Its what I feel at midnight, no more mind left and no more time. Tomorrow perhaps, only to find there was an imbecile 500 years ago that did it all already. Well, we're all fools, and walking shadows. We're slaves, because we only sleep 7 hours a night and we can't recall a **** conversation when the entirety of humanity depends on it, and we can't spell because we have mental defects. No more patterns, no more sighing, no more acting! The world really is a ****** stage. Can love save us, can work ethic, can anyone save anyone from their manically depressed reality? There's no flame left in the sun, the only thing that is unbearable is that nothing is unbearable. Everything fits into place, no brain is worth bleeding for. They destroy poetry because they don't like it, because no one can understand it, but I can understand it and I want integrity not a herd of sheep. Our death is determined by a quarter inch piece of plastic.

…I start ‘here’ and I walk.
I pass ‘them’ and I pass wonders and it snows.
The sun comes down and possesses the ground and hits me and it snows from the sun warm snow. White and eerie. Great things were raised only to be razed. My fly’s eye saw a stone, in the field, by the brook. Corner and leaves too. The bitter bit me and there were trees that were dying and that made them beautiful. I drew them a bath. I laid them down. Coming down from the sky was a great white coffin. I saw behind me a viper that killed a squirrel to save a rabbit, a squirrel that was afraid…
…I start ‘here’ and change my road,
I know where I’m going. I know my destination. A vision passes through me and a red candle holding a black flame lit me to be bright, but I only burned. A dust bowl roared through it all and I sunk. I walked and walked and I let it take me. Forget it all! Again and again I came down through the valley, I saw it, and I couldn’t care. The flowers and snow and sun and life absolutely poured out their hearts for me and I couldn’t care, because I had seen them all before, and I know them all too well. AHH!! OF COURSE!! OF COURSE!!!! JUST IN TIME! Of course, I saw it coming. At the center, right in the middle, you know what I find?! You. You just sit there waiting. No matter where I start, or what direction I go, I walk and walk and I find you…
…I start ‘here’…

The eyes see beyond beyond now,
Past the words,
Past the symbol.

Then enters the thirst,
An evening,
A cold light,
The empty everything,

And a Sterile drama,
A paradise,
Smoke n' mirrors,
Caves n' shadows,
And a new outlook.

With the few words left within me there is something I fear I must write. Beauty is everything, art is justified. It was a hard battle, but art has won. Dionysus takes the cup: Apollo, in a blaze of wonder and irony, has fallen, for this space is for dreamers, not for rationalists. Reason shall come shortly, but soon there will be no need for reason, I can assure you. First I must scorn in the face of every critic, whose airy words tried to stamp the artifice down the whimpering and broken throat of the victor, which is the artist; I must point and laugh at the woman that shrivels at the sight of moral beauty, and the man that seeks entertainment, rather than enlightenment, for you are all fools and cuckolds to your well-loved rationalism.

AND THUS WAS HIS REASONING

Beauty and truth both lay dormant in every soul that has walked the Earth. Every aesthetic piece gives breath to its own truth. Truth, because it is admired, admired, because it is truth. Expression, the holiest form of satisfaction, is then simply the application of the beautiful thing, which is art. In this realm nothing is proven, but everything is felt. This is art. This is truth. This is beauty. This is rebellion. This is nothing. This is everything. This is art.

Maybe I wasn't born in the right era,
Maybe I wasn't born in the right world.

Maybe I'm the kind of person that shoots up schools,
Maybe I'm the kind of person that would **** a child.

Maybe I'm the type that kills themselves,
Maybe I just want attention.

But what the **** would I do once I had it?
Shout the golden rule?
Tell a nice story?
Give praise to God?

I mean, I've had a relatively nice life,
so I don't know what the hell I have
to complain about.

"Things have gotten really out of hand since the flaw,"
"in a room without a floor you will always be falling."

"Hmm..."



"What is it?"



"Ya know those sweethearts?"

