Trying to keep up with the chemical imbalance,
He brushed it off and worried more with gathered synthetic talents.
Synthetics curtain the authentic certainties,
but certainly add to the offensive burden.

Cold sweats will soak the beds where he won't sleep, just toss and turn in.
He dreads the voices in his head that keep reminding of the burning.
The phrasing suits it well, because desire is a fire and you will lose if you're to battle it.
It's the leader of an army that storm your psyche as the catalyst.

He cluttered all the cabinets,
left craters in the walls,
in search of just one more substance to get away from it all.
This only left him stranded,
Scarred from what this caused,
And they wonder how he got there,
Where stuttered screams from cellar's call.

Fingertips shake as his ego's enraged,
Fingerprints left on syringes for days,
A ****** mess has been made as he's invaded his veins,
A need to escape, I guess it's all been in vain.

The family throw's a fit, yes they're all in a rage,
Or so you'd think but they've forgotten, yes they're all in a daze.
He's stayed in there for minutes, hours, days.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months that met with years.
He's slain, beaten, weak, and his eyes befriended tears.

His heart skips and clatters against his rib-cage.
But its his soul that is shaken, shattered.
Where it started he was fragile, in a sense. If you remember, he wasn't aged.
Although his perspective proved too agile, he still holds innocence.
Hurts to remember, **"It's just a phase."

Government housing,
shoelace subway station loans leave me barefoot across the hardest asphalt amazon.

Waterfall language blended with high volume.
It's like a bathrobed foreigner near luggage pick-up shouting:
"It's too late to catch the end of the world train".

The clocks fixed to bomb tickings
that run the routine,
Sure to schedule human collateral in between the minutes left trickling behind when breaking speed limits;
2 alternate realities late.
(Half past Valhalla, a block down from Revelations.)

Fortune's told at palm reading's for my corpse that's in the wrong casket,
Cast by astrological accident to substitute in place of a forgotten friendships funeral arranged by bothered bitter *******.

Attack, Attack.
Button-mashing masked mad-hatters.
That was only the beginning to the wrong and the bad,
Fresh records in the back of arrests from a past not silent enough yet.

Bored to death at ceremonies,
Only half-dead.
Necrophiliac moonlight vengeance.
Grave robbing ****** robin hood lost his head,
to bones with needs defined undead,
Chatter-box bones with no speech, not even a sentence.

Running out of flesh,
Where's the after-party at?
Lady lust's licorice and liquor.
Swim, saliva swim quick away from a swollen tongue slobbering atop questionable discrediting concrete bedding.

Cannibalistic women,
A cobblestone late as far as bedrock goes.
Stone age-there's already a hole in my chest, deviant harlots as friendly as each fiendish enemy.

The last thing I'm worried about is sinning,
Bare mental calendars, the time machine is dead again, so the phone's out.
Leave a voicemail for revolutionary surgeons slurping down some drowning organs,
small-talk with full mouths waging bets,
Scrap fed dogs, play fetch.

I'm in love with cemeteries,
So where can I get out of this herse called a cab?
Drop me off the next rooftop,
Native tourist under the influence but above sea level smashed.

New Yorker demography photography;
Beer goggles project a building beautifully swallowed by orange and American debt.
Dollar store flip flops found on the 3rd aisle next to molded bread.
24 stories up I slip off,
Dizzy from endorphins; Such bad luck.
Gravity woke me up on the wrong side of the bed.

Wrapped and trapped in grade-school canvas.
The drawer cargo: one fragile motel bible...missing pages.
My rolling papers shooting blanks.
Bankrupt, blanking out on tasteless wallpaper shades of a sadder sage.
Cranium parking lot reservations, space ranging from heart attacks to a redness on my iris blacked.

Do fractures need artsy autographed casts?
On the inside harder scars represent bite marks wolves left with their teeth after their dinner had been blessed.

I can get some 3-quarters of American rest,
Shake hands with death, and consider snatching a scythe to slaughter house guests.
Lethargic, body separate and apart, ornamental limbs decorate and compliment the  curb's new color coat;
A fresh, wet, white and red.

If I left no censor on the story,
Took the best and left the worst.
You wouldn't stand with open arms,
You'd be at a loss of words.
I'll remember what you preached on what really makes a man,
Make no amends as I admit I feel that this,
Is. The. End.

