A good movie, book, or painting will help us step outside ourselves.
It will loosen the emotional constipation this digital age has contributed to, breaking down the wall we built up so well by poking holes in our flesh till our hearts bleed sympathy, sorrow, anger, or whatever flood waters we were holding back.

All that said here are some good ones.
"Fences" Just watched it. I read the play along time ago but their is nothing like seeing something writing to make it more potent.

"What Dreams May Come"
"Patch Adams"
"Dead Poets Society"
"Bicentennial Man"

There is a certain devil in my eyes
a twinkling trickster who despises
all pomp and proper posers who lie
to gain the affection of the less informed.

There is a puckish knave who raves
to undue the chains of those enslaved
by creative play and poetry
by active explorations of prose and nobility.

I know such endeavors are things of futility
for if they knew my form of Anansi
silk spinning spider
or my formidable four legged figure of coyote
who runs under the Nordic name of Loki,

I am certain they would try to lightning fry me.
Instead, I buy some time masking my mind
tapping out binary bridges of ones and zeroes
with mythic folk and fairytales to educate
my elves who have lost
their pointed ears and no longer hear
the sound of nature’s truth
concealed in their very flesh.

There are no stricter terms
of life’s laws led by the infirm
then what fools feel they earned.

Taking in turn while good men burn
entitled ****** pick through
the littered landscapes
of those who time has made cruel.
Till, all tools are made fools
and the vain fall to the valiant and wise
and the greedy tumble before the well advised.

Those humbled by truth and knowledge
knowing when to take advice
and when they should rise
above the follies of the unimaginative masses.

You can have this body.
It is only a borrowed thing
made up of grass and mud
of burning stardust
and everything I ate
and everything that was
eaten by what I ate
every drop of water drank
every particle and wave
of those lovely raving solar rays.

I am only a place holder
for the next thing.
So, you can have this
soft body for the breaking
for the decomposing
and atomic, molecular reshaping,

But the dreams our mine
as are my thoughts.
For all that was gained
taken or lost
you cannot have my heart.
Unless, I decide to give it to you later.

The sparkle in your eyes
is the shadowy sky
that flames from
dark blue to easy orange hues,
the stars that burn
with diamond points
powerfully pushing out,
the space that turns,
your galaxies spiraling
into short stories
and our lives
into even tinier
minuets
that we can dance to.

Till, our bodies do
what they were always
going to have to do.
Stardust sparkles and crumbles
while eternity devours
the basic building blocks of life.
Black holes bend, pull, and swallow
the speeding light

and we hope we may
we hope me might
find our way back in to life.
We dream that our soft bodies
will seed, bleed, and blend into
oncoming generations,
making us immortal as we can be.

I would like to be kind and generous
not out of fear of the worst of us
but because that spirit has become
that heart of truth and love.

We rust like a metal chest
taking in somethings
while many things
are forever lost.
The melancholy
music plays
while we spin in
Our porcelain graves
aka bejeweled boxes,
forced to pirouette
in a perfectly repeated
and painful form.
Until, the sounds stop
broken by the crack
that flows
front to back
splintering reality
making our little
ballerina bodies drop.

I don’t think
people were meant to be
built up and
stacked on top of me.
Building complexes
give us strange
complexes.
I got issues
cause I’m trapped in
a brick building
when I should be moving.
My comfy chair
has me strapped in
watching hours of
television
on my laptop.
I don’t talk to people,
just text and
chat with them.
It’s not personal
cause at dinner
I don’t look up.
I just stay focused on
my little telephone.
No handshakes
no eye contact
no empathy
because we
forgot that
we need to talk to
and touch
other people.
We need living things
to be human beings.

In this life
You will wear
A million faces

A tearful twist
Of long farewells
And happy helloes,

Angry snarly
Brows furrowing
Deep and curling
Like a monster

A wrinkled mess
Of old man flesh
Crow’s skin tanning
Underneath the eyes
And high above
a prominent chin in
Scowly orbs of judgment

A softer inquisitive one
With confused movements

A face for love and joy

A face for love and lost

And every tiny transitional face
That forms in
Every single emotional
and temporal phase.

Poetry and writing are partly the quest to find the patterns that illuminate our inner truths.

You are so much more
invested in
domesticated
or non-domesticated
furry friends
then Syrian refugees
who look more
like you and me.

