I remember climbing out my window,
skulking off into a violent blizzard.
Lost in teenage anguish,
my feet carried me forward through the storm.
Two a.m. and a mile I out I realize,
I'm walking towards her house
Panic slammed my body like a tidal wave,
my nerves vibrated,
shaking the bitter cold.
I carried on determined.
No plan of action,
just full of **** and vigor and something...
Something I hadn't yet known.
The walk up her street is done with tremendous effort,
like swimming in jello.
Standing outside her house,
I'm suddenly aware of another obstacle.
I don't have a cell-phone.
Which window is her room?
Assuming it's upstairs, this is fifty - fifty you sonofabitch.
Take the risk.
I throw a small stone but hear it explode like a firecracker on the window.
Silence.
I reach for another when a soft voice calls my name.
We stand in the street and talk for a while,
holding one another.
I'm sorry, I can't stay, they probably know I'm gone.
I just... I just wanted to say goodbye
I walked backwards the whole way down the street.
Streetlights and snowfall created an amber aura around her.
That,
was the first time I knew what love was.
Sometimes I think it was the last time, too.

I smoke **** as if I'm on a schedule.
Must not sleep , must maintain THC levels.
Can't stop lest the stress get the best of me.
Man, all this life is gonna be the death of me.

On occasions I find some aid in the form of *******,
it makes the days so speedy and it eases the pain.
I know it's a problem and I know I probably shouldn't,
but that's just how it goes for the little train that couldn't.

Industrial smoke stacks don't hold a candle to my habit,
I smoke each cigarette like it's the last one on the planet.
My fight or flight mechanism up and snapped,
now I'm always on edge and in patience I lack.

I'm probably more whiskey than flesh or blood.
I drink at home alone, I don't consume it for fun.
I'm just hoping I can stay wasted to the grave.
Life is ******* rotten and people are depraved.

When Death finally reaches for me,
as a cat would ****** a mouse.
I'll distract him with some chit-chat,
then punch the ******* in the mouth.
Scream, "You sure took your time!
You miserable, arrogant ****!"
I watched so many others go,
I've grown quite bitter with the schmuck.
He'll raise his gleaming sickle,
and view my end with angry eyes.
I'll laugh and laugh content with that,
before he took me, I got mine.

I'm traveling on, to brighter pasture.
I've gone to seek, the rest I'm owed.
I'm traveling on, to meet my brothers.
They journeyed first, they cleared the road.
I'm told that I, will find my peace here.
I'm told that I'm, no more to roam.
I'm traveling on, don't shed a tear now.
It's been too long, since I've been home.

I have a number of uncles,
though their blood does not flow through my veins.
They are my fathers brothers,
for these are men who have seen the jungle,
as he once did.
Brothers forged,
through the trials of war.
Feelings of guilt and regret.
One by one I have watched,
as these strong men,
these warriors,
have entered the grave.
Taking a piece of my father,
along for the ride.
The world is a darker place,
at their loss.
But all have earned their rest,
some peace.
I've seen much of despondence,
in this life.
But I lack the words to describe the sorrow felt,
when a warrior cries.

I was born into the wrong generation,
just a little too late.
The revolution is dead.
I see cops **** citizens,
almost every day.
And not a single brick gets thrown?
City Hall isn't torched?
Are we really this hollow?
Are you people that ******* callous?
I bide my time,
hoping my brothers will wake soon.
When they're ready,
I'll show our so called shepherds,
there were wolves among their flock.
Our teeth are sharp.
And our stomachs empty.

Here comes my little chick-a-dee.
Here to sing of sin and sympathy.
Come to spill the truth to me.
Don't tell me brother.
Don't tell me brother.

These hills hold riddles in the lime.
The stars keep on telling me I'm fine.
I just can't seem to find the time.
Please save me sister.
Please save me sister.

Can't help but live within my past.
The sun sheds light on what I lack.
Everything I breathe turns into ash.
Forgive me father.
Forgive me father.