Wake up, ******* wake up, this is just the beginning

How can I parent new beginnings?
When I haven't gotten farther than my own reflection as the storyboard?
Tragic note to self, no longer suicide,
You can never truly live a life worth meaning, if you can't forgive yourself.

I wrote this for someone close to my heart,
A companion, friend, lover, one who tears me apart,
But that gives me life and a reason to live,
Literally,
The future's more important than just some kid.


This isn't about me anymore, my vices, my deeds, or my circumstances.
Because the product of me is coming,
And I don't want my worldly pain to burden a pure heart,
**I guess I owe myself second chances.

Expensive habits and defensive addicts are what engineers the user rabid,
Rapid heartbeat, zoning in and out.
Foaming at the mouth, clinging to my seat.

Shoot the family, hang the kids, frame the wife,
Any way you look at it there's always a darker side.
Are we talking lights and camera flashes or skull fractures and lacerations?
Most of my time's spent pondering once I hit the pavement,
Taste the blood. Touch the Earth. Hear the sky.
Taunt a love. Fail the search.
Lose your mind.

Face flushed, I pant and sigh, the steam just teasing my numbing sight.
Tease and tickle and ripple, slide,
The droplets slide along my skin that weeps, 'Too tight!'
Rip it off me, rip it wide,
One more line, one more line, and my chest is locking up while my teeth chatter and bite.

All I ever want is all the pleasure-
Probably the problem.
I don't want you all alive when they set down my coffin,
Coughin' up bits and pieces of blood and flesh-

Is there anyone
on the other side
of that door?
I'm in fear for my life.
it's much more than innate
it's the things I create
in the closet of my mind.
I design my friends
with big black eyes, and dark histories
and sharp teeth
and secrets.

I'm the author,
the artist,
the god,
in the realm that I hide in that's reserved in my mind.
I don't go outside
the terrors inviting, so I've convinced myself,
this is where I belong.

Just leave me alone.

This is where I belong.

I need to be alone.

Alone.

*With my friends.

Illegal answers require psychic invasion,
Personal opinion poses dangerous hobbies.
Thought police outlaw; evasion,
Applauds fourth-dimensional bodies.

If lifespan be as a labyrinth,
And garish men of magicians,
Are blessed with luck and wisdom.
If we bloom as imperialists,
And abandon our traditions,
Then it backfired, teaching us to think independently but listen.

Some advice screams truth aloud.
Too poor, for this is the minority,
Now the scene of this ****** thing is crowned.

Dim lit street lamps; slow dancing silhouettes.
A kingdom falls and it kills the sound.
Where we question lies here and there,
Here, then there, cancer coated lessons-
And long conversation that only wonder of more, hollowing an aged box of danger.

It has only taken every single descendants chances,
and we've trophied our lack of community.
So we've taken up advances, and embraced our anonymity.
More secure in loneliness and his companions,
Because fear is a world built for lost men with a common trait.
Their demeanor cheers:
"Abandoned, Abandoned."

-Traversing dust-riddled attics,
Discovering volumes, the journals of addicts.
We make the vices so dramatic,
Pray sweet no sinner, leaving gods post-traumatic.

Paperback letters,
Another waiting for the weekend.
Another fix, and I'm complacent.
Another deafening regret.
Screaming in my ears,
My pulse excites, vacation.
Animus gone racing.
You can't see it, but I swear it's there,
I don't know what you see in material things.
It doesn't hurt, but it bleeds.

Ghost towns, we,
The apparitions,
have minds so twisted,
It's Cataclysmic commonplace,
And these are some sadistic statistics.

What is the damage?
The telephone whispers, almost dead.
Another crippling harlot,
Internal bleeding,
And a few scars left.
A question lingers in the atmosphere.
Will I die like this?

The grass is green, and you can hide in your lies,
But know there's not much luck on the other side

Now?
I don't ******* care,
I don't...care.
Because all I consist of is a lost cause,
A lost cause with burdens to bear.

All of this conversation piece casts,
Yet I plant enlarging gardens.
Mother warns and Father mourns;
You'll reap what you sew, and finish what you've started.

Household horror story,
moaning and groaning and talks of hell.
Award-winning wintered heart
Burned the millionth ironic degree colder.


All-american, classical religion; a cult's worried storybook.
Gears grinding within a machine fit to sell.
The saint stays sinning while I rust nigh twin decades,.
Along the way,
Cemetery silence and  vesper's nine raised my entity centuries older.

