You can't stand the site of me
You must stand in front of me
You have to berate me
You have no choice because
You are you, and I give no sentence for that
Though I am me and therefore I am
And you can't change that
So I listen to what I listen to to make me me
But you refuse
Oh how hard refuse with all of your might
I'll sit next to him on this one
I sit next to him on most of these
If nothing else than to **** you off
If nothing else than to tear your vocal cords
If nothing else than to hear your hear STOP
And I write without sense again
And I write without sense AGAIN
I laugh at my own jokes because I know
I laugh at my own disjointed agony
I laugh at my self even if you
RE-FUUUU-SSSSE
Spelled without context are these phrases of GOD
I can't stand your God or gods or goddesses or any higher power BEING
If only because you refuse to believe in truth
Or to hear you cry
Or try to rip me up
Try to pray for me
Try and tell me I'm wrong when I know I'm more right than you
You hypocrites with your hypno-quits
I DON'T REVISE
I DON'T REVISE
What came first is the question still not answered
Feeling good now with my disjoint-finger-tap-TAP-TAP
Guitar now in my ears-adjunct-twixt-crossing MOVE
Keep this heavy-quick-ever-high-pitch-type-incorrect grammar if nothing else than to tell them I'm listening to The Mars Volta!
OR WAS "THE" missing
My favorite peak
My favorite peak
Too much coffee
Too much coffee
Oh why must we end

And why then, should I not?  I am not below most and if nothing else am equal to many here with relevancy to being philosophical while writing poetry.  The two may be related and maybe it's just personal preference that I try to separate these but it's not without reason or logic.
To write philosophically shouldn't there be few guidelines?  Shouldn't thought and inquisitiveness be themselves and without metaphor and emotion?
To write poetically, isn't it more about feeling, grace, and beauty without questioning these?
I understand things change and definitions separate, disperse, die, and are born which is why I'm going to say that the two ideas of contemplation and beauty are inextricable to a certain extent and I'm open their junction.
In the end maybe I'm split on this.
Maybe it's contradictory.
Maybe I'm wrong and it's due to past circumstances that're relatable only to myself.

I tend to not write while drunk
I tend to try and have fun
But it has become a nightly
Thing
So, I will do my best
Just like I never do
Just like I fall asleep at night
Just like I drink to sleep
Just because it helps me not think
I never help out
I never do anything
Whether that be cleaning the cat litter
Or cleaning up the backyard porch
Or trying to cheer you up
Or cleaning the dishes
Or taking the trash into the front of the house to be picked up
Or trying to better myself
Or doing my best
Or trying to not think of the thoughts that tend to hold me back
Or trying to change the world
Or taking your weight on my shoulders
Or learning about bettering myself
Or trying to think of how to make you happy without killing myself in the process, metaphorically or physically
Or wondering what's wrong with me and why I seem to be losing this race
Or thinking about the point of all this
Or thinking about why things are the way the are, why you tend to be unhappy, why you unintentionally force your mind into my mind
Or wondering why you never say love
Or wondering what I'm going to say at your funeral
Or figuring out why I seem to come up with excuses as to why I am like I am
Or coming to conclusions and epiphanies that'll never stay with me because, I can't and won't and shouldn't and haven't voice or voiced them to anyone, and in the end I'll be in first place, after you of course.

You must be careful
The journey will get dark
And you'll never reach the end

You must be brave
When you venture far
You can always get help

When you've had enough
Look around and find a light
Though sometimes it's very dim

Is it easy, I wonder
To make something like you do
To make something
Beautiful
What is beauty though
Or otherwise stated
Isn't love a thing
That no one can possess
Yet many can experience

Perhaps it is this
This that is the reason
That I am unfamiliar
With that emotion
Not of course
Completely
But more than hate

That I am often myself
That I am so much so
That others tend
To stay away

The teacher is wrong
There is nothing to teach
There is only learn
For someone to BE a teacher
Is to imply that they know
But, there are no facts
There is no correctness
Aside from the possibility that
The teacher is correct and does know

There are facts, however
And these are they
The teaching people as a whole
Never intended for me to question
And the closest few did not teach

These closest few asked me to ask
Though not too much, as always
And I get to thinking

Question is answer
And
Answer is question

Inside the mind
Into the stink
Vaporize brink
**** the line
There is none
When all is
Blur
Scratch the scab
It is no longer mine
Yet, still, I can hear IT
IT, the past
I am a memory
And memories are all I have
I can still experience the music
The dialogue
The people
The surreal, limbotic texture of my mind