I watched the gates of Heaven crash,
how they tumbled unto earth.
Not much longer, did the kingdom last,
Oh how the angels burned.
God had had enough of us,
he set the world ablaze.
He sat back calmly and observed,
our final screams of pain.
Now all that's left is lonesome void,
in which God may contemplate.
The experiment had run it's course,
and it had been a great mistake.

I don't know what it's like,
to rise above it all.
Only, the feeling in your gut,
when one begins to fall.
And I couldn't speak a word,
on peace, serenity.
But I can tell a thousand tales,
of woe and misery.
If the gutter held a vote,
the king, would I be crowned.
So tell me things are looking up,
I'll show you the way down.

I'm not addicted,
liquor's just the fittest liquid
to sift through the litany
of **** my mind whips
into existence.
Aids in grippin
the intricate specifics
among twisted images
that slip from
simply cryptic to mystic.
It's not *******,
just simple statistics,
the rhyming gets better
when drinkings prolific.

The crickets,
sing of nothing.
While,
the stars watch,
in equitable silence.
I,
think of screaming,
my rejection,
to the sparkling void.
Cigarette smoke,
pirouettes,
in the wind.
Grace.
It all means nothing.
Clouds consume,
the scenery.
Rain,
drowns the music.
So it goes.

Once I had a garden,
built to spite my constant gloom.
I planted hope and happiness,
those seeds will never bloom.
I had hoped that all the rain,
would see the ground be rich.
But it seems my little cloud
has only proven to restrict.
Now within my garden,
but one lonely flower grows.
The oddest rose I've ever seen,
with petals made of bones.

Gandhi once said,
"Your Christians are so unlike your Christ"
or something to that effect.
He was right.
If god was real why would he not avert his eyes?
As we maimed and ***** and slaughtered,
for the seven hundredth time.
Human beings were broken from the start.
First we killed with sticks and stones,
then transformed warfare into art.
A bitter joke indeed.
Cavernous capacity for compassion competes
with the inner beast.
Rapid acceleration  towards the exit,
planet's just gaspin' it's last breathes, death rattle.
Perpetuated by laws of desperate escalation,
accessible weapons outweigh the estimation.
Lack of communication marks the end, tower of babel.

All the trees I see are dead.
Leaves visions swimming in my head.
The wind roars strong I think it said,
"Son make your peace and break your bread."
Collect on all the love you've lent.
You'll need it for what's coming next.
Don't allow yourself to be misled.
Careful now with where you tread.
No going home once you have left.
You know life hangs by slender thread.

I appreciate the sunshine
and happiness as much as you.
I've just gotta stigma on my vision,
you could say my views askew.
I can't help but see the menace
in every cloud that's floatin through.
Just can't help but get the feeling
that something wicked's coming soon.
It's a permanent disposition,
the world is twisted with a vicious hue.
It can be hard to explain,
but if anything I say is true.
With a sullied and a bitter eye,
you will surely see the world anew.

Come one! Come all!
Hey, bring the kids!
Whatever your trouble buddy,
I've got the fix!
I've got cures of all kinds,
in a thousand different shades.
They can even be ingested,
in a thousand different ways!
You can shoot it or snort it,
hell, you can smoke it in a pipe!
All my snake oil's cheap,
I've got just the kind you'll like.
The first time's even free!
(The second might cost double.)
Don't worry about your soul,
just let the elixirs fix your troubles.

Hi, **. Hi, **!
It's off to work I go.
Chewing on some coffee grounds
and choking down my smokes.
Hi, **. Hi, **!
It's time to start the show.
I'll attach a cordial mask
and leave my brain at home.
Hi, **. Hi, **!
Oh say it isn't so.
This place will be the death of me
and then they'll work my bones.

The meek will not inherit ****,
that's a common misconception.
The miracles of Jesus Christ
were all subtle deceptions.
****, if you believe in fantasy
as thick as the resurrection,
you'd probably claim the earth was flat
if that's what society expected.
Your preacher was a mega-phone
for a money hungry despot.
Centuries have come and gone
when will you people get the message?
If he's real friends, God is dead,
or he built the planet and ******* left it.