You are so much more
invested in
a piece of multi-colored cloth
that ***** in the wind
a symbol
of an idea
that has not been
fulfilled
then the victims of
drone bombings.

You are so much more
invested in
a barely ancient book
then women’s rights.

You are so much more
invested in
police authority
then those oppressed
for centuries,
those brutalized
incarcerated,
demonized,
enslaved,
and murdered.

You are so much more
invested in
sports and reality shows
then education
and the pursuit of truth.

And here is what
your investments
netted you
apathy, violence,
greed, destruction,
pain, suffering
terror, and the dividends
are still pouring in.

I am the optimal level of sanity,
treading where dreading hearts
dare not travel,
walking in shadows
with blind madmen.

I am the
strangely broken
god of poetry
because I create
new worlds of
hope and despair
everyday
without even needing
six days and one to rest.

I unravel the fabric of thought
to light the worst
so, we can bring out the best
like they brought out the dead
during the plague
Bells ringing for the
unsanitary mistakes
of mass population
humans promulgating on
the promenade of life
propagating in dense spaces
and disseminating our chemical forms
across the globe
inseminating malleable minds
and soft mud bodies.

Who am I but the mad king poet
because in the land of the blind
the one-eyed writer
is better than all eastern
and western philosophy poetry.

I feel like I have been writing the same poems over and over. I would welcome a writing prompt from anyone.

Blank walls
paint the
transparent halls
of my memory.

The tragedy
is that I can’t see
pass the
The steps
that spiral
into grief.

The unpainted
empty timber
barn toy box
collects dust,
leaving me
to choke
on what was once
playful fancies.

The closet is closed,
but beyond
the dark brown
wooden patterns
I hear echoes;

People I knew
talking,
sitting in old
frayed
lawn chairs,
looking up
at the night sky,
and me playing.
Star light,
flint rocks,
and fireflies
sparkle
escaping
through the crack.

But the door
is locked
and I can’t
get back
to that or
to those I miss.

So, I cry.
Fear
plants its fierce feet
hard into my face
as I worry
that I will be to late
to say goodbye
to the next
loved one that dies.

They tried to burn me alive
to give me my last rites
while I cried,
“Stop!”

Puffs of nightmares
smoking and
stacking upon
the wind
pushing
their
billowy blackness
up and around
like an upside down
ice-cream machine.

Fire touched my tips
Eyes burning,
blinking wet.
I begged them
“Please.”

Flames pursued
my bare flesh with ease,
melting and distorting,
transmuting it into
twisted versions of
Autumn colors.

I screamed
as each inch of skin
was swallowed in agony.

The masses
looked on.
Muted expressions
of fascination
and a sick satisfaction
plastered their faces,
while heated confusion
and pain painted mine
because their
tolerance for madness
had been expanded
beyond my comprehension.

So, when those holy men
told them
that I needed to be cleansed
Well,
all they thought was
the next life
will be better
for the burning
of him.

Then in the end
my skin
flaked black,
while white ash
floated in the wind.

It takes courage to love
to let a friend in
knowing time
will win again.
Skin wrinkling,
hair graying,
me seeing,
those I love walk,
or run away.
Collapsing
gasping,
dying breath
takes all the memories
that we tried so hard
to keep in ourselves.

It takes courage
to try again
to mend the fences
fixing the gate
that lets new people in
while letting me walk out
of that terrible darkness.
Till, the black swallows
my tired grins.
I recede like my hairline
failing like falling tears
that only soften
some of the losses
felt so often.

I know that I have that courage
because I love you all
and will die
before the last person falls.

Water flows
falling on
our flesh.
Little rivulets
slide down
and cool
our skin.
In that way
water’s life is fulfilled
being set upon the road
of falling.
Each drop taking the path
of least resistance.

Given each variable,
each level of knowledge,
each objective,
we to take the path
of least resistance
to fulfill
what we will
not what fate wills.

You are broken
for the purple lines
painted on pained pathways
and other roads that will not
walk back to him.

Even though you
parted your lips
parted your hips
letting him in
he will not
come *** again.

And though you think
that on the brink
of eternal dusk
he will look back
at you
with lust
and love,

He will not
because he never
wanted you as much
as you needed him.

I got tired
of trying to debate fanatics
so, I tried the Socratic method
but ended up having to
crack my skull open
on Plato’s Cave.
Then apologize before
I drank up
a big cup
of hemlock.

The earth is a voracious fiend
swallowing time
as the wallowing swine
eat their own filth.

