I have nothing I didn’t earn,
But it took me forty years to learn,
The lessons my wise old Father taught me,
All the gifts of life and love he brought me.
There’s nothing lost in a fight but pride,
And nothing to be gained in taking sides.
Be a clown or wear a sad frown,
The value of everything is going down.
Looking so far forward, they think I’m backward.
Now I’m writing things close to awkward.
Smashing, splashing, is it all a dream?
Waiting for the boat to come back upstream.
Alone with nature, finding peace,
Scribing and thinking, looking for release.
The peace that will never, ever come,
I’ll keep looking anyway, my face is numb.
My heart is sick and all because,
My wise old man is almost lost.

I have cried the tears of the distress,
Borne  the pain of the hurt,
Felt the loneliness of the bereaved,
And the agony of the distraught;

I have bled the blood of the pierced,
Borne the pain of the broken-hearted,
Endured the shame of the abused,
And the confusion of the disappointed;

A black cross inprinted on my back,
Wailings of little children haunt me,
Ashes of loved ones in my sack,
And many skulls and bones to bury;

Crows dominate my chapel at day,
And owls are my visitors at night,
Dragons parade the burning altar,
Bats above blur the moonlight;

Eyes that see in darkness- answer me,
My past unchanged but my future- re-design,
Illuminate the path way that lies ahead,
Give me a third eye and make me divine;

Find me before my throat is slit
The murderers of my loved ones visits,
They call out from the enchanted woods,
Prepared to tear me to innumerable pieces;

Take me to the lake and hang me,
Before the horrors of the dark prevail,
And the termites in my grave rejoice,
Let me drown in the sacred grail;

Let the witches wail in surprise,
When their cauldron becomes empty,
And their synagogues come to ruin,
While i rise to everlasting suprimacy.

You pointed to where she'd thrown the glass against the wall and then
traced the veins of my neck with your
nails,
clammish things with a lust for
god knows what

I think **** it, I am a repetition of my
last life I ***** a reproduction of
what my last lingering inefficient thoughts
expelled on last breaths that contaminated
me on to my new existence of caporal energy.

**** this existence of what lingered in-between
every reproduction of my life, rinse repeat.
what's the continued use of what was played out
and repeated on a new field of conciseness this time.
I am a greyer version of what I was before.

Then I become aware of what lingers beyond the womb
a repetition of other moments. I take my existence
in my hands and coil the giver of life, suffocating
my pain before it lingers on for a life time and stale
mate my existence, **** repetition I'm dead by my hand.

It's like the words of my mother haunt me, it haunts me in my sleep and in the day.
When she is my mother and she seems to care, it is easier to keep going. You live for the moments when things seem ok.

the kind of dosage you swallow out of awareness
separation from your present state;
skidding, through the thoughts of
a golden wash of goodness as we
scratch at our minds for answers, pleading the back and the forth
as if it’d bring us closer to any revelation
any inner spot of fragrant, wholesome, peace
that we die for, try for,
dream about in dance
eventually coffee turns cold and you wake and you realize you’ve only been spinning language for ages and getting called beautiful;
it’s a trick,
like regurgitating our sins,
to squeeze the burden out from under the skin
and rehearse burning letters, along ourselves
the anthem to the liberation
from the coated and waxed framed guilt ridden pane of mind,
breaking a neck to watch the sky,
your vision is blurred, everything looks like its shooting this way and that and maybe all your wishes
are based on misinterpretations
still you dance your way to new york with lights as noose around your neck
strangled by life and its smooth bitterness,
the ease to unexpected accelerations,
not getting out of bed,
rummaging about a box of letters you were supposed to burn years ago,
ought to have,
else you wouldn’t be here contemplating permanence in jailed yellow paper with your cruel last name on all sides
******* my way through a calendar, how many years, just how many has it been,
crossing streets to shake hand with your burden-
your memory’s meanest friend

Ink spills unto my lips
Perfume from the curve of my throat
We speak like matchsticks that won't ignite
Striking and striking. We dull each other down
Striking and striking
We strike just to touch
Striking. Touching
Once ignited, burned out too soon.

In the middle of a storm, a young man stands torn.
In the same spot, freshness comes to the clothes worn.
As it pours on the earth, the boy stands freezing and warm.
Clean is a new feeling, to a boys skin so worn.
young as as he is, this feeling is only bested by being born
shivers course over his skin, until he sees the dirt wash away again.
He loves the world, and no hate lies within him.
Alone under magical skies, hes long forgiven his mothers sin .
She left her only son,  thought his young life would end.
But mystic energy picked the boy from the floor.
Brought thoughts to his head and gave him  land to own.
in return for the worlds cold lands, a voice was given to lead him until he became a man.
a brilliant boy still stands feeling beauty drip into his hands.
His legs felt that it was beauty to great to stand.
His knees collapsed as the weight if his past washed from his back.
Only grown by what things he lacked, a solitary boy thought himself the stories  of the world.
sadly to say his human brain still gave him fear and pain.
Even in a perfect world the greatest feeling was the dirt washing away.
Long since forgotten the boy lives on.
his knowledge is different but far from wrong.
If you listen close during a storm, you hear him singing his beautiful song