Such a conundrum,
severe desperation for sleep,
but I'm a word zealot.
As the moon increases altitude,
the pen flows,
freely.
Two a.m. when,
I'm ****** and sufficiently lubricated,
near delusional,
from three days lack of sleep.
I ***** ink and emotion on a page,
it solidifies,
I'm ******* King Midas!
That's when the magic happens... Sometimes.
I wake up on the floor in a,
putrid puddle.
No evidence of effort,
save an ink stained rug and,
cigarette butts.
Most times it's just ****.

I am a straw man,
strap me up and leave me alone.
All the day, my hollow gaze
may haunt your humble home.
I have no brain nor heart nor flesh,
nay, not a single bone.
I'm just a man of wicker,
meant to frighten off the crows.

Maybe I should've known,
after the first bad bout.
Incessant paranoia,
glasses thrown, shrill shouts.
All the warning signs,
oh how could I doubt?
Just too ****** stubborn,
to choose another route.
As the squabbling worsened,
silence spoke so loud.
I knew it was over darling,
when my words ran out.

I'd steal and I'd bleed,
for a couple hours rest.
I'd probably **** a man,
for just one at best.
And when I say rest,
I don't intend to describe sleep.
Rather just a night,
without ghosts in my dreams.
Sans ominous themes,
I'd even be pleased,
if tomorrow never came and the nightmare would cease.

What are we ?
Just a flock of sheep,
steady standin in line for the lions to eat.
I don't mean to preach,
but it seems to me,
that we ceded control with weak critique.
And,
Who are you?
Another part of the group,
You will never be a predator you will always be food.
Don't be confused.
You were openly used,
you were never a partner you were always a tool.
So,
What path to pick?
Diplomacy's kicked,
it's time to hit the streets with switch blades and bricks.
The system's sick,
the cure for it,
be-head our politicians slip theirs skulls on sticks.

An old soldier sits alone,
smoke rolling from his nostrils,
a tepid dragon.
He gazes vacantly at his sword,
at the blood on his hands.
It all seemed so far away,
when he was there.
It's easier to see,
after the dust has settled.
We were never heroes.
No.
Just so many pieces in a game too vast for us to behold.
Our sacrifice,
was calculated from the start.
They dubbed us expendable.
They forged monsters,
out of boys.
Then they sent us home with no purpose.
Warriors with no war.
Old Soldiers.
Just so many broken men,
with bloodied hands.

I lost my heart,
have you seen it?
I set it down so often it got easier to leave it.
If you find it,
would you keep it?
It's a hardy little ***** despite the minor leakage.
A bit of thread,
perhaps a needle?
Really I think a little love is all that's needed.

I think you've made a most fatal mistake,
you're in the ocean son, you up and left the lake!
These are deep waters where sharks eat shrimp for fun,
where peace and love and harmony are the only things we shun.
You're not ******* welcome here that you've probably guessed.
Picked a very poor direction *****, you should have went left.
We don't welcome the civilized in this place where mongrels roam,  
where wrath and hate and savagery have settled in our bones.
Yea you should've turned back friend,
did you miss the messages we sent?
****** signs and heads on pikes that marked our hollowed ground,
Now you're staring down the wolves, yea you should've turned around.

At time's,
I'm a miserable, lecherous, lump.
At my worst,
I'm a despicable ******* drunk.
And I'm sorry darling,
you just got caught under my little rain cloud,
I'll take the added weight of your accumulated pain now.
To say it simply,
I'm something like walking bad karma
More advanced,
I was delivered an infinitely twisted dharma.
And I regret,
allowing your pleasant essence to combine with mine,
but now that we've been severed I think you'll carry on just fine.

Sometimes,
all you need is strong drink,
and a couple good friends,
to part the clouds.
All that drunken truth,
spilled so sloppily,
it can lighten the heart.
Lift the weight from shoulders,
even release a little guilt.
Yea,
life's mostly misery perpetuated,
but little moments like this,
make it worth the while.

I once set down my pen,
and with free fists equipped,
a sword.
Utter savagery and violence,
the mantle I adorned.
It's long been sheathed
but woe is me
the living and the scorned.
Hands forever bloodied,
words immutably,
forlorn.

