Notice me,
as I sit swaying
in my grief.

Please pay attention
when I mention
what is nibbling
at my sleeve.

As the monster comes
to gobble me,
and I start wobbling
and sobbing
on the street
where my family
fell before me.

Please see the sorrow
that adorns
the ragged clothes
and pains I have worn,
the scars that have adorn
this torn flesh
as fresh wounds
well up with new blood.

Please see the poverty
of inhumanity
that has bankrupted
our society,
turning empathy
into a handicap
and sociopathy
into an attractive trait.

Please, while I wait
for the hate to abate
see me and acknowledge
my minor existence
because I am human
and only here for mere minutes
then gone
never to return.

I have forgotten how to write
without flowing flourishes,
without the rhyme that nourishes
each tight woven and cherished
poetic line.

I have lost the ability
to lose the structure
playing games with
the worlds of words I love.

When I was younger, I did not need
anything,
but the words to come flowing
from the fount I found,
spewing rose petals of purple and pink
and I did not feel compelled to think
what is the next word
in the next verse
that might link and light past lines.

I miss the curling lips
as I let the words just slip
and lay where they may
not caring how they would play
with similar sounds.

I feel like a poetry clown
who cannot break the cycle.

The world spins,
blowing up
from within
amidst this
human destruction.

Forest and fields burn.
Still time turns
an orb in space.

Fur falls to cinders
a painful reminder
as those who cannot
step up
find they have
very few defenders.

In a hundred years
when they are
no longer thriving here
who will remember
the wonder of the wild.

The world is going to hell,
seems to be a ball of fire
set to expire in a vacuum,
set to become a bare black tomb,
and we are either on
the edge of no return
are already falling off the precipice
into eternity’s dark abyss.

I created my only little world order
a comfort collected against disorder,
cause though I know entropy
will eventually consume everything
I like to think
I make my own purpose.

That I write meaning into
this universe I view
by the force of my creative will.

So, when the shadows come in
swallowing my well being
I have a foundation to fall back on.

Boy I was wrong,
the king of meaninglessness
the projector of  
poetry that says to everyone
that nothing really matters,
got a little silly
and caught up in
all those distractions
from reality.

Thankfully, all it takes
is a pandemic to shake
me from my stupor
and put me right back into the corner
remembering how much
I really don’t matter.

Church services will resume shortly,
so, get ready to crowd the rectory.
Confessions are in session
cause these are concessions to con men
plying their moral dissent
to compliment other idiots.

Success, cause intellectual blindness
and devotion to a deity who
doesn’t give two *****
about all of you who
are not rich republican men.

We win, my gullible friends.
Come on in.
Kenneth Copeland
and Cresflow dollar
will be taking your money
to support their private jet
go out and get
more stuff while the poor
struggle in debt.

Why care for those who despair?
Why share what we have
instead of bailing out
big businessmen?
We got to open the country again
and we can start with religion
cause they already believe
that science is fake
and magic is reality.

So, lets get them out and about
who cares if grandma get the disease.

We need to please these rich dudes,
these fox news
red hat attitude
gotta get a clue
red state race bating
confederate flag wearing
NRA make America great…

Wait……

Yeah, go to church
your pearly gates await
just please stay in
for at least two weeks
when you get back from
hearing your preacher speak.

I am tired of poor perspectives,
of the hues that abuse the views
of abstract paths and messed up avenues.

I am tired of prior cues,
signal that set poets on cruise
as the roads roll up
like the broken blunt
used to burn through
the black and soulful blues.

I am tired of the cutsie fluff
that distracts us from the stuff
we should be paying attention to.

But mostly I am tired of
the muffled muse I once used
being stretched and torn
to make other artists conform
to the boring norm
of trying to sale things
we don’t need.

I don't want to
get hit with
your brickfist.

I'd rather
put a rubber mitt
on it
so, I go
bouncing off
when you punch me,

or make you miss
by doing something
super silly
like farting
so loudly
that I blow out
my belly button,
making you
laugh so hard
that you don't want to
hit me
anymore.

Soft as silt,
white porcelain
rouge flesh
left gasping
as a fool
lunges in.

Thrusts of urgent
lust that pleads
for this man
to plant his seed
and leave
for far more
amusing things;

But she
was promised poetry,
words worked
like Woodsworth’s
cloudy day,
such sweet
romantic decrees,
of stars exploding
and imploding
of space growing
and passion
that spans eternity.

So, what the ****?
She is out of luck
as he *** and goes
before she even knows
to be disappointed.