Salt-water sea folds offer flooring,
Riverbed full-house cathedral; blasphemy.
I stand and mimic a missionary, touring.
Nostalgia.
This all reminds me of home, though now it's not we who sit in
permanent pews snoring.


Forgive my old identity and it's abuse of me.
Forgive me and my use of we,
That I don't seem dull for my mind's eye's sight strayed... For a few thoughts.

Retrospect depicts life lived selfishly in leisure.
Mocking, spitting in the kindest face still surrendering, and...
I'm lost and content, drowning in thought again.


Thought...
An infinite, sacred journal.
A closet, save a doorknob, because no key is needed inside the bedroom's housing our souls.
Where god's children fellowship among the angels.
Or those like us fall for demonic hypnosis, with no need to say farewell.

Thought.

A trap, a gravesite, a laboratory.
A map of your life, or the origin of our own self-inflicted boring.

Our thoughts are forever ours, under any circumstance.
Even those of us that greet the sun on a grim crossway sidewalk, shaking with violence,
Internal, external,
Cold and wet.

To compliment the poetic beaten bones,
holding in place sentences scribbled across worn cardboard that whimpers...
That whimpers something so human.
To regular passerby's this is meaningless and mediocre.
To the youth, a sick humor for spoiled wannabe's and jokers.

Personally, and with whole heart my pen exposes sorrow, empty of any patience left on a fabled morning for that imagined intersection, or that city.
I saw humanity in broken cursive ink,
Cursing under sighs I saw what connects it all in my eyes.

It will seem radical, and hollow in meaning but I feel there exists substance behind this being's...
Expression.
I say there is depth.
I spoke the universe in my interpretation of the cardboard sermon that read,
"I don't want your pity, I want your pennies".

Consider with I, 'thoughts', again.
I consider, that if anyone were to remember the phrase connecting both, with distaste or sympathy.

No war hero, no slave to addiction;
The most ancient ideas of enemies, but neither side fate favored on what's given.
Be witness to our ignorance,
Where one another we could give our petty...nothings.
To save a life, or many.
To save our world.

We submit no rag the value of one single rich,
Gift no population with hope to survive and forgive.

Millionaire beggars scatter 'round plenty,
And their wealth will stay fictional,
But don't you agree their thoughts have stayed many.
Their pockets are empty, save their thoughts, which are infinite, and continue.
Endlessly.

I thought I was on my way home but who's to say I got the right directions;
Curious and afraid so I dissect myself like an insect,
Parts of me scattered across this city like windshield manslaughter at an intersection.
The sky wept with harsh cry and pained screech; the clouds evaded.
I could use more shade for ***** deals in shady places,
Dark corners and alley way sections where the shadows burst and cross the line to devour my body and run the worst parts of my mind.
Where did I go wrong? How am I not dead?
How did a silhouette become so mislead?

There's no salvaging anything. I rebuilt and in the end everything returned to being burned.
I'm alive in the furnace though my ashes have surfaced.
Or really I am dead and what you see is something darker has my body and with it always comes it's purpose.
Could it be I've been gone for a long time?

Why say sorry, when it's a waste of breathe,
Don't try to change the path, it's a waste of step,
My past always defeats me, an attribute that I regret.
We make the best with what we get.
We make the best with what we get.

What is it called when we go bad?
Not expired, because we're not dead.
But we're rotten to the core.
Should I write and play the chord,
or should I I leave and cut the cord

Tonight's my first stare into the face of a knife,
Sincerely questioning the rest of my life.
My balcony gives me security, that I could jump at any time,
It's a work of art in my dreams,
but not responsible, right?

See it's not we who we're affecting with our actions or words,
See there's no affection in a home full of hurt,
See what the product is of sharing a curse,
is perfection in a sermon, or a song, or a verse.

I'll become inspired as I sit on this couch,
'Cause down the hall I can imagine it's like the gates of Heaven,
sure to lock me out.

I searched and never found a cure to my doubt.
Maybe there was something to my Sunday morning teachers trained mouth.

Here again-
questioning the rest of my life.
I'm sorry mom, I guess I never finally got right.
Here again-
Dear dad, there's not much to say now,
I appreciate that you'll always deny,
that I never made you proud.

