It's always the same in January.

It's 4pm.
The sky is scattered grey,
you can barely tell where the gravel begins.

No train of thought,
no taxi to get in.
Empty faces changing but the expressions remain.

Recovering from last months expenses,
shop windows return to their honest selves
real prices for real goods.

An ice-y wind grips the populous,
wrapped up tight in coats and hats
more layers for daily indecency.

We revel on the new year,
but labor through the current.
Decembers novelty has worn off and we're back to square 1.

January - thank **** It's almost over

It feels like we've made it.

A job with enough to pay the bills.
A suit and tie, so prim and proper.
We even have a water cooler to chat and gossip around.
Money is good, the company is great
And the job? The job is easy.

So why do i still feel so ******* lost?
I always thought adults knew better but really,
We're just blind leaders directing the ones who follow
Into places we wish we'd sent ourselves.
We reflect so much past onto the young,
"back in my day"  and "when I was younger"
Are phrases that will never rest.
They'll start naming history books
After mediocre idols.
Gary the pessimistic from IT,
He has had more life experience than you,
Held up in his mothers basement for the past 36 years,
He's never been abroad,
He never got a hobby,
Always played by the rules.
But he definitely has more life experience than you.
You who have traveled the world, you've seen the wonders
You've experienced the cultures.
You've woken up to beautiful sunsets and passed out in disgusting downtown gutters.

But you must respect your elders,
Age defines experience in this day and the former,
Try telling them otherwise

*** is a delicacy best shared with another.
Like a jigsaw piece and a rubix cube in one,
There is only one way we work out,
But a thousand different ways to get there.

Friends and family out of the equation;
For you have no friends,
And i lack the family.
I prefer to be alone,
You thrive in the center of attention.
I enjoy drinking,
You enjoy being drunk.
I love the darkest music,
The kind you keep away from your kids.
You listen to the upbeat melodies of chart music,
And the oh-too-happy K-pop.

You always said that opposites attract,
You even had it etched upon your skin,
A commandment so ambigiously true,
Even i started to believe your word was god.

I love you, i do,
But a different kind.
I love you the way a turtle loves the ocean.
I love being with you and you make me better for it,
but every now and then i need my own space.

Who knew too much could be too bad?

Regurgitating secrets
onto sleek marble flooring
through the endless hall,
echoing in thier ears
like a broken record; repeating
and jumping back to
start it again.

Starting like the fresh blood
pumping into my veins
and out the cuts on my hands
that hole in my head
and down the side of the knife
impaled between the north and south  
of my core *****.
The so called "key" to living.
torturing us, wanting us to "love"
wanting us to "hate"
wanting us to pretty much "want".

But what do i know?
I'm just another writer
aiming for success
trying to decipher the
broken logic of lust and love
of trust and friendship.

TRUST?! is that what we need?
To make this world
actually rely on another
to possibly
help with thier troubles
and discover the other?

Or if trust was real
and there was no such thing
as a backstabber,
i wouldn't be in this hall
lying face first
in a pool full
of ****** lies
and truthful *****.

I've been staring at this screen for so long now...

The glare from the blinding screen
has burned it's image into my eyes.
The letters of your name,
rubbed away from my keyboard.

It's 4am and the sun is rising,
i've not slept, i don't plan on it.
Your silence is too loud to sleep through,
words you never said keeping me awake.

But i know if i had you,
it wouldn't be the same.
The lies and the tales of our life
are too ******* deep
too ******* complicated
and a whole lot of simple ***** ups.
But nobody wins this,
there is no version of this where
either of us come out on top.

It's 7am, i'm late for work and my coffee's cold.

I was going to write
to stop being self obsessed.
Nothing you write
is right,
look at the larger picture,
and i'm beginning to
see the truth of this phase.

My head is full of words 
But they cannot pass down  the streams on my face,
to the waterfalls in my neck,
to the steady river in my arms,
and explore the 5 sea-fingers
around the oceans of paper.
To battle the waves of rhythm
and dramatic pauses,
cliche's and stanza's with an ending of finesse.

My head is just a mess;
No real formation ofright nor wrong
of care or apathy,
Days go by where i mix the two like sweet and sour,
The casual joke comforts the bitter gloom.
                                      
My head is full of ****;
Tonnes and tonnes of it,
I cant even begin explain its contents or describe the frustration it brings.
I have no sense of rhyme,
no sense of time,
no sense of form.
My words turn from sadness to glee
in less than six words.
No sense of anything.

My head is an empty pit;
                            

I write more about writing poetry than poetry itself.

“Start a new chapter”

What a cliché talk of trash,
Sick of the story,
Sick of the characters
Sick to death of the bromidic lifestyle
Of our “protagonist”,
Who’s more of a *******.

No ambition, no talent, no heart,
No anything really,
Blind shots in the dark.

“I’ll stick to it” He says
“Everyday!” He declares
But everyday becomes every week
And every week becomes every month
And every month becomes-not every year,
But whenever-he-feels-he’s-capable,
Able to apply words into a fable
Of tongue tangling and mind rotting slur.

He’ll be going out today,
Wasting money on fatty foods and
Carbonated poison he doesn't need.
And in an almost pitiful attempt
To feel better about what he failed
He’ll say “I’ll try tonight” in a whisper.

Does he write tonight? Does he ****.

I've been dry for a time,
i struggle to make these words rhyme,
or even a pacing flow and
i thought to let you know before all you begin to think so low.
The irony in this passage for help
is more of a message
to tell you i have no self-

worth or motivation,
like the rest of the nation,
work needs motivation,
i need a motor-vation sensation,
to propell my accumulation
and prevent the inevitability of defication.

I lack the currency to do as i please,
but not neccessarily
for we could stride through the park with
backpacks and water,
some sorta thing i'd like to do with my daughter.

Or Son in the sun,
either way, a child, we've won,
But right now it's our time to shine,
embrace what we've got between the lines.

I'd come back to this later but let's be real,
if my writings were fish,
they'd be banned from the fishermans creel.