Welcome is the breaking branch,
fallen from hopes and pleasant futures.
May it land safely on the
neck of despair.

Buds of love, lust, and luck
sprout from now withered twigs,
never blossoming on trampled
underbrush.

The universe baby birds knowledge
*** to mouth
and you wonder why the lives of the wise are always so
******.
You think you’re woke but just repeat tropes created by
people selling a lifestyle that puts on trial the idea that being
standard is wild.
Kaleidoscope fractal of reality’s gaping ****** *******
wraps the goal of happiness in a cloak of human nastiness.
This crawl through life is so full of strife
that we spend the majority of it looking for someone
to moan and groan with as the bone is exposed
from the scrapes and cuts we earn when we're alone.

And I am alone.

There must be something wrong with my soul.
I’m willing to be who they want
Just so I can be who they want.

But I’m still just one
In a world of zeroes and twos
And Three Dog Night sang right about
One.

But I smile to people and hide how
….Feeble….
I feel.

Inside I am chaos and wreckage
Jealous of how happy she is
Outside I’m fat and ugly
Dying slowly with every laugh.

All I see is ***
Endless parades of
wet openings and bouncing
*******....

All I hear is ***
She says she's going to
do it…
…eat that
smell this…

All I want is ***
Memories of
tight...
tunnels and warm mouths.

ERUPT…Release…

The pressure builds....

Being near her is like summer.
Warmth expressed and mind of thoughts divests.
Beauty is defined by her, not because she wants
but because she is.

The weight grows...

When Tennyson said “it is better to have loved and lost…” he hadn't felt the weight of her loss.
And I did it!
It was me who struck the final nail in future's coffin.
Such responsibility is enough to **** a man...

Darkness downward flows...

“But I felt neglected!” he shouts at the void.
As if the hole could be filled with excuse.
Flailing without aim he drank himself to shame and burnt his soul with end’s flame.

The silence of despair crows...

Light puffs of steam
fluoresce as though
lit internally.
The public lights
always do that
when I look up
to see the moon.
And it's cold,
but, I suppose it seems colder without a smile to warm me.
The pain of isolation
reinforces that God
definitely doesn't exist.
Or, if it does then I won't feel bad if I tell it to go **** itself.
Pain just for existing
Solitarily
is a curse enduring.
The moon reminds me
Of her
Of her lack.