Some say I was only a carpenter
Some say a delusional madman
Some say one of the prophets
All a part of a great scam

Some say I am the beginning
Some say as well as the end
Some say the way to salvation
The last sacrificial lamb

Some say only a good man
Some say like all of the rest
Some say another figure in history
That is nothing more than the past

Some say I'm their reason for living
Some say this while down on their knees
Some say I'm at the heart of forgiving
Being their greatest need

Some say I'm a prop for the weakened
Some say for me there is no need
Some say a man made illusion
To keep the world from being free

Some say the Son of the Almighty
Some say to bring redemption to man
Some say life holds no meaning without me
*Who do you say that I am

There is a part that lives deep inside of me
That throughout  the day digs his way out
More often than not he likes to be seen
This part of me called "Self"

"Self" comes out when there's a problem
A problem with not getting his way
Which seems to happen quite often
At any given moment on any given day

He rears his ugly head
When he comes across an attitude
From someone else's "Self" that says whats mine is mine
And it's all about me instead of you

You see the problem with my "Self"
Is he's not the only one in the crowd
Not the only one vying for attention
Not the only one screaming out loud

Can't the people see it's all about me
All about me and nobody else
Why is it you think they call it
The art of pleasing "Self"

You would think that after all of this time
I would have figured it out by now
That in the end nothing good happens
When I give the reigns over to "Self"

Sparkling, Still or Tap?

Water. A profound subject. Of which, we are all expert. Therefore, I permit myself to write upon it. Water. When I offer you Sparkling, Still or Tap, think carefully for the path to happiness is confusing, you can be mislaid, strayed, betrayed if you imbibe the wrong path.

The definition of each is not my responsibility. Like poetry,
drink what you will from each, but drink you must, pas de choix (which is sparkling for no choice).

Getting drunk on the wrong water is very bad. You have washed your system out, after flooding it. Give an engine the incorrect quality of oil, and it will grind itself willing, having been tricked, into emoting itself into gear lock suicide.

Now go back to the first line, and star(t) over, because you are no longer silly but afraid, and that is the proper way to be when first cog-nizant that this is an earnest subject and you are a fool.

So I ask, not again but for the first time,

Sparkling, Still or Tap?
You say. You are. Poor. Tap is the only option.
Save the environment from plastique explosives.
Clear as colorless water (another sujet, for another self important foolishness) you lie.  Is Sparkling and Still not found naturally, while Tap is unnatural-now water transmogrified by rust pipes, fluorescent fluorides, that when drunken, tap you out and for which, You pay heavily when the water bill comes?

What am I?
Your cheek!  
As a ******- passenger-reader-human unsurpassed. So typical.
My credentials?
I am human-reader-passenger-****** so ***** your impudence!

I am still, but underneath,
I am effervesceing, like the band,
whose goth I am too,
but don't be an idiot, for
all we know,
is tapped into us and out of us
from birth ~
until death/


Was there water in your mother 's body when she breast fed you, was there water in your formula? Was it organic (idiot), from a crystal spring from polluted China,
and isn't it tool ate (auto correct for too late) now anyway?

So I rescind the question,
for we are provisioned but poisoned long before we have adult cash or credit card bills to answer properly this waiter's question,

Sparkling, Still or Tap?
(Nonetheless, if you have progressed to this sad conclusion,
as I wait upon you and,)

Your Reply,

Water is the clear space that surrounds the letters and words
We write, thus all words float to the surface on your unique percentage of body of water, that oils the brain.

Ergo, Ip So Facto,
I, the waiter *** writer,
already know.

Now start from the top,
Again, yes,
And answer me,

Sparkling, Still or Tap?

Whatever you do,
don't ever ever ever
throw out a piece of paper.
One day you could
be cleaning out your room
and discover a sheet
covered in scribbles
and notes in the margins
and raw thoughts
that might even seem to come
from another you entirely.
But whatever the page says,
you'll see yourself in it
and be taken back to those feelings--
if they're good, they'll remind you
of times you felt happiest;
if they're bad,
you'll be able to look at them
with wisdom you didn't have then.

The eraser is not your friend.
It tricks you into thinking
that words you have dared
to get out on paper
might not have been good enough.
A really cool thing
about things you write
is that it isn't like real life:
any ending you don't like,
any aspect that isn't
exactly completely perfect right away
(and believe me,
not many aspects will be)
can always be returned to and rewritten
any time you want to change it.
But write your first drafts in pen,
because any thought you have
is going to be beautiful
because it is your own.

And finally, if you ever do need
to get rid of a piece of paper,
recycle it.
Cause the beautiful part
about recycling
is that it takes something
that you just werent able to use
and turns it into
something that could be
meaningful and beautiful
to somebody else.

I'm pacing the dusk dark
Of my backyard,
Feet sinking in the
Winter-softened ground.
One headphone in,
Singing to me of summers
I never experienced,
Ignoring the sirens
The next street over;
Stanching the fire,
Calming the blaze.
I glare at the blossom-less
Magnolia tree;
The absence of the flowers
Screams yours too loud
In the forced quiet.
Strip me from your branches
Like winds ripping
Away
The rotting white petals
Clinging to life.
Does my scent cling,
To your clothes,
Your skin,
Your lips?
Or does it leave,
Rippling off you
In
Curling
Smoke
Blossoms.
Did you know
That the heat of
Your finger tips
Leaves cigarette burn scars,
Coiling galaxy spirals on
The small of my back,
Pressed against
The spaces of my ribs.
On my autopsy they will discover
Marks from your lips
Seared into my bones;
My knuckles,
My neck,
The curve of my shoulders,
The sharpness on my collar bones.


k.f.

I am guilty of projecting. I will turn you into a goddess
in my mind to deal with the anxiety of
the fact that you might actually like me. I will like you back,
to an extreme; to the point where it's scary,
so that you'll stay away from me.
"Oh yea, watch out for that one. He's crazy."

Vain girls are attracted to it.
They like the way I paint them in my dreams.
As if fulfilling their own of becoming some sort of
Aphrodite. They build their confidence off of my idolatry.
I've seen it go to their heads.
It makes me kind of sick.

I will use you. The fantastical female;
my muse. You inspire my more neurotically infused
writings, and give fire to my self-abuse.

A few times, I've gotten the one I desired. Always through my words.
Forced to deal with discrepancies between fantasies and the truth, I fall apart.
Invariably, they were emotionally damaged;
prone to crying. I'd give them my shoulder and wrestle with the thoughts
that I'd fallen for a girl so much like my mother.
**** you, Freud.

Now I know better, but I can't fight my nature.
So I've embraced it. Taken it to new heights. Turned it into an art form.
Mentally magnified mistress, watch this:
I will take everything you've ever said (which I cannot forget)
and reflect it back at you through my poetic psychotic lens
Freaky, is it not?

But it's also kind of fun.
If you can appreciate the irony,
then I think you might be the one.