Who champions the weak
giving a voice to those
who cannot speak?

Who lights the corners
where shadows reign
and people strain
to catch a breath
that flees from pain?

Who flips the switch
bringing in rays that
clear the dark,
allowing artists
to open up the park
so kind people can plant the seeds
that grow what humanity needs
to open strangers’ hearts
and clear out slick city sharks
that scowl and prowl
in a predatory style
whilst slowly devouring human decency?

In a world where villains
almost always win,
who is the everyday champion?

Lured by the slurred
word that she heard
which plied with lies
that made her hum and purr.

Late for her classes
she moved like molasses
and stopped at a hot mud spot,
to sit in the slop
letting the filth
flow from the bottom
of where she was squatting
up to fill each crack and crevice.

She thought the wet dirt
would only hurt her white skirt
as the slick liquid was sliding
up and down her body.
In that moment writhing,
She had the feeling akin
to being pleasurably pig skinned.

How strange the change
as her belly engorged
and her limbs grew short.
Then from her lacy drawers
a corkscrew tail emerged.

How weird was it
when she heard
squeals of concern
spew from her snout.

She began to doubt
her humanness
as her dress
vanished
and she was grabbed
by a drab brute
with skoal breath
and lots of flab.

Pork patties were made
of this maiden led astray
by the wiles of a worthless
**** that made a feast of her
soft pork belly.

She was my first artist,
a painter of purple pains,
peruser, abuser, and pursuer
of passionate stains,
taking my flesh canvass
and raising red welts.

As the master of other mediums
she could reduce me
to feeling more than lonely,
and disconnect this homely
child.

Till, the world
was a window that I could
never break through
and depression was
the only avenue
I ever really knew.

She was the first artist,
and taught me the craft,
but as an adult
I sit back and laugh at that
and tell the shadow of
the mother I once knew,
that I will not be taking up
the family artistry.

Who knows
what wonder grows
waiting to explode
from those who show
no signs outward?

Who knows what pains
burn from within,
what sick shames
stirs her or him
to inflict suffering
on themselves
or cause ****
for others who
never deserved it?

Who can read
beneath the flesh
that they see
and find depths
of ****** reds,
of wretched raw
tears that claw
at the surface,
raging for revenge
against those who
hurt us?

Who knows?

There is a dark little shadow
that crosses my mind,
a whispering voice
that says
“Its just fine
to walk around being kind,
but don’t you dare be a hero.”

There’s a hustler’s voice
that coarsely calls out
with the weariness
of ages of doubt,
“do, do some good,
but beyond that
if you try to save that world
your gonna fall flat.”

But there’s a third little fella
that is barely perceptible
that find all these others
quite verily contemptable,
he is the hopeful dreamer
that hasn’t died yet,
with optimism that
hasn’t quite dried up.

He tries to tell me
“we can be better
and as that example
be a world trend setter,”

so, I smack myself silly
to silence that foolish child,
cause that little guy
isn’t too bright.

There are texts and stories
etched in and beneath
the skin we see,
that makes certainty
an arrogance beyond belief,
while same said suffering
can make monstrosities;

but you don’t have to
like or love the beast
to see with empathy
the place from which
their tragic tale came.

Something is amiss
in this dark dismal abyss.

Something is off,
out of sync
with the way I think
we all should be.

Something isn’t right
about this human plight.

Perhaps it is the fact
that the will I have to act
has been disintegrated.

Maybe it is because
the species that I love,
this herd of humans
has led me to believe
there is no better future
left to see.

Humanity has taken
that last shreds of faith I have.
Our species has shaken
the very core
of my once hopeful mind.

Now, I find I have no purpose
because of this worthless
existence.
A lack of meaning
and human decency
has stole from me
the drive to be
anything more than
a twig floating in
our shared timestream.

Coffees zombies swarm,
coming in for their bitter friend
that awakens them
with the warm caffeine stream.

Red eyed dead guys
drive by as they supersize
specialized styrofoam cups of
the black muck that they love.

The cream swirls in a spiraling
sort of sick dependency,
to feed their urgent need
to compensate for a
severe lack of sleep.

It’s a horde of horrible things
moving without ever connecting,
a herd of cattle off for the
slow slaughter they call work,
and it really, really hurts.

It’s a war of attrition,
a sorrowful chorus,
that lacks the eloquence
of any previous composition.

A collective set in last place,
poor paces of a human race
as they squander the resources that really matter.

