Sometimes, what's left behind
is better than what was there in the first place

Songster, not as sinister as they say,
she's no monster, just admittedly
a bit lost in her way.
she caves as I'm walking
down the hall.

I pick her up, off of that flooring,
the rubbery kind, whatever it is,
I guess it's rubber, but the kind that
squeaks when you walk on it after
coming in from the rain; to hell with poetry.

And so anyways I pick her up
and sit her on this bench next to me
and give her about five minutes to come to
terms with breathing and pick shimmering
auburn hair out of the tears smeared across her face,
two, mesmerizing, perfectly blue wells
the source of the streams.
And then I ask her what that
was all about and she blurts out that she

belongs in the Fine Arts Department,
and her car broke down months ago
but her father
doesn't give a **** about it,
because she can't lay up the basketball
or steal the base and so he honorably
lump summed her entire tuition
and sent her to another state
and how ****** she would be
if she had to get a job for the first
time at the age of twenty three
so she wouldn't have to be
dependent on her family and
that she was sick of wondering why
not a single guy had ever given her
a ******* flower
and that if she ever did end up liking one
two weeks later she would find out that he
was exactly the same as the others and

she had a broken look in her eyes

when she said she wondered why we were
all here in the first place, and how we were
made this way, and if people were actually
ever meant to fit together or not;

what if there was nothing as certain
as two halves making a whole?

She wanted to know how everyone's
mind had a different game to play,
she wanted to know why Jupiter
had to be so far away and everything in
between.

We had strolled off of the school grounds by
this time but I still looked twice before pulling out my flask.
I  unscrewed the cap, handed it to her and said

follow me to Deadbeat Hollow,
where we've already thrown
our problems out of the window

and she said

*lets go.

I realise why I'm drawn to alcoholics
after you, because you taste like one;
heat-filled,numbing passion.
Because you are certain of your drug
of choice
and can hold your liquor
So that means you can hold me
our hands only shake when we're sober
so lets stay drunk all the ******* tIme
and fight off these ghosts in beer bottles
ode to Jack Daniels for leading us to
true love
because there really must be a god
if something as sweet as this
could exist

Until the morning when we wake up
still slightly
drunk
staggering, stuttering
dark eyes and muttering
apologies for what happened
"last night"
but were not sorry because well do it again
just bring the whiskey
Ill bring a pen

So I realize you're as smooth as the poison you drink
and as sharp as the blade
i use to inflict
these toxins of waste in my breath
on my skin
but we'll do it again
yeah we'll do it again

You must have skill of rope walker in order to walk on the periphery of the circle,
It's been years, you are stuck in the Zero,
Constantly revolving around,

From the window far far away, blinds are watching,
Blindness is not useful then,
Smokes are stretched between with heinous sounds,
you can project an arrow in the direction of the sound,
but it is noise every where,
Sound is not pure, like music
neighing can corrupt your ears,
fighting can corrupt your hands,
you have tied some gospels on your fingers,
it gives warmth in utter cold

in the mud pool of light besides,
you are dipping your arrow tip and aiming,
your hands are in mood of becoming a bowstring,
your speed must be hasty
and weight less than a thin air
then only you can penetrate those noises,

as soon as you enter in the dark matter,
slowly you fall into contrivance,
your delivery path is glowing like a glow warm,
at first you have to get ****, in the end you can cover again,
hands, legs are constantly struggling,
No shields, Not even swords,
you are still involved in
Tumultuous war.