Ignorance finds
its’ perfect apprentice
as people line up
to devour themselves
one lie at a time.

Spin doctors
spin records
reporting fictions
as reality.
Despite the truth
people laugh
say the lies
feel like facts
and the facts
are a conspiracy.

So, refugees are terrorists.
Whites become less racist then blacks.
“Black Lives Matter”
becomes a racist chant.
Cops never lie.
Every time
they shoot someone
the victim was definitely
going for their gun
and climate change
is not our fault.

I sit back
crying
because
I tried to debate this
believing people
are not idiots.
It just seems
that I am losing
and the doomsday clock
is not a nuclear metaphor.
It is a countdown to
the return of the dark ages
or complete environmental
annihilation.

I am a magnetically charged vessel
of negative spaces
attracting shards
of dangerous intensity,
while spitting out electricity
only to find my passions
fading in the delusion
of this *******-up ether.

He longed to be revealed
Pealed like the layers of an onion
Or plucked like the petals
Of a rose
While Singing
She loves me.
She loves me not.
She loves me.
She loves me not.
Until the last
Layers of flesh
Disappear
And the anatomy
Of love appears
Wet and transfigured
In his transcendent
Affection
A beautiful grotesquery  
Falling in love
With the pain of
Loving someone
Who does not want
To be loved by him

Eighty-one hours of work
Ten hours of driving
And in-between
There is hardly time
For me to find
A full dream

So, I rise from
A slumber
Of unfulfilled
Snips and clips
That make
Madness
My ultimate state

Exhausted
With no
Creative escape
Cause I am
To tired
To create
A single line

Life is a pre-gone
pre-drawn
predawn
conclusion
cause we fall
as the celestial lights
of others
finally begin to rise.

In my dream
darkness screamed
as the hand of gravity
compressed my brain
causing shades of pain
to become
acrylic calligraphy
cutting across
the constellations.

Swollen stars swirled
in the madness
spitting out
burning gasses
of orange while
purple, pink
and green mists
spun on in
spiraling galaxies.

Death was
the lines of
crimson slowly
descending
finding
untraveled roads
diverging down
the outer limits
of my face
as tv familiars
stared at the horror
of my tortured
space obsessed
cerebellum

I blink tiredly listening to parallel pipes push plastic particulates in and out around the factory, while white towers give off billows of powerful pollutants. Cylindrical silos rise echoing a sound like snowy static from an old black and white tv. I walk and watch this strange scene following train tracks that go nowhere and back from there. The train is graffitied with some minor marks and more complicated tags. One roughly sprayed owl covers an old ***** orange car with the words “I wish I could rust away to” followed by red lettered “Itchy legs” and a more elaborate display that says something unintelligible but looks spectacular. Concrete carries the weight of the old train cars. It is cracked partially from the truck drivers and other workers but mostly from the earth shifting as the cement expands over time. Shallow lines in the concrete pursue their parallels. Their more prominent brothers curving and splintering as the deepest cracks cut fully across the back of the factory lot. This is what I watch from whatever time it is to the infinity of night that fills my sight. I am tired beyond tired. Feet sore, body slightly thinning but my mind is beginning to lose its distinct edges. Until, all reality becomes a walk around the factory. There is no yesterday or tomorrow only endless caffeinated patrols, and a yearning for the release of sleep.

Your consciousness is restricted by your self-imposed ignorance. You are so much more then your consumerism impulses, your romantic fantasies/heartaches, your political ideologies, and your religious dogmas. You are a universe of potential, something that can be developed in the stillness of introverted introspection, something that is unique and beautiful, something that longs to be shared with the world. You are your own mechanism for self-directed emotional, intellectual, nutritional, and  neurochemical evolution. You just have to look beyond the predefined prepackaged reality and realize just because it is done this way does not mean it has to be done that.

I am tired.
So tired
I start to ask myself
what is a word
that means tired.
Till, I stop myself
laughing at my own
tired absurdity.

They are a mad mass of
political extremists
trying to be free
in this society.

But their collective minds are
turgid tumorous towers
blank expanses
that expand their
oppressive presence
while stifling the essence
of creativity.

I wait for a better world
one without these mad pig pen children
who cry angrily for their imagined losses.

Until, I wait no more, and fresh fields are formed
over our long decayed forms
letting flowers bloom effulgent.
New rows rise full of white and pink roses,
while trees spread their wing-like leaves
allowing nature to finally breath
a gasp of relief
without the mentally diseased
human beings to plague
her floating oblong figure.