When the shadows aren’t safe,
and you can’t erase
the bruises that are left,

When an unexpected touch
is like a bullet to the chest,

When the only safe times
are walking to and home from
school,

When you don’t know why
you shouldn’t die,
and there were multiple times
you really tried
as tears fell from your eyes
and congestion
left you gasping,

When even now forty years hence
the memories are inconvenient,
cause even though life is good
and you are grateful,
sometimes the terrors and pains
come back again.

Today, someone is missing a friend,
or mourning the loss
of someone who won’t
be back this way again.

Someone is listening to
the whispering winds,
longing to hear a ghost
that is whistling at them.

Somewhere tears stream,
and a mother screams,
dealing with the unseen
searing agony of losing
someone they loved dearly.

Today, on February seventh
of twenty twenty
I am telling you few
who happen to view
this poem
on purpose
or in passing
that nothing is everlasting,
and if this is the last thing
I ever get to say to you;

Today, there is at least one dude
sending out his love
to the whole night sky
and hoping it rains
or snows a whole load
of joy and light
into your onetime life.

On brighter days,
I summit the sky,
then fall to escape
the rest of the world
that I try to
keep at bay.

I hit the water hard,
play in it like
it’s my own
backyard
swimming through
the deep salty blue
clear water view.

These are my daydreams,
a mind stream
I used to find
a line to rhyme
and work
poetry from my
ravaged mind.

On darker days
when the moon is
obscured by
a clouded sky
and fog moistens
my gray tinted window;

When the crow caws,
and the creepers claw
striking out in rage.
Taking this terror,
I paint my poetry page
with weird lines.

In the noon hours
I seek inspiration
from a nap,
waking refreshed
with a wonderful
dream reflection
slipping through
my bleary mind.
All points of inspiration
belong to me,
as I struggle to find
the right line.

I am a twenty-first century
futuristic entity,
silly space oddity
that has been cruising down
this cosmic avenue.

It used to be me traveling
but one thing led to another
and I found me a true lover
under the milky way
that made me want to
change my spaceman ways.

We shared trippy passions,
stripped stars of their hydrogen gasses
as floating bodies whizzed passed us.

We were like nuclear fire
as we consumed and recycled
undulating waves of desire.
The perfect big bang
doing our thang
and we were expansive.

Dangerously in love,
she played me like ping pong
then like all the other
spiraling galaxies
moved on.

I lost Jupiter
in a crumpled notebook,
as my pale white
queen of the night
passed me by
and got on with her life,

and my sweet potato,
fellow fairy poet
has long since
vanished.
Don’t I know it.

I’ve parted ways
with many friends
who will not
message me again,
and I miss each of them.

As they go,
so do I
disengaging
from these sites
as tiny bits
of my poetics
are divested
then invested
in friends that
discard the heart
I handed them.

Sometimes,
I wonder
if they remember me
or if I was just
a passing word fancy,
indulged and forgotten
in less than a breath.

It’s a dark recollection
and all that I see
is a crumbling city
getting ready to
to collapse
on the scraps
of human vagrancy.
  
My car grumbles through
as my stomach growls,
a little less louder than
the late-night owl’s
party howls.

Got enough gas
to make it pass
the homeless guy
scrounging in the trash,

and beyond
the ***** blonde
drunk lady
looking through ash
to get as few
smokable butts.

I am doing all right
chasing nine to fives
to get by
and picking up
two extra
late night
shifts.

But the breaking point is
the mind I got
doesn’t fit,
seeing suffering misfits
brings me back down
to the heart of my history
when the hungry one
was me
and I would sleep
on a city bench
next to a slow street.

Too ambitious,
too **** vicious,
watches suffering
and thinks
that’s delicious,
I can use it.

Gets the crowed
crowing,
stirring rage
hatred growing,
a perfect way
to stop them
from thinking,
and getting them
drinking
that bitter Koolaid.

Turns a cheap phrase
into a simple slogan
turns a bitter man
into a bomb exploding.

So, the rich men
get richer,
the middle gets scared,
the poor gets trampled,
and only a handful
notice and care.

I’ve given up
on finding true love.

I’ve given up
on my writer’s fantasy.

I’ve given up
on my faith in humanity.

I’ve given up
on hope for a better future.

I’ve given up
on changing the world.

All that have is here and now,
enjoying life,
and just being kind.

I could have been happy if,
I didn’t have to live with
the secret expectations
of someone who believed
in the ascension
of humanity.

