It wasn’t her fault but only my own,
I kept thinking there were so many things wrong,
I was high and low pondering her indecent woes,

There was one after another all surmising the same kind of way,
It finally made sense I was the key to loves destitute shade,
It’s a year later and things seem to be a lot clearer,

I’m weary of why I made her run so far away,
She might as well went astray to the furthest reaches of Gods say,
She slept and prayed trying to find the best night to feed her broken days,

I can only tell you I miss where we used to lay,
Not even the world could crush our pact of being this way,
But Alas I have to let you free to be who you are,
And the life you wish to proceed without me.

Is it lying in bed with another wishing you were here?
Is it when I reach over to the cold side of my bed and I die a little bit?
Is it thinking of you when I know you aren't thinking of me?
Is it the dreams that keep me wide awake at night?
Or is it the guilt that consumes my every waking blight?

I'm still trying to figure out what makes me still tick about you,
I'm still fading in and out of reality making myself still sick about you,
Maybe I still long for the person that you once were,
Not the jaded being you are now that the world has cursed,

You ask love forgiveness it doesn't ask you,
For what is love without driving one’s own self to insanity?
Love is about chasing ghosts until you are that ghost,
Following wherever the apparition appears,

Love seems to be the chasing of one another’s unwanted souls,
With that and only that do we find a home in being alone?
I guess so,
It seems right,
Oh so right.

They spit and they spat,
Cursing under they’re demeaning stare,
Arrogantly pressing for more and more,
Soliciting our worshipers to have no remorse,

They incessantly beat down our blood red doors,
Not asking but taking what’s rightfully entitled “yours”,
What man shall I make of myself if all I am is treated unfair?
A square on the piece of pavement, walked on and spat on,
Here and there ****** on and ruggedly sat on,

The job to make the worlds people happy is a seedy sordid affair,
Constantly they forcefully beg for more and violently pursue to no bore,
They scratch and tear for no amount of fear could tell them go elsewhere,
We unite once we all go to war but still hate and take advantage,
0nce we forget the worlds up in roar,

The ****** gore does not sleep or snore,
It lies and waits to feed on the incapacitated poor,
Littering the bones of the forgotten on our city floors,
Rich or Poor we all end up shedding tears and asking the meaning,
“What’s in store?” My hungry heart is teeming for a life of folklore.

The Bleeding heart of a boy buried within a man,
discerns the constraints of society, its viciousness
incessantly setting ablaze to the possible,
declaring his dreams impossible,
forcing the acceptance of the extremely improbable.

The Bleeding heart of a boy on his way to being a man,
knows the blood, sweat, and tears that pour
from the soul in the heat of the moment,
and most often in the dead of the night,
tossing and turning in the barren sheets
as the waning moon begins to wax its galaxies milky strand.

The Bleeding heart of a boy turned to man knows little boundaries,
the radiant son has no limits and has no end.
The real Question lies in how far he’ll go, and to what avail
that what he waits for may never show.

The bottles stacked upon bottles,
The constant focus and refocus of the labels,
So that the morons of the drinking generation
Would know what ****** them up, what
Royally turned them up and decadently pulled them down.

Fridays and Saturdays were the worst, the belligerent
******* stumbling and slurring their way to
The check-out stand. Precious time need no waste,
Don’t exhaust a belligerent drinker’s time,
The checker always ends up to be profoundly
belittled one way or another.

The world asks, “Why so much violence?”
There need be no questions,
Human interaction only need observations.
We drink, we smoke, we ****, we lust,
we steal, we consume, and we defecate
in every hole and crevice we can. We **** on the world
And we **** on the people we share this realm with.

We aren’t kind, we aren’t generous; we are just belligerent *******,
Rummaging through the world polluting our pools,
Polluting the wells of our existence.
The empty bottles upon empty bottles,
The **** and **** upon **** and ****.
The drunken drones drowning themselves
In the tired sullen streets.

Like a lucid dream I found myself sauntering in the gritty streets. Downtown LA’s clash of modern and dilapidated buildings, the uptight and hollow people, the overwhelming trash, and the smog all perpetuating distant feelings. In a flash it became 7 AM on a Wednesday, I awoke to the breaking of ground, the hard concrete shattering like glass under the drill; the pounding reverberating through my undisturbed space. The hot and heavy sun ripped through my sealed shades illuminating my immaculate mundane walls. It had an asylum like feel, driving the synapses in my brain far from insane. I had fallen asleep with no recollection of the night before, I wasn’t drunk but I was still high, still not enough to forget yesterday’s mishaps. I walked out into the ***** kitchen, not my dishes and not my mess. The garbage had been piling up for what seemed like a month, beer cans and pasta stuck to the carpet like glue on paper. I drank my coffee and I ate my breakfast alone, the house was a dump by any means, potentially able to be something else but not. It felt like we were on the verge of Cool Whip and Wonder Bread sandwiches, like Heinz ketchup on macaroni; you could say we lacked a certain taste and quality. It felt like rubbing Crisco instead of baby oil on her body, it all amounted to a lesser substance than we all could fathom. We became complacent and insincere towards the world; it could have been the apocalypse and we still would have been the same. There was no security, there was no protection and future if we couldn't even deal with our selves. We all aspired to an opulent existence and an equal stake in this burdened world, it being not even remotely conceivable. We walked over the dead and those waiting to die, in hopes that we were worthy of more. The blankness took root over my Wednesday and I had nothing to show, who knew what future I would own. All I had was this ***** ole house, and a shared space that I could no longer bare.