Out of body, out of touch
If I feel at all, then I feel too much
This poem is as shallow as my grave

But I'm still digging

If I want a God then I'll misbehave
If I want to be sad then I'll entertain
Just because I'm found
doesn't mean I'm around
Just because I'm growing up
Doesn't mean I can't be down

I'm sorry, mom and dad,
but if I want to be happy then I'll have to be sad
I'll write until my fingers bleed
Until my words are the blood that the readers need

The only reason I'm alive today.
Is because I fear the afterlife.
Not because it's real.
Not because the prospect of eternal damnation is troublesome.
Not because I disbelieve in eternal bliss either.
But, because what I desire most is nothingness.
Absolute oblivion
No more sensations.
No more lessons.
No more personal perception.
And no one, nothing, can promise this to me.
Atheism is still a belief in this fashion.
Nihilism is vain grasping at disconnectivity
And I am vain in this longing.
That my pain is more unique than anyone else's.
That to share it would only separate me further.
From all of you.
Even that wording is egocentric.
How many of us have built these fortresses around us?
pointed fingers at the mirrors of the world and cried:
OTHERS!

Do other people ever look at me and see poetry?
Some bystander on a corner
young or old
loner or lord
and wonder about my comings and goings?  
Have they created scenarios for me in their heads?
Mazes that the fictional me must traverse
Have they speculated on my love life?
"Oh, that man has been hurt. you can see it in the way he walks."
Do they listen to my order at the coffee shop?
They must think I lack imagination.
Plain coffee, plain clothes.
I hardly make a peacock of myself
Do they envision my morning routine?
He psyches himself up in the mirror first.
Today he asks that girl out.
This is the day his nephew becomes a man
Would I take the young lad to a ******* or a church?
How can you even tell someone's character?
Are there people who dress and act so they can't be read?
Are there people with magic eyes that cut through my disguise?
Are there people who want to save me, or be saved by me?
That guy would make a good protagonist in my novel.
How many layers of reality have I unwittingly dived down just by being observed?
Do people think about things like this?
Doesn't it get in the way of their lives?
Because I sure don't.
And it defintely doesn't.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Never.
Notta once

Fill the hole with nothing
Not the concepts that you hold dear
They could betray you
Into traps of torn parchments and holy relics
Binding. Entrancing fascinations
Keep you gounded on parables. Freezing real hope
And when you crack the mirror
Egotistical graven image
You will begin to see the truth beyond
Sights you're shown by the elders
Who've invested so much
Monopolized love and ****** it
For power's sake alone, they grasp at straws
For God's sake, they created him
To frighten and ******* all thought
Contrary to the maleable mold
On the bottom of progress' feet
Atlas scrawled his secret to releif
Don't give up. The whole world rests on the shoulders of honest men
Work diligently. Work nobley. Look out for others
It's the calling of the strong to protect the weak
Without this system of brothers, the weasels will feast
But the world pushes back and it doesn't seem worth it
After all, what's the point?
If not for anything else, then for the joy of being
Able to discover and learn
It may feel tedious and painful
Just to exist for the purpose of spreading
Life needs persist its unstable reaction
You can put it off 'til tomorrow
And live in yesterday's safety
Gaze at the horizon unblinking
Focused
Feral
Integral gear
Turning perpetually into itself.

My eyes
long to bleed
the pigment nostalgia of
ink-blot images

this over-exposure
of apeture awareness
develops beyond the
thought-corridors of blackrooms

before absorbing your sepia solitude,
remember that filtered lenses
cannot distinguish the difference
between memories and mementos

When life
becomes a vagrant
and death
an unsung train
there you will find me
oozing notes into night's horn
moon-beams drenched
with midnight's blues

rattle, ripple, shake
distorted city light
dancing barefoot
on crescent waves

I ponder,
        wander,
                    wait.

to reflect
upon reflections
- as the moon,
in her wistful way,
seeps sonatas
of wayward days

and in the distant dissonance
of constant consonance

She, too,
waits.

Self-Promotion
Shamefully accents each line
of scattered HelloPoetry

Follow me
Like my words
give me significance

We are all children
ignoring ourselves enough
to hide the smiles we form
from the positive-reinforcement
of another desperately embelished
first-world sob story

kicking and screaming
flourishing melodies of sameness
over commonplace chord progressions

**** me for humming along
******* for harmonizing