One feather is folded back.
Wings flutter black,
not pumping fast,
but floating in a circle
seemingly relaxed
while the wind
blows him up
and around
like a kite.
Being slightly damaged
I wonder how
this bird flies
with a broken wing.

You need the poetry
Of a pre-painted reality
To infected you with the disease
Called empathy
To get sick with humanity
Knowing there is no cure
And only the vaccine
Of apathy and greed
Could set you free
from that well released
Read as you please
Better believe what you see
Make us better human beings
Not nearly contagious enough
Outbreak of real love

White snowflakes fall.
Brown boots break the ground.
Porcelain perceptions
are lost and now
crimson puddles
seed the grounds.

This is what is found
when nationalistic
rhetoric
slowly crosses
from let’s make
this country great
to this is who
is to blame
and who to hate.

Till, that ill suited
nuclear rage
resets the atomic age
and glass jars
of peach preserves,
rhubarb,
and non-perishables
in dusty cellars
are the only things
left of us human beings.

We walk right down to the minute,
right up to the second.
We fall down in an instant
when the heartbeat is missing.
Black smoke become shapes
of whatever painful memory takes
our final beat and breath away.

There are clouds
That obscure reality
While I wait
For the most
Probable
Eventuality
Knowing
That immortality
Is a lie
We like to tell ourselves
I wait to fall
Scrape my knees
Against the cold concrete
And hope that each time
The coarse grains
Will give way
See me sinking
Into a shining world
As hardness envelopes me
Vapors conceal
The way I feel
The affections that are real
And I hide a bit to
Till I find the truth
Visiting one friend,
Her or him
Walking and talking
Knowing
That they will be swallowed
That the earth will open up
Time will crack and rumble
Lightning to thunder
Splitting just enough
To take the ones I love
One chip at a time
Till their fate is mine
And I join them
In the dirt nap defeat

I put a quarter in the bin.
You take more than ten
back out again.
You’ve been
gambling
with my life
wearing silver linings
and golden green
shirts with ruffles
and jackets
that are sparkling.

While someone is
parking your Benz
your cashing
government checks
turning poor people in
for being impoverished
while you abused
the system
you want to make great again.

You want to make America hate again
but we all know that is
almost the easiest road
to pave,
****** that some
descendent from a slave
made it great.

So, in your resentment
you simmer
to a boiling point
of rage
setting America on fire
with your political lies.

I met another
Could be
Maybe
What if
Beautiful
Interesting
Kind of young
Woman
With kids

Too bad I am
To well done
Burger burnt straight through
Can’t trust my feeling
Even when I am
Sharing them with you

To many let downs
Rejections
And heartbreaks
To many good poems
About painful mistakes

But she looks so good
That I almost wish I could
Eat her up
While she devours me to

I got a boatload
Of excuses
Like I like my life
Like I like being on the road
Like my dad needs me at home
Like I enjoy my sleep and freedom

But the biggest one
Is that I am just too tired
I don’t want to get my
Hopes up in a twirling parasol
Just to have the umbrella break
And let me get rained on
Again.

The pains of now are provocatively painful and push us powerfully to places we would prefer not to go. However, the pains of memory hopefully lessen with the distance of time.

We find ourselves
in the struggles
in the books
in the movies
in our reactions.

We chip away
and add some clay
to find who
we will be.

Not a matter of fate,
we are not etched in stone
but tempered by life
and all the curve *****
that are thrown.

It is a constant process
of chipping and adding.
Until the time comes
when all the arithmetic is done
and we finally slip from
the form we found.

But it was never
part of a grand plan.
There were a trillion
plus roads
with a billion-fold
stops.

Whether we were lost
or planning the trip
the journey is what
we became.

