Turning a tap clockwise, a mild annoyance of our creed.
A fever grew, and its meaning was lost to you and me.
Losers won, the writers pen cribbed some far away death,
It comes and goes like flowers growing near peppermint.
I long for that fall, which would take the heart of me,
entirely, to write some words about our destiny.
Love is the grief of all things wrong with me.
Countless sins, yet still hunting those winds of sweet.
Lost to me, Lost by me

there is a fire hydrant
a few meters away from my car
it screams fire like it saw everything
like a child playing seek with me
and hide in a corner above the clouds
and hid there for a thousand nights
and I scream and scream, but nothing creeps
but the emptiness in the shape
of a frat child's school drawing
locking the suitcases, going to places
but it's like the spring of the coldest
where my eyes hover on your shoes
maybe my autism for I never took that test
But I snap to the pretentious smile I give
as it breaks like crumbling bridges
over dead breeze and dying waters
there is a knife
a few meters away from me
a particular joke I must always make
about knife, and the art of self-worth
a knife so distant once that only the moon
hit her twice a month, her soft and gleaming glow
her unwavering, free ecstasy on a Monday
coming from an angle, so inclined it feels illegal
"but nothing is illegal in love", the knife said
the moon changed its angle, on a Tuesday
and the knife died by cutting himself
there is nothing
a few meters from me

idealism is dead on the kneel, gleaming mile-high glow
but leaking some blood, desperation, realistically
the ideal road is twisted and melted into the bars
to walk past till sundown and turn left to the county
turn right to the world of the corrupt, leaching, and thieving
maybe you'll get a life son, like that man right there
that man in a white hat wanted to buy the world, whole
he blows on his tambourine like he blows on this world
a dark shroud of a man covered in green, a mountain of it
the next day, a long night in Arkham Asylum, a lil' Johnny Cash
an old man was traveling that bleak road, smoking and smiling
when he turned right, he saw the man in his dim eyes and asked
"my blued son, where are my valleys and the mountains?"
"Where are my swans and rivers, birds and children playing?
"Where are the mothers, drunks, and the lovers?"
"Where are the commies, the reformers, the queers?"
"Where are my space rockets, satellites, and science stuff?"
"Where are the trees, those green insects, or flowers, it's near spring?"
the man said,
"Old man you're insane, that was all in your head.
dipped and planted like a seed, the moon was a joke, and the sun too.
You need to be electrocuted and controlled till you're better, this is the real world"
he turned to some corner to say
"come, writers and critics, invite and incite some distinct pain
don't block your mind with senseless meaning, be blinded today
come, ladies and gentlemen, curse some distinct verse of words
struck together by your vision of hell, spun to heaven"

Future Is A Bleak Piece of Music

a tale of the broken man
passing undecided
he said it was under plan
but turns out he was blinded
oh the sun is setting down
and the land is growing dark
"do I just sit and frown"
and leave it to lonely mark
a tale of the broken man
like a bottle in the sea
a gambler and his greed
boiling to thoughts of flee
oh the moon is shooting light
and the land is cold and dark
will he sulk all night, tonight?
or will he defend his lonely mark'
his lonely mark

a paradigm unhinged from borderline
of seeing, believing in faith, paranoid
the shaking madness I heard
was coriolis of the wind, or just birds
heavier each second, stupider each moment
I see the world as it was when it formed
a violently erupting volcano, with the pleasures, drown in
superimpose a feel of summer with the dread of cold
and you feel at home
staying awake till the death of the owl
the bloodshot eyes are feeling less painful
in essence, fell to the madness of my paranoia
paranoid and without sleep, a combo for the screen

The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout.
Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.
Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,
and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again.

The itsy bitsy spider riffled his cobweb off his legs.
Ripples of candor light hit the spider's neck.
Outside his nest was a rainbow glowing dark out,
and the itsy bitsy spider went up the water sprout.

The itsy bitsy spider left his home hungry for light.
Down came the night, cold and stark, miles from bright.
All sounds were of the insects that were preyed on silently,
and the itsy bitsy spider was lost to be

minutes to hours to years to some time in between

The itsy bitsy spider looked inside for a reason
Searching anxiously for himself, up to the ceiling of his prison
Careless and calculated he strikes his absence for any food
Water is relentless and pools up beyond his tiny boots

The itsy bitsy spider didn't long for a place to call his own
A shadow fills up his cup and the empty fills whatever's known
And Beyond all the drugs and alcohol and blood is hope
Sitting naively not making a sound to wake the sleeping rope

The itsy bitsy spider looked at his reflection
The scars were brought on some greedy loan, some false election
They didn't heal and his cold blood was still unborn
His body was broken, limbs disfigured and legs torn

but months of therapy self-reflection and positivity made his kind of whole

The itsy bitsy spider left his home hungry for beauty.
Down came the storm, forced the spider under a leaf
Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,
and the itsy bitsy spid....

A gospel beneath, mumbling some pop song
hidden, from nobody yet unseen
a herd full of kids and romantics
You smell the teen spirit amongst their spoils
a creature who locks up his spirit and consumes it
bit by bit, snacking the crumb of consciousness
divide every bit to consume yourself from within
A word mumbled till it lost all meaning
don't ask for help when you are lost to everything