I feel like a hundred Suns have withered up
and glazed a death
inside of me.
I am stagnant,
I am pale,
I am non-responsive.
I will disappoint you.
I don't pay attention to clocks
because time brings me down.
      I will just ferment in my
        frosty garage
          on my all-too-old
       drumkit.
   Banging away.
Exerting
My fears,
anger,
Displeasement
w/everything
through my wild arms.
A stampede is off in the distance
And it's only a matter of time before I catch up with it.

I'm going to lay here
In this unusually loud bed.
And watch unusual people
do unnatural things
on a television.
I know this poem is not very
elaborate,
But a good poem
doesn't need to say much.
Just give me
silence.
Sweet,
humble
sweet
silence.

City of summer,
Firefly structures,
rivers of
streets and
    guzzling cars.

My mistress turns to me,
I feel bad about myself.

But the electric
hum,
the frothing clouds
hugging the skyline.
It makes me feel
like
nothing quite matters
except the
    capture Of
My moments.
I'll take advantage of it.

I won't flinch for time.

Yellow napkins
Chrystal glasses,

The walls bled golden flakes into a
fountain
ground that zig-zagged
a misleading pattern.
The wallpaper
and aroma
turned me off.
It was something of a tacky
reminiscence of the 20s,
Reaching in inaudible desperation
towards the ***** man
in his black tuxedo,
Pressing his black baby grand piano.
The waitress came,
(All-too rehearsed)
she was pudgy in her complexion but slender in build.
She crooned to me, a question.
"To drink?"
I didn't answer,

Just stayed, fixated on the yellow rose slowly growing towards its death on the table.
Everything seemed to be yellow.
And even in the azure daylight
kneading its way through the windows,
I still saw death's hoofed shoulders
crying through every object.


I ordered a water.

“Mistakes were made.”
I quote at least three recent former U.S. Presidents,
Who wrote or spoke infamously in the passive voice.
Here’s a bit of history:
The words spoken by automated phone systems,
Were code written by computer programmers.
Computer geeks, revered for their cold logic and impartiality;
Like scientists taught to maintain objectivity,
When studying fascinating subjects like Base-2 Binary Codes,
Disk partitioning and hard drive defragmentation.
Impersonal, the passive voice avoids sentiment,
Steers clear of pesky opinions unfounded on certainty or proof.
Unsurprisingly, the passive voice seeped quickly,
Into the language of politicians,
Our beloved rogues and rapscallions,
Hiding truth, avoiding accountability and culpability.
Practitioners of political science,
They bob and weave and spin.
Yes, mistakes were made.

your hair
reminds me
of a storm
in Ireland

you face
reminds me
of Botticelli's
Venus

Your eyes
remind me
of unsolved
mysteries

Your lips
remind me
of stolen
kisses

Your smile
reminds me
I am still
alive

~mce

I wonder
what it is like to think
clearly,
to focus,
to be free of distraction.
My thoughts are constantly,
interrupted
by your voice,
your touch,
and my memories
of a life that once was
and a dream of what could have been.
Often, my mind wants to lock the door
so you can no longer walk in,
but the hallucinations are too addicting.

You would think I knew the difference
between truth and deceit,
but it is one in the same.
A constant grey of everyone’s fluctuating perceptions
of trying to obtain the things they want.