I don’t want this dust laden room to become my tomb. However, I cannot abide the outside, a world where lovely flowers still bloom. A sense of sweet smells do not pass through the wooden membrane. Instead, it is the stench of fear and death that wed themselves to my nose.
Children no longer leave their rooms. The streets are far too quiet so, it would be safe for me to venture outside. No one would really bother me, but I am scared, unprepared for anything less than the despair of my self-imposed isolation.
The ***** blue trash can is a quarter full with **** filled plastic bottles, *** covered Kleenexes, and perishables. The metal grate vibrates and clicks as heat tries to press in like an abstract specter. The noise would keep me awake if I ever tried to sleep.
Thirty-four hours is too long. My eyes burn heavy. Sleep would welcome me, but I refuse to yield to that release. Unconsciousness frightens me. I know what dreams might visit me, fictions, and dark fantasies that vaguely recall the painful realities. Perhaps a cup of coffee might save me from those nightmares. I know that I will eventually succumb to the demon of slumber. My dry eyes find water that I did not know existed.” No sleep, no sleep, god please no sleep.”
Memory movies come unbidden. steel breaks glass, metal crunches, someone screams. I shudder as my fingers follow a map of pain from my lower lip down and to the right. “No, no, no, no, not today!” I cry out. Then, recalling the powdered stimulants that I stored in my old book bag I dash up and towards the door, stopping just short of opening it and stepping out to the living room.
“*******, stupid *******, you ******* ******. ****!” I yell as I retreat from the dangerous door.
More tears make a guest appearance on my face. ***** fingers ****** my chipped tooth, pushing it in and pulling it a little way out resisting the urge to cringe in disgust and pain. Till **** and blood pop from the pink gum bubble just under the disfigured tooth. I bite my tongue, till more blood comes and swallow the putrid mixture.
Small shadows slip sideways and back into place as an ambulance rides by my window. My body tremors with a familiar terror. “No, no, not again. Oh god please not again.” A strangled voices weeps. The multi-colored lights of police cars play a strange shadow show on my wall. “Not again, not again.” I whimper.
A thud, thud, thud, thud, sounds to my right, followed by a muffled voice. “Come on man you got to come out sometime.” My fingers fall to a thin scar just beneath my left pec. I trace the scar completely then push against it as hard as I can. Until, my breaths become shallow. “Go away *******, just *******!” I scream back uncertain who I am yelling at.
“Fine” the muffled voice replies in defeat.
“Good, good.” I mumble
Tears threaten to swallow what is left of me. Instead of letting them win I decide
that this has to end. I find a small book of matches, strike the first one and let it burn out.
A small face fills my mind, little cowboy brother. I strike the second one and let it burn  down to my finger. The face returns, and it burns worse than the fire. Mad laughter crackles as heat and smoke fill my lungs.
A shard of glass scratches my left cheek, and I can see my little brothers body crumbled in the passenger seat. I cannot feel the fire burning me. Someone yells in my ear stop struggling.
He tries to pull me out of my room. I punch him in the jaw yelling “*******!”

Now, I am outside. Panic fills every ounce of my being. I struggle to climb back in my burning room.
A stranger yells “stop him.”
I scream. “No, I have to go back in, let me go. I can’t be out here.”
Despite my struggles I am forced to watch my sanctuary smoke and burn, until water squelches the last bits of angry orange.
With the wooden walls now broken, I break to.
“Please come back, I am sorry. Please come back.”
Only the soft sizzle of some nearby ember answers my pleas.
I realize that my photos have being incinerated. There will be no more pictures to help me see my little buddy. The night ends, as an ambulance carries me away. I am strapped in, certain that no happy place awaits me.
A strange thought  come unbidden, and I ask the EMT sitting next to me “do you think they will let me have a padded room. I can’t be outside.”

I find that many times in my life
there has been too much fear
where fascination would have served me better.

I think too much,
talk too much,
dream too much,
and write too much
in a desire to
illicit implicit
emotional responses
engineered in
the pursuit of
defining and expanding
the influence of
love.

They are multinational mongrels,
entities who feel entitled to
***** and grab all public interests
with their Atlas hands;
Claiming they hold the world
bearing the burden of heavy clouds.
With the hunger of Galactus
they gobble up our well-earned income
demolishing what little capitol we have left.
These creatures of mythic proportions
should find themselves opaque, existing in a state
of enforced transparency
so they cannot encroach upon
Our so-called democratic liberty.
But those corporations wear
the wrong long dark robes.
Instead of transparency
we found them enshrouded in
cloaks of offshore invisibility
concealing their ill-conceived crimes
from the eyes of our world wide
human community.

