might it take the fresh perspirations
when awaking dripping
from your forehead,
or the inside synapses the endorphins
coloring reality in foglike nightimes
the backs of eyelids painting the empty canvases
with closed eyed reality
it all is a painting a Van Gogh
or Monet or Picasso, to me when I awake.
I wish I could capture with words.

every night since, might it be mine heart
aching , visions of earth shaking
combinations of words,
the banks of my ability
to store my emotions up
behind the flesh and blood dam,
perchance a ghost from some
long dead wanna be poet,
confiding the death secrets,
I wish I could recall all
the depth of what wakes me up,
and scribe it down perfectly,
before it drifts away, as my
eyes clear and the tv
and ordinary life intrude.

the nightmarish grey color
   eyes in the back of his head,
his last gasp a shutter
   you'll never forget,
when all you planned
   was for all you to get high
you and him and crystal,
    she is a good head girl,
and as he took his last breath,
    you found that last bit in his pocket hid it,
then called 911 cause Crystal was dialing 411, and
pounding his chest you screamed to him to breathe again.
As Crystal shoved paraphernalia under the couch.
The night the week the month ruined.
It all became a broken mirror,
Way more than seven years more bad luck.
More like a lifetime. And as you hit what he left you
the heard footsteps of doom creeping closer it lost
all the buzz.

I shake off the feeling of dissatisfaction
The earth  shifts beneath my feet
leaving me once more hanging to a cliff
screaming for submission

Shimmer before the light of the full moon
Midnight is my favourite hour

I shall stalk the very skies in which you lie beneath
if only to catch a glimpse of the sun shining in your eyes
at the beginning of a new day

Awakening  my desire for life
You make me scream silently within my mind
Deafening
I clasp my fist against my ears
willing silence to return
Willing peace to be resorted

Wisps of forgotten emotions lying upon the shore
of my thinking
Writing thoughts in the sand and letting go

What will I do I wonder with my
Thoughts swirling
Memories stirring

The frailty of my  human form
Keeps me crippled
Keeps me dissatisfied within my own skin

383

Exhilaration—is within—
There can no Outer Wine
So royally intoxicate
As that diviner Brand

The Soul achieves—Herself—
To drink—or set away
For Visitor—Or Sacrament—
’Tis not of Holiday

To stimulate a Man
Who hath the Ample Rhine
Within his Closet—Best you can
Exhale in offering.

Innocence replaced with a conceitful attitude
A mission fueled
By deep seated anger to show your mom she can’t tell you what to do
To prove you’re a child no more
If you took a second or little more you’d realize that at 29 no man should see himself as a child proving himself a man
At this stage you should be I am
But you stand in defense of you
Believing your family wants the worst for you
I’ve realized there is nothing further to reach for and admit too than the truth
And the truth is little brother you make poor decisions
Based on the immature childlike lifestyle you’re living
If someone comes along with a difference of opinion you demonize them
In your mind they’re bailing on their responsibility to support your foolishness
When it comes to you everyone is a hater
But could it be you who's full of hate?
Could it be your constant contrarianism which brings you in contention with everyone you come in contact with that keeps you in a state of constant void and anger?
I think you like residing on the outskirts of rationalism
A place where making concessions in the name of courtesy is as profane as cursing
A land of misery where those hurting go to feel sane
As long as you live in denial of your need to deal with your issues little brother
The abused asylum is where you’ll remain