you,
talentless hacks,
crave more of the words (the same ones)
that make you feel as happy
now as they always did.
how bland and naive.

oh well,
how i will never be joe bolton,
kurt cobain,
celebrity: beloved.
truly unafraid to die

part one:

everybody needs somebody to love;
to adorn with plastic ornaments;
to say they feel lost;
and mean it;
a real love:
feelings of assuredness.
believe me,
i am sure.

part two:

gasoline heaven lines nostrils-
and the brain-
and the hands and heart it controls.
the pockets, too.
is it sad to realize and not care?
that the pockets and the nostrils-
and the steel strings (and their haunting reverberation)-
and pencils to paper-
come before true, and honest love?

part three:

no bodies left behind,
or given away for the future.
no turpentine-
no poppies-
or silk.
no illegalities;
rule breaking;
infidelity-
a simple desire to be an artist
and the sacrifices an artist makes
only to fail and continue to yearn:
failure

how a bite could create
yearning for soft
lips,
lavender-esque

why preach,
when I can mourn

Obliterate, my own
sense of self

and how simple it is
churning out words
like butter,
plucking strings,
loving and remembering.
Yearning for the past,
or just future solace

Perhaps
more is less, and
i should forget
Love, after all
like my many dreams and songs,
never meant.

oh,
glory of the
green-painted grass and
cliffside strewn with pure ink
God, surely unreal