I could have smiled more,
if the world that I adored
was filled with fellow hearts
that held compassion’s
glowing spark.

I could have been a better friend
if I hadn’t been condemned
to feelings and deeper thoughts
passions of a darker cost,
but as the rose wilted
all hope was lost,
all my childhood dreams got
caught, cut up, or co-opted.

I could have came home last night
and told you all it would be alright,
but I am too tired to lie,
and I am too tired to try.
So, I say goodnight to this deceiving dream
of believing in
the good hearts of my fellow humans.

There is a melody here
made unclear
by the clutter of
collecting stuff,

and though I can’t play guitar,
I can still whistle
white hearted tunes
to turn sour silent hours
into less ghastly
beasts of reflection.

So, this is just a little bit of
talk therapy,
in the form of
stream of conscious poetry.

Welcome to the chamber
where I place all of my anger,
a place where you’ll find danger
if you try to hurt a stranger.

Welcome to the bathroom
that you see in the back room
where the **** rises high
and stinks up the night,
where the pigs own the sty
and the stench brings
tears to my eyes.

Welcome to the ending
of yesterday’s beginning.
Now, face the shadows blending
as prism prisons starts light’s bending,
where darkness does conform
to the wicked arts the corrupt perform,
but dragons still the rule the castles
that knightly fellows refuse to storm.

Welcome to my frustration.
It’s been brewing for a while
and all that boils in the pots
has stolen swollen smiles
and replaced happy faces
with clenched jaws
of undealt with rages.

The ***** water ripples,
and darkens
as grey clouds of diffusion
are cleaned from the brush.

Paints put away
the artist changes his pace
as the pointed quill
is dipped in,
and pulled from
the ornate glass vessel.

Deep dreams are drawn
as parchment feels the imprint
of this writer’s full intent.

Reality unfolds transcendent
as all dreams and philosophies
are finally released on these
small scraps of transient things.

The world is a deep shadow
cast over
the cold shoulders
of strangers
who need not be
so deeply
lonely,

when each smile passed
could be a blast
of cherished sunshine,

and each kind word heard
could be a warm wind
the hold us up
and takes us in
a gentle hug.

In moments of
deep seated grief
it helps to see
and believe
that there are
other true hearts
that bleed
similar ink.

If you are black, they can,

shoot up your car,
come into your home
without probable cause,
beat you down,
****** you on the streets
while being recorded,
demonize you after the fact,
get away with it.

If you are black
and take a stand
you will be seen as the enemy
by at least half of your society,
even if your trying to
help your community.

You will be imprisoned unjustly,
and even after you’re free
they will try to prevent
or impede
your right to vote.

This is not a fake news reality
this is something that is
quite openly done.

Once deeds spoke
of seeds stoked
with showers of
life’s breathing love
breeding hopes of
rebel poets and other
artists.

Now, you paint with
endless darkness,
as brush strokes
of dust motes
choke all of those
your greed broke.

I do not know
if we have the
strength to grow
and overcome
the cold blacked out sun
from which your
bitter heart sprung,

and the shadows
from which I run
from which this
dreamer’s heart is hung
to swing lifeless
like the corpses
of beautiful horned horses
and other fairytale dreams.

I cannot say if there is enough
beautiful fiction
to trick them
politicians
into doing what is right,
into trying to rewrite
the black void
into new light,

but this is the life
I choose to scribe.
This is how
I will choose to die
or thrive.

My good intentions our mine
and no one else gets to decide
what my purpose is.

Even when, half the time
I am confused as ****
about all of it.

Here is the fun spot
where the sun stops
for tiny gum drops.

Where I try and
pick pink pockets
with candy droplets,
devouring
the souring
lemons candies,
whilst my tongue
lavishes love on
long lollipops.

Where candy corn
and other sweets adorn
the dreams I try to ignore
cause I am hungry for
what I should abhor.

Yes, I miss my sweet mistress
of caramel treats,
and the boatloads
of cotton candy
that is swirling in
a tricky web of
addiction for what
I unconsciously love.

It is the pink parchment
of desire which he wishes
to devour that which is
delightfully delicious.

With lip and tongue impressions
marking ecstasy’s visions
his passion is his artistry
even when given in passing.

This evolved lover of loving,
master stoker unleashing
a sea of swelling waves.

Resolved hardened by soft moans
knows in this moment he owns
each ounce of ecstatic attention,
each breath of pleasure given
an explosion to multiple conclusions,

and then it is his turn to erupt exhausted
and sleep soundly satisfied.

