i am afraid we have begun to dissociate,
unable to dissolve, I dissipate

we lavish emotion, laugh laudably
and cry with our larynx ripped out of our throats

i just need a little attention

'cause it's midday
and the midwife has a migraine,
with spoiled milk and clogged drains,
laundry a mile-long with tenuous children
tense with grimace and gray

we believe uncertainty for the hopeless and expectations for the great

the subtle hum
followed by slithering smirks
followed by snarls and sneers and weird sober
social experiments,
followed by small town dramas
and big time hypocrites.

the way life used to be
isn't what i miss,
it's each individual moment-
lapsing over and over one another
creating an inconceivable picture
of everything i love,
now lost

I hate trying to write for the public
because I always seem to let myself down
especially when my writing sounds ******
I pride myself on something so many people can do better
than myself
I love people
who don't care
I find joy in the complexities of life
shouldn't life be simple?
shouldn't love be simple?
I hate trying to please people
I hate trying to live someone else's life
so I don't
if no one reads this poem
if no one wants to
than I say
don't.

Can I ask you a question?
one of life,
or maybe living?
one that no one has answered
that is unforgiving--
why is poetry so ugly?
and deep?
and complex?

Why can't it be simple?
and happy?
about wildflowers
and running through them?
and stroking the mane of horses
who smile and dance?
when a pretty girl appears
with tulip scented perfume?
and a boy who's madly in love with her green eyes

can he pick her up by her waist and hold her close?
and whisper serendipity under her twisted brown locks
into her small, un-pierced ears?

no. he can't just be happy. he can't.
why?

because humans are a deep, suffering race
we are complex
no day can simply just be "good"
we won't allow it
rather,
we want to hear about the pain of others
death-sufffering-sorrow-sin-***
that is want we want to hear
and by doing so we create a life of our own suffering
death
sorrow
sin
***.

don't ask why we suffer
we want it
and we want others to, as well
but in our destruction
we find comfort
and manage to live another day
anew, fresh with hope for what is to come
we still manage to believe
that
the darkness of the moon will not consume
the sun's bright eyes

I remember just how you tasted; like morphine and regret.

They tell me I'm crazy but I think that's a bit of an overstatment I mean it's not my fault there isn't enough air in this room to breathe.