Dear family,
cause here that's what we call em'.
I apologize for the exposure,
like time wasted on petty problems.

People always come to me for words,
I always give the best advice, and always take the worst.

What good  is intelligence and talent if it doesn't solve our problems that are actually imagined?
No where near perfect from practice.
Reenacting crashes breaks character and my emotions react.
Even better actors expose colors.
The best are usually bad.

*Contradiction

So all rights and homage belong to god,
But who would want this body after they've left it to rot.
I've got a wicked set of morals,
And the baggage to match,
So before he cut the call the devil stated, "What a catch."

Rip the nails from your hands and hop off the cross,
We could use the wood.
Choke down your pride you ******* product with a cost,
A martyrs blood's a wasted good.


I can't keep the plug in the jug,
At least you can keep the change.
You can have the family love,
I'd rather trade it for the chains.

Does this pain you? Is this really pain?
Does this pain you? Is this really pain?

Bottom-feeder, bottom-feeder-
The garden burns as does the seeder,
Suicide swings along the feeter on the highway to hell, but I'm a nonbeliever.
So you have your book and you've built your towers,
But does your faith constitute strength or does it make you a coward?

I've been to a hundred holy places,
Heard a thousand sermons,
But most I value all the learning that I gained from all my searching.

Certain death, it's certain death, it's what they told me would happen if I got up and left,
And sure I'm troubled, I struggle, and I'm not the best,
But I'm sure there exists better answers than this.

Because what is a life,
To be governed by some verses that we can't know are right?
And you tell me that my faith is weak,
But you ignore any options, shut me down, and just claim deceit.

I want a refund, here's my receipt, because if I must bow down to something angry at me,
Then I might as well just off myself,
I'd rather die on my feet that survive on my knees.

I say all this, not out of spite, not out of resentment, I'm not mad at life.
I'm just stating that it could be something more, something else,
Than a choice between heaven or hell.

You wanna save me? But is this really saved?
Is there something wrong with who I am? Or will this god only love me if I change?

Is that it? Am I not enough to work? It's a concept I've struggled with since birth,
And if He's there and I don't have a choice, then why won't He answer,

**I've never heard a voice.

You left us on a Thursday, but we decided to wait until the following Monday to do anything with you.

You left your room a mess, more than usual, with sloppy scribbles on the walls about accidents and incidents. Even though your mother always griped and reminded you to be tidy and firm you ignored her because, well, you'll always be who you always were. Your clothes all thrown in the right corners, the cereal bowls filled with mold under your bed. The way you stapled your character through tangled cables and caricature. I loved you every minute of it.

I remember you showing me your worst at the Friday night lights, behind the bleachers. Between cheering and littered beer and soda bottles, you told me something that destroyed my optimism about things. I didn't even notice the plastic crunched under my feet and some kind of snack bar paste that ruined my favorite sneakers. I always loved learning, but not after what you taught me about what he taught you. I guess that's what teachers are for. But he took much more than he ever gave to you on a chalkboard.

I didn't go to your funeral, I was too busy downing the wine in the parking lot I stole from the local supermarket.
And after everyone had left the scene, I was so torn up I went to your tombstone, alone, screaming.
It was later on, maybe eleven pm at night.
There wasn't anyone around, not a soul in sight.

Just you and I. Part of me hopes your spirit was there. Another part of me hopes you didn't witness my blood red eyes and dribbling nose. Anyone could have tasted the rage in the air.

I don't want you to see me how I was, how I am now.
I want you to be in peace at it's best, as one should when they're resting like that and such. It's just that, this was too much for me, it tore me to pieces, ripped me to shreds. I hope they bury me next to you. The decision has been a struggle. But I don't want you to be so lonely down there, so I'm coming to join you. Because now I feel unfinished, like half of a puzzle.

In the morning and in the evening,
Drive-time bulletins oceans away.
Between the mourning and seeking,
Gridlock still lives in yesterday.
It's all around me.
It's all around.
It's all around me.
And It surrounds.

I'm conscious of the difference in continental content,
But I'm so sensitive to casualties that will always be.
Everywhere where necropolis' thrive and crushed steel and plastic are taking lives.
Always so far away from me.
Always so far away from me.


Where we find fatal jackknives and pileups on express ways making mechanisms of bone marrow.
This is where,
The public expresses sorrow for the victims who died tomorrow.