Sometimes,
when the shadows rise,
and lips spread wide
giving me a glimpse
of the otherside
of what might
be love,

I pretend
this is just my next friend
and tell myself
she is probably a lesbian,
that way I do not bother
risking any hope.
That way I can cope
by rationalizing away
any opportunity
to get my heart broke.

It is easy to be me
without adding the complexity
of hoping she may love me.
So, I can just be
her next nerdy buddy.

Curious I discover,
a hunger for wonder.

Ravenous and ready to
see and consume
every sight and sound
that I have found,

and learn,
and learn,
and learn.

In turn
I grow,
ready to show
what gifts of knowledge
I have collected;
Pack them up sweetly
in all of my poetry
and give my presents
away for free.

But I am burnt
by their brazen indifference,
scorched by their strange adherence
to the philosophy
of hate and ignorance
flamed by their arrogance.

Pox lipped punks who
speak volumes of bile and drool.

As these dreams
of greater things depart
I am broken hearted,
realizing it was
a fool’s quest from the start.

Couldn’t be bothered to remove your knee
from a man’s neck.

Couldn’t be bothered to protect
the huddled masses of poor,
when you and your buddies can make more
from building machines and waging wars.

Couldn’t be bothered to tell our youth
the deep and painful truth
about our history.

Couldn’t be bothered until you were
inconvenienced;
Until your bosses see this
and you get in trouble
for vile rants.

Couldn’t be bothered to be
a decent human being,
and you wonder why
people cry,
let it burn.

It was stained glass dreams
of fire red rays
that burnt blood rivers
and sent blues sprays
of infinite squares
to cut up my madness
and sit me silent
in my stupefied stares
of chaos’s natural contemplation.

Bloated buffoon
looks like an
orange painted baboon,
and this is me
writing as the moon
settles and sends streams
of deep blue
thoughts into my dreams.

I am not currently adding
a **** thing
to what we are discussing,
just venting in poetry.

But I watch the mad masses
follow him
into oblivion
believing
that what they are seeing
isn’t reality.

The king of no tact
and he just reacts
without a tac of facts
to point to,
and like him
they are reacting
without a lick of sense
to hold them back.

So, they stroll
with a straw-hat troll
who has no self-control
to a place from which
they will never come home.

I palm my face
in shame for my race
and all that I can offer is
another freaking useless
stanza of words
no one will heed
or even read.

You are charmed by the harm
these beastly beings bring;
eyes glittering giddily
as the violence you see
proceeds to bleed thee
in its thick sticky webbing.

How pretty your petty predators are.
How visible are those streaking scars
that once wept tears of wet red.
How you elevate those men
who came in like a whirlwind
stinking of ****, war,
and other forms of destruction
as they name woman ******.

No longer wearing nerves of steel,
now I am nervous and feel ill
as I watch your heroes ****
beauty and wonder before
science and art can bring in

Teenage dreamer
was embittered
cause he figured
nothing he did
mattered one bit.

Another life lost,
another child fatherless,
another man shot,
another human brutalized
and we see it happen almost live.

T.V. Bobble heads
spin talking points
to demonize the dead;

Drive by mace spray
of those who seek
to make a change;

A little girl cries
and needs milk
to washout her eyes;

A parade of storm troopers
patrol the streets
forcing innocent bystanders
to retreat, get beat,
or arrested on live T.V.

Rubber bullets pounding
against soft skin,
less lethal but still
penetrating,
blood seeping
from those seeking
a peaceful end
to this prevailing system
that locks them in
a recycled state
of grief and suffering

Just to show those
who were seeking an end
to police abuse
of their family and friends,
to all of our human kin,
they give us ultra force.

So now when his peers
cheer for hope
he still feels
the ill-will
of those who seek
to reap
their thrills
from the greed
that kills the seed.
of what we need
to be better.

It’s not a mission
just a transition
one step forward
but still remembering
where I came from
so, I can go on living for
what I aim for.

It’s not a vision
that I am pursuing
or a narrative
that is worth viewing.
It’s just a collection
of interacting moments
that I experience
without knowing
where they are going.

It’s not special
unless I declare it so.
It’s not harmful
unless I let be so.
There may be bad things
but they don’t own me,
and I can be better than
what this world has shown me.

The world melts this minor being,
and brings me bulging colors
that are bound to smother,
changing flavors that I savor,
and simple pleasures
for my leisure
into tiny tear glass droplets.

A kaleidoscope
that humans broke
but still strange swirls
geometric
help me through
the ***** that’s hectic.

I rebel against the entropy,
even as my own particles
turn against me.
Chaos is my mortal enemy
but still I seek structure
longing for order,
whilst knowing that it is all a lie.

I try to thrive,
despite how life splits me
eye from eye
offering inverted perspectives
as I turn inward
to find the shadows
and angles that built this
city of strangeness.

I fall to slumber
uncertain of it all.
Then awaken to spring
still waiting to fall
chilled by the feel
of December’s tentative tentacles.

The cool blue aquatic,
silver fish swimming
whilst shimmering green,
is such a beautiful thing.

The cute colorful clown fish
wiggling,

The turtle slowly moving
across that underwater world.

The rapture, of something
so pure,
or at least the illusion
of ocean life purity
is a relief to me.

A nice break
and what I need to see
to escape this
terrible tragedy
we call humanity.

While you were swallowing
the t.v. news
that the corporations use
to sell sick perspectives
that get sales projections
and stock market values
going up,

I was back here loving you,
watching while you choked on
the pricey drugs you use,
to numb those American blues.

While you were slinging the gospel
casting your almighty god spell
so, no one would buy in
to that fact that you are trying
to deny facts in favor
of your favorite brand of lying,

I was trying to learn
the lessons you spurned,
so, I could take science and poetry
combine them in this flow you see
to share our shared humanity
and help us be better human beings.

What makes us human,
is not easily defined?

What clutters this mess
we call conscious
is not something
I can measure well
with my mind?

What drives the feminine mystique
is a perilous penultimate peak
which I seek?

What moves us all
to walk or crawl
when life’s pain
is overriding
our common sense
when our existence
does not permit this
persistence?

What is the truth?

There is a furnace
that burnt us,
turning smiles to dust
and kindness
to distrust.

A place where
suspicion
was sharpened
to the point of
cutting the hearts
that might
offer true love.

In that hell
some have seen
a shell
form around themselves
whilst others have internalized
the fires that fried their lives.

I have been there to
and turn those blazes toward
breaking swords
and building bridges
to places where we
can be a gentler breed
of humanity.

I want to be
super lean
and ****,
so one day
someone
will say
they love me.

I got flab
but I’m not
that bad.

I eat clean,
except when I don’t.
Then I am mean
to myself,

but I know
that though
I work hard
to get buff
it won’t be enough
to earn somebody’s love.

Funny thing,
makes me laugh,
knowing this
should make me sad,
but the truth is
that I am useless.

All this stuff that I do
won’t make someone
I love
love me to.

Hell, it ain’t even enough
to make me love
myself.

I spend my regret
like it’s a foreign currency,
higher value
in my current deflated market.

I take my memories
and hold them till
they ulcerate my mind,
till seizures set in
and in my trembling
I find the curved lines
that connect us.

I take all the time
I have not wasted
in seeking purely
pleasurable moments,
even if I needed that leisure,
and I give it to the body you view;
Let this meat collect
compound interest
as it grows and thins,
flabs out and tightens
gains and loses muscle.

I am just a vessel
of borrowed flesh,
a thief of the present
that I steal for myself
and share sparingly.

I devour the world
and excrete neat
lines of love
and give them
to all of you.

She is soft sweater fruit
waiting to bulge
and see blushing flesh be devoured by me
because I am starving.

Hungry as a zombie.
Hungrier than an army
of men who have not eaten
in nine to ten years.

I am famished,
longing for something
I thought had long since vanished.

That sparkle of sweet wine
ready to be picked
and licked straight from the vine
cause she is so **** fine.

I want to envelope her
in affection,
swallow her body with mine
guarding the treasure
that I find,
a mind
which seems to see me
with the same hunger.

I haven’t rested
in several days
and all the energy
I ‘ve invested
does not pay
back anything but
black rays of pain.

My mind is foggy,
my fingers fumble.
I am not coherent.
I merely mumble
as I stumble out
to deal with my doubt.

So, tired and I need
just a little bit of
sweet relief sleep.

My eyes are red.
My head is sore
I’d like an hour
but could take seven more.

My vision blurs,
and smoky mists
split apart in front of me
even though I know
they don’t exist.

Little off white flakes
fall like fake
snow,
but I know this is more ash
to feed the fast growing
sleep deprived madness
that I am showing.

The screen is becoming
a blur of red marks
meant to remind me
that my spelling
is worsening,

and I can’t find the end
of this late-night poem
because I am so freaking
tired.