I'll show you all the cracks,
in your feeble facade.
Just shortly before I see it erased,
with psychological grenades.
Don't you know?
I've got x-ray eyes,
They see into your heart
and find the skeletons you hide.
I don't require knives to see you filleted,
I'll verbally split your middle,
expose your doubts and your shames.
I'll flush out every fallacy,
stop the production.
My words and my mind will see your destruction.

I'll never understand,
the rural American mindset.
And in kind,
I am alien to most rural Americans.
How do you people stand it here?
Does time not pause for you as well?
The looks I'm given,
when I express my yearning,
for concrete, glass and steel.
Yea,
I suppose this spring air smells quite fine,
but it lacks the flavor of a fifth street dive.
And all summer long you all fish or you hike,
I miss just smoking cigarettes in parking lots,
at night.
Many assume,
one who holds such animosity,
towards his fellow man,
would prefer a smaller population density.
This is false.
It's easier to remain enigmatic,
when no one has the time to remember your name.
Your face.
I blend well,
and I do enjoy the fresh air,
the wilderness.
But when I leave work at night,
sometimes,
sometimes I still sit on top of my car and smoke,
just watching traffic.
And I think,
the city is forever in my bones.
And on those nights,
I miss my home.

Constant enigmatic status,
see me in the back of the pack standing static
or maybe slipping a slick soliloquy
like olive branches to panicked masses.

Violent demeanor don't overreach or
it'll be sure to see you swiftly burned
like pints of ether.

My smile disguises bedlam,
incessantly caching weapons,
I could storm the pearly gates
and boot God out of ******* heaven.

Another night alone,
another empty bottle and
another ****** poem.
Another pack of cigarettes,
another finished bowl.
Another way to deal with it,
another line of blow.

Many thanks to all of you,
who've given me their time.
Took a pause from busy days,
to read this drunkards lines.
I've never asked for compliment,
but some are so inclined.
I still am shocked to see such praise,
on these, my humble rhymes.
So again my friends, I give my thanks
you all are much too kind.
And I hope a few have had some fun,
in skimming through my mind.

Everything we never said,
every ounce of love I bled,
the memories I thought were dead,
the silence spells it out.
And what I believed I'd beaten down,
the feelings I thought strangled out,
It's got me reeling, nearly kneeling now,
the silence sounds it out.
Foreboding like the coming rain,
or worse yet winds that sound like trains,
I choke on sorrow, drown in shame,
the silence screams it, now.

Now I'm too ****** up to write,
it's probably time I called the night.
I just can't seem to shake my strife,
I'm wallowing and hating life.
I'm tired of the constant fight,
I wish someone would hear my plight.
Deliver me unto the light,
and see my misery take flight.

Fear me, dear.
For though my tongue drips with honey
and words flow from my mouth smooth as midnight silk;
A volatile demeanor and proficiency with word craft
can see this sugar turn to venom with the swiftness and severity,
of a lightning strike.
I will cut you down.
Fear me, dear.
For though in this moment I describe my adoration,
as though its' power would make a super nova pale in comparison.
Too much time creating my own little worlds,
in which I incorporate all that which has caused my bliss and sorrow,
has blurred my reality.
You will become another story.
Fear me, dear.
For though my smile melts you as a hot knife through butter,
and you hear every word I speak with a tone of utter sincerity,
I'm far too fond of writing truth between the lines,
of layering what I really feel so deep it's near impossible to find.
You will never know.
Fear me, dear.
It's for the best.

In the name of my fathers,
I will sow havoc and destruction,
upon all who dare attempt squander my freedom.
I will rain a flaming hell,
on any who would see my brothers harmed.
My enemies will learn to fear my wrath,
as they would the very anger of GOD,
himself.
All that defy my righteous hand shall fall before my fury.
And they shall know,
the face of death.

Long were pen and pad,
neglected.
When sprang a muse!
Most unexpected.
A shock to find our thoughts connected,
myself I thought alone,
dejected.
Soon my hand,
was strong affected,
to see my aimless thoughts directed.
Despite the fact, I oft objected,
She's seen my words and prose projected.
So to a muse, one most respected.
I thank you Arlo!
For inