your foot on the gas:
a brick of immovable motive
forcing us into the future,
one we will not like.

if only my screams rang louder
than the toxins your brain swam in,
drowning you in other,
maybe we would've stopped.

there's another pedal, you know.
no, you didn't listen.
a bridge was crossed that day.
the tangible now torn down,

my abstract just as well:
an ever-widening chasm caught between us two.
i knew your secrets then;
i wish i knew how to drive.

My mother tells me that we will
Never be friends.
Today I believe it.
Love poisons our blood
And familiarity kills
conversation.
I look at her emotionlessly
So to block her influence.
She is an expert at exploiting
The slightest ****** waver,
Or any emotional advantage she
Could have over you.
She will make you wrong
Through verbal martyrdom.

I won't let her speak to me
Like she does the weak who
Are too polite or too submissive
To fight her.
Her style of English is cutting,
Self-righteous, honest, rude, unscientific, emotional, aggressive and often violent.
Never elegant.
She thinks the world is a battleground.
She is often incompetent and on top of that headstrong - to compensate for her ignorance.
She is sometimes funny, and sometimes kind.
She tells me we will never be friends.
Today I believe it.
I will not confide. I will not smile.
I will not joke, I will not listen.
I will help but I won't speak.
I will keep the talk small.
We will never be friends.

Hammer attack surgeries,
Farmer controlled nurseries,
A Llama themed bakery
And a duck.

Now that I live alone,
I find aloneness is better than fake company,
Silence is better than unnecessary drama

Poetry, a synchronised outburst of the mind

To finish your own life by hand,
May seem like the right thing to do.
But to free yourself from this land,
Is to imprison those that love you.

Flashes of yesterday’s garden,
deep green under a gray sky--
I step into the canvas, moving
slowly, regretful and watchful,
with the weight of past light.

So many colored years,
some bright, some somber,
and you, the voice that ripened
youth, the accented syllables
opening the hours between
cliffs and sky, your presnce
re-appearing in soft explosions
of living, so painful to let go.

I pray for change, impermanence,
for last year’s dust to settle to
acceptance, to turn over the pages
of the past and to forgive everything.