I call myself
I fall myself
Too tall of a mountain
to climb
to be bookshelved
without a reason


I paid the price
There's no doubt
the flames burned out
All that remains
are the ashes doussed

All alone in the dim
Where all my fantasies
seem so slim
Where all chances
have evaporated
Full of nothing to the brim

Missing the someone's
whispers of night
Takes out the control right ?
But the "you" memories are made
The music played
The sorrow displayed

The ache soothed by
the medicinal *****
Watching the moonlight
fade away as it moves
Finding all my madness
in the black of blues

The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.

I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.

I try and explain this Internet thing,
how the more copious my writings,
the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan

So sweetly said,
So neatly done.
Just a brushing whisper,
a tender kiss on the ear.
Tilted head,
Hollow and soft.
So studied.
Not mine,
But for another.

The shortest distance between two points in space and time is up a worm's *** .