Have you ever liked someone so much you regret meeting them?

"back to a wall at the broken glass ball where ones fed up with it all not just feeling small

a twitching of cheeks it's been this way for weeks and is this what he seeks? the cellar door creaks

bed fully-clothed you and your betrothed and the people you loathed a stones-throw from homegrown despair alone

i take no time to finish this rhyme exorcising the grime accruing in the back of my mind pure stream-of-consciousness line-by-line at 12:29

need a passport to get to the kitchen sink need the friends i don't have for a chat and a drink need to turn off my brain in order to think need a rope and a stool pull me back from the brink

i'm collecting read receipts today. thanks for your help."

*Seen Mon 14:42

Meet me at the corner of the pathways of your heart
We'll take a walk from side to side, we'll go from end to start
We'll meet up where you're vulnerable, insecure, afraid
Stroll along the avenues of anxiousness and shame.

We'll round a bend through phobias, your deeply hidden hate
Your blind pig-headed xenophobic well-repressed inmate.
And when we finally reach where two paths meet beneath the skin,
I'll see you start to harden where the bloodclotting begins.

See, this side is your armour, your inner steel and sword
It holds the secret goals and dreams you've still managed to hoard
Your stubbornness and pride and love all line the ****** walls,
Your upper lip it rises while the urge to cower falls.

The end is up ahead and you're as cold and hard as stone
Your pride stretches on further, to the marrow in your bones
I try to take your hand and you just turn back towards the start,
I wish that we could always meet in the middle of your heart.

the department's lack of transparency under secretary [redacted]'s leadership is ruining our reputation. wounds still fresh, still raw from the steaming hot poker of [redacted], his insistence on [redacted] with all the [redacted] has left the cabinet muddied and in a state of disrepair; the dismantling taking place under scrutiny of the public eye, whose line-of-sight is unwavering upon the heart of the issue. being as he is in a position of influence, of power, [redacted]'s behaviour is deplorable and inexcusable, and the liberal use of [redacted] resources to stretch his spidery fingers into the forbidden *** of [redacted] is unprecedented, even as we as a people grow used to controversies in a similar vein. thick skin is now a prerequisite of living in our political climate. representatives from [redacted]'s leadership group are yet to make any statements on the issue, though it is -- from a partisan standpoint -- abundantly clear that if an apology or explanation is not issued soon, the young republicrat's reputation will combust in a display of unglory; splintered shards of a once-polished and spotless reputation flying in different directions across the [redacted]. [redacted] has landed himself in hot water. we'll soon know how severe the burns are.

you are all:
children
green
naive
unprepared

community full of previously coddled and heretofore coddling parents with their doting Yesses and ever-so-rare Nos. A poem, my good reader, is not any old thought; it's not a question, a "when-will-my-husband-return-from-war?" simple concern, but how a lyric tangles itself up in the bramble of a rhythm:

Just
Like
This.
See How the Words
Jump From One Spot Of Your Brain
To the Next
As Though They're Panning In Stereo
Such Illusory Text.
And Notice the Rhyme
Injected Therein?
I Would Keep Complaining
But the Bit's Wearing Thin.

one either has a way with words, or they should do away with words, but not before they try. i am not a poet, but i do, at the very least, try.

please try, tee-why.

if i were to pen an autobiography
it would only be a line(?) long
because here not much of interest goes on
but if for some reason you'd like to get to know me:

"an acute lack of self awareness,
and an astute sense of irony."

The market was empty,
if not for my voice,
as I crooned my sermon
as an effortless remedy.

Echoes are still validation.
The crowd had no choice,
but to take in a message
of my self-flagellation.

The instrument cracked
as my voice became hoarse;
each syllable sprang
with the skin off my back.

Per chance did you hear
that my music doth ****?
If you survived its sound,
it must not have been near.