Barbary
Go out to the bar
Pop Punk and Emo night
dress in all black
band tea, skinny jeans, converse high tops.
Something Ironic
  
Want to see friends
haven't seen in ages
jump around
sing Saves the Day
"At my funeral I will sing the requiem."
Watch people drink
they seem to be having fun
feeling ******, can't drink
was just at an AA meeting earlier
**** this, do hard drugs, drop out, hurt the ones you love.

This paint brush has become
an extension of my hand.
It has sunk it's color pumping living
veins into me.
Now, my hand aches
dripping crimson, everytime I put it down.

This pen has become an extension of my hand.
A sixth finger extends dripping ebony
ever scratching ivory surface,
vexing to keep the hourglass full,
of sand.

I am no longer
My body.
     I am my tools of creation.

All my followers, have turned to ash.
I thought I was leading to a promised place.
Moses
Yet turning back, a sad wife.
Lot
With eyes brash seeing the city was falling.
The city was tumbling,
And
        Nothing is as cold as an ice cube made of cash.
I flew off through a white foamlesss formless sea to
Always
Always
Land.
Becoming Peter Pain

They keep calling me an underachiever.
I don’t understand is this all a contest. What is there to achieve?

There is no hope for you
Young boy young girl
You drive too fast up north
little boy little girl
You are running from mediocrity
little girl small girl
You  fill your lungs and heart with poison
little man little woman
I refuse to watch the streets take you
darling girl
sweet girl
Be beautiful forever
There is hope for you
my girl my woman
Drag yourself from your demons
my boy my man
dance
dance
dance
with the world my girl
Don’t turn blue on me ever again
dancing girl dancing girl
See the world through the songs of redemption
and recovery,
Sweet
Little
Beautiful
Dancing girl
Go
Be still
Be free

Shall I Project A World,
Scatter full the sky with constellations
and create my own private universe?

The dead are never gone,
but still ever persist,
in the bread we eat
and
the wine we drink.

Long ago our names were written.
Long ago our names were etched.
Do you, think for one moment
this was all an accident,
and any of this is real?

Or do you feel
////that all this is a reflection in the water pond
a cast stone disturbing all reality as it ripples outward////

In Brook Glenn
Again
The Psych Ward
Writing in the Psych Ward.
On Thanksgiving
Yet,
I am still thankful
For life
For breath
For a love on the horizon

Mental illness is one hell of a drug.

Is this what the Egyptians called Maat
or
The divine right order?

the Nile flows
the Nile flows

The sun god shines from Aten
And
i am cursing Akhenaten

But

Motion is relative.