He smells like his life:

weary smells of
whiskey and leather,
the dead stink of
too many cigarettes,
the mingled perfumes
of many lovely women,
the dark, sticky
whiff of lust and ***,
the acrid stench of
cordite and ******,
the copper reek of blood,
the honest sweat of work,
with just a hint of ink
and **** thrown in.

This effluvium may not
be sweetly attractive
or call to butterflies
and hummingbirds,

but it is the aroma
of a life lived alive.

   ~mce

i crave a piece of every
being in this made up universe
to search for one common mind
i could plant a sky in their brains
or even paint a picture for them to agree with
and pick apart their sanity embedded in their skull

am i feeling sense of self?
and am i able to agree with yours?
when my intellect leaves my body
and all that enters is my head are voices
talking, whispering to a
filthy conscience
"I know i am not meant to
exist forever but i am
willing to stay alive to question it"

The brilliant idea you've been
waiting for expired
a moment after someone else thought
it. Implementing emptiness
has become your forte and scavenging for
adrenaline
within the souls of second hand tennis shoes
is representative of stability in your crooked,
unbalanced way, when
you glean nothing but
past tense grammar
on any given day of your actual life.

There's no grand story here. Go somewhere else.

And you can't even paint a sympathetic
portrait
of your dry and chaffed lips, of purple ink
stains beneath eyes, of words unattainable
stuck around your gums,
because the guy over there painting an unequivocal
masterpiece is homeless and
utilizing dirt to make a rainbow with
seven more colors than
your store bought acrylics ever could.

Pity is
stupid
when you've got everything
but that