Music.
As I lay alone in my bed
I still feel you on my skin, lingering.
Ping. Ping. Pinging inside my brain is the sound
of you singing.
The squeal made after
the ******* still ringing as I
**** my guitar. We both gently
weep. I check her neck for a
scar, and cover it.
poison seeps
Go to sleep.
I miss your heartbeat beatbeatbeatbeat
That's why I hug this empty couch seat where you sat
(Cause i thought it was the last time youd see my ***)

What are you waiting for?
Are you waiting for something wonderful?
**** that.
Get up.
Let it happen to ME, gleefully colorful, blissfully subtle.
I see a new world placed in the palm of my hands
So much life teeming under my fingers, writhing...
I wanna let it go, drop it like a hot potato
But its so good, I feel life's glow....

Strong enough to melt the snow.

I'm facing the horizon, reclining in the cool grass, staring deeply into the pink and purple sky.
It is an exemplary evening and I am enticed by its extravagance. I contemplate existence.
I contemplate all our lives:
The gnat licking sweat of my brow,
You,
Me,
That tree across the street,
Your dead friends, my ancestors, that hot Latina chick that works at Panara (not that I really eat at Panara).
The undercover cop that won't stop eyeing me.

I watch the pink fade into purple fade into nothing at all. The clouds disperse, becoming nothing more than disconnected particles of dirt and water  suspended in midair, and the sun goes down.



I **** the gnat and go home.

We are all guided by a single sentient machine.
Twinkling below me is evidence of its life:
The familiar red-yellow blinking of a yield signal reveals to me its heartbeat.
Almost like Morse code It says:
"Twinkle, Twinkle little man,
I touched the sky, think you can?"

My magic comes from the tip of my shaft
With it I gain all my strength.
Pearly puffs paint the air with my potency.
I'd patronus all over your chest and/or back.

Oh how I’ve known this world of decay and tedium:
A burnt world, peppered with the despair of human need.
If only the withered trees may have the grace to accept our mistakes, The splendor of springtime may emerge from this bitter, toxic winter.
But alas, after every blissful summer, and every majestic fall, a dead winter returns.


...Such is the nature of mankind