I have crushed bugs.
Not for science.
No need for class or placement.
What makes better?
What is broken?
Right and wrong,
left and leaving.
existence.
In the palm of your hand.
Waiting
and waiting.
To cross territory uncharted.
Clawing at the what if!
Clawing and waiting
To be squished.

You are sand.
You find a way into everything.
Everything
I touch.
Everything
I eat.
Everything
I see.
Everything is sand.
Keep your hands.
Worry about your own glass.
I'll be doing the same.
Waiting to be more like you.

Picture pecan.
Plastering, painted prints.
Plummeting.

Languid Leaves.
Listless, lethargic lives.
Littering.

Sacrificed scenery.
Shattered, struggling space.
Sabotaging.

Beauty dies
This time of year.

The kids chemically induced
Reduced to ego threnody.

Amidst chaos he possessed influence.
Would disregard coincidence
And curse at the omnipotent.
Known as lonely pessimist
Could laugh at their own ignorance.
Pops was drunk.
Waved goodbye
to any kind of innocence.
Patronized
Sympathized
Irrelevant
Sunk below the sediment.
If humans could be celibate
This death would have ended it
Instead of only him.

There is sickness.
Subtle insecurity in the tallest tree.
Pride in roots that try
and wont break
free.
Stabbed propped up
shadows
behind the kindest
smile trying the hardest.
Men leaving nothing
in death but souls.
Cliche communications
speaking in color.
Gray paths never make sense.
Never.
And death is
but not without life.
There is sickness.
Curving straight lines
trying to make
a point.