"Those what?"
"You know, those little candies you can get around valentines that'll have like 'I love you' or 'be mine' and stuff on them."
"Yeah...What about 'em?"





"Well, sometimes they don't have anything on them. They're just like a forgotten wordless misprint..."






The leaves were crunching against our feet. Our beautiful feet. I was cold and I knew exactly what I was saying. I smoothed my hair and with a slow bright toned whisper, I said,
"...the misprints are always the best..."

cout << "morality" << endl; // thats you
getch(); // its all it takes

for(int life=80;life=0;life--)
{
cout <<"Breath" << endl;

}

//I love you

blah blah blah

Skip easily
tip contact
Hope and despair.

Bring me closer,
Closer than I've ever been.
Here is the mountain,
Here is the valley.
There is the sun and she is fertility.
There is the moon and he is wrath.

Let me remember the
songs of the old ones,
of jollity and sanity,
of truth and of vanity,
voiceless.

He split love,
And we kiss in the light,
And we think in the dark.

But then infinity arrives,
uninvited, drunk again,
slurring and mixing,
bringing back a shattered mess.

At the plateau we meet
and there not even math
can hurt us.

the sink runs mud, a clarity I won't understate.
the splatering, sputtering on the porcelain, sloshing, guttural pain.
on a canvas the paint is truth, on the wall it is deceit.

the bed is a springboard for great ideas.
the romances that die, the 8 hour shifts of bottled eternity.
I am haunted by this sentiment daily.

on the windy beach, the ears and hair, a flag flapping.
cool, dark, the moon like Juliet's eyes.
over the grand ocean of unknown language.

i reach over and grab the gun.
i will go out with a bang while Eve is away.
then sunrise sets still forever

the sleeper in the valley is haunting me,
what I should do I haven't.
I'm a junkyard full of false starts.

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,"

:Bought a book of Ginsberg:
:Thought it quite lonely:
:Found out socrates was a *******:

I fell asleep and was dreaming the subconscious dream,
The theorem was proven and I could breathe again.

I awoke to sirens,
nymphs,
and Orpheus standing over me.

I am a small bit of nothing, a Wes Anderson caricature,
a pre-printed, pre-made, pre-packaged archetype.

I bought guitar strings from a lovely woman,
I want everyone to hear me.
Hear me play Pitseleh.

I am quiet now,
I am soft and everyone hears me.
I don't want to say anything,
I want you to look at me and know.
I want you to see my eyes and know I am infinite.

I wake up again and I am sweating,
it was the night terror, the one I have

I was surrounded by intellectuals,
the poets and artists of our generation,
all second rate ******* doing it for the applause and their mommys, same **** that was always done, since ******* Homer, since ******* Shakespeare, since ******* Ruddy Rimbaud.

I keep shaking,

Something is coming after me and I know it.

Maybe it's all the women I looked at wrongly,
one's from the ***** pictures big brother sold me,

Maybe it's all the sucrose and caffeine i've been inserting.

Maybe it's the nothings that i forgot to do, and others did instead.

I am a ******.

I never ****** no one.

******* is stupid.

I am one of the ugliest men alive.

When the saint ended us I saw infinity.

Everything was you, in you, by you, for you, the ******* hours and hours of thought, the stupid lengthy and complicated memories where you were christmas and we were meeting the ocean, all pointless and lost to oblivion and I lost it right then and there in front of you, I sobbed and wanted to **** myself. Then you gave me a *******.

I feel dumb.
It's like there's an amusement park behind me,
but I can't turn around.

I feel ugly.
I'm afraid to look in the mirror,
because it might look back.

∀x∃y | x+y > 0

Your passing was a gift to me,
Wrapped in colors I couldn't see.

And after every page I let fall out,
Everything looked better.

As a poet,
You let yourself go as a poet,
As a poet,
You let yourself go.
As a poet,
You let everyone know you're a poet.
As a poet, you let yourself go,
And then everyone knows, as a poet,
You let yourself go.