One ship two sails shorn.
Sunrise finds her crew
too far from the shore.
Wooden heart cracked
and replaced by cold metal.
Her fabric ***** furiously
sending the sounds of
wind slapping her ***** white sails,
only to find her soft cloth soul
replaced by a hot humming motor.
That engine of destruction which
bristles with fossil fuel's burning energy
or our modern nuclear fury.
My traveler's heart loses
its measured beats
and I gasp in arrhythmia.
In truth, I weep for a sea
that I have never seen
for waves and tides
I have only a passing familiarity.
It is only the fictions
of my fellow word smiths
that lend any resonance.
I see the shiny but choppy surface
In stories on tv, in movies,
or bursting out in beautifully bound books.

The camera adds to many pounds
and the mirror man makes me sick,
but my shadow is debonair,
with cool black clothes and a full head of dark hair.
I wish that illusion would stick.

Someday you may claim
that I was a hero
that I took the pain
wore it so well
ate it up into myself
and gave it back
to make a change.

Someday someone
will eulogize
mark my death
with pretty lies
looking back
with gold tinted glasses
not seeing the truth
instead looking at
what passes
for a good man.

But I was not a good man.
I was lazy.
I was selfish.
I wanted freedom
at the expense of
relationships.
I wanted poetry
and it cost me
my sanity.

Someday
cards will say
come lay me to rest
and you will try to
remember me at my best.

But my life was just a jest.
I was a fool’s apprentice
kind enough,
intelligent,
creative,
but a jester at my best.

Flesh rots.
We forgot
the truth,
but you
try not to
think about it.

Getting by
is busy work
that keeps us
distracted from
what really hurts,

A nine to five,
a family unit,
a wife a child,
a job to go to.

I don’t want to
but I have to
remind you.

It is made of
wood and metal
fancy folded fabric
full of regret
and stiffness,
of roads not taken
parting paths
forgotten
with people
who got
lost on them.

You constantly
forget this
so, I have to remind you
to appreciate its
opposite.

Till, you take your turn
to get eaten or burnt
by your ******* coffin.

Maybe I should have
walked on eggshells,
kept my face down,
and only spoke
when spoken to.

It’s not like
she broke my tooth
or cracked a bone.
Even if
the shirts were ripped
at least she didn’t
make me bleed.

If I gave her
the satisfaction,
if I had been meek enough,
Instead of wanting
to laugh and play
buying comic books
when I got paid;

Maybe if I understood
her rage
I wouldn’t have been
slapped in the face,
had my hair pulled,
Or been hit with the broom
the mop, the dust mop,
the brush, the boot,
the belt, or whatever
she could use.

Maybe, I deserved the bruise,
the welt, the agony,
the isolation.
Maybe, I shouldn’t have been born.

It must have been my fault.
It had to be my fault
or else it doesn’t
make any sense at all.

My life is an unwieldy road
Of thorns without roses
Pink petals parted
For the travel hearted
The broken brothers
Buried under cement
The dodge neon
Barely rolling
From one work site
To the next one
That same night
Five-hour energy
Caffeine philosophy
And highway poetry
No borders crossed
Just New and old cities
People with different stories
Some strangers
Riding parallel
Others intersecting
And heading
Out in another direction
A three-hour drive becomes
A four-hour long one
Cause I prefer
To drive sixty miles per
Letting anxious travelers
Pass me by
While I enjoy the ride
Some come and go
Before I get to know
Who they are
Others rush in
Living and dying
Right in front of me
I don’t stop
I just do my crying
While I am riding
Till the day I die

Engage, in deep conversation not just hollow pleasantries. I want to see what is deep inside of you, let your universe unfold. I am certain through intense dialogue we will peel back the dark mask you hide behind. You are more then your previous relationship. You are more then the binary politics of society and all their simple slogans, and obfuscating talking points, you are more then the religion and ancient texts you turn to to find meaning and morality. You are a set of unique experiences, in a unique vessel, in a unique time, and a unique space. You are transcendent flesh formed from the cosmos with consciousness. Please do not squander that gift.

To think and dream
remembering a place
where we've never been
pondering the sparkling
pond we never swam in
or the heat from the
crackling fireplace
we never snuggled
in front of.

I rush to thoughts of you,
a reflection of someone
I never truly knew,
an omnipresent
perfect female companion,
a lie I tell myself.

The same lie
that dies in the reality
of knowing you will
never love me,
only to be resurrected
by hazy half remembered
dreams.

Cause the memory of
a never was
or never will be love
is sickly sweet,
as unhealthy
as the corn syrup crap
the food industry
has been feeding me.

My sugary affliction,
farcical fantasy,
addiction of desire
which affords me
moments of relief
from the reality
of our sick and
hateful society.