the makings of an antisocial

Cup of coffee, a cigarette,
The desire to describe a day;
Over these words, I wince and fret.

A clock chimes it's infinite way
Eroding hours till all lights gray.

Day of leisure, a life well set,
A wish the clock would slow or stay;
This loss of light, I'll soon regret.

The moments quickly slip away
Into the twilights dying splay.

Time spent fishing, from age be let,
And hope that many swim this bay;
Hours levied, against chance I'll bet.

The suns grand retreat seems to say
My stellar prize has gone astray.

Cup of coffee, a cigarette,
The sadness of a wasted day;
Over words, still I wince and fret.

As clocks chime their infinite way
Eroding hours till all lights gray.

His teeth are crooked, bent and brown
   he grins with mirth, eyes pointing down
   his hollow head contains a thought
   friendly, yes but pleasant, not.

His whims, in fact, are quite alarming
   for what's on his mind is harming.

He wants to steal and take what's mine!

Alas! Why must Death be charming?

.

Feeling lost and feeling lonely
Can't I be your one and only?
Wandering along to my own heartbeat
Life's more fun with another pair of feet
A *** to squeeze, a hand to hold
A pocket to put my fingers in, when they get cold.
Someone to splash when I jump in puddles.
A lover to stop me getting in a muddle
A friend, a foe, a confidant.

No one feels more alone when feeling alone in another darkened hometown.*

He went and wandered,
kerb crawled and begged,
asked for four quid
then left when he got it, though
two pounds less than he wanted;
away, away, away, away, away,
away he’ll go again,
vagabond turned drifter,
God talking, kneel praying, church attending, Amen.

When the already sirens
start up, wind up,
swing around merrily in their
egg shell cups upon and above
the panda-car-cop,
he’ll wake to wander again
until the day his body flails
and gives in, drops to the floor
in a melodramatic stop.

For this forever New York,
with its high rise chimney tops
and siren's scare,
is no place to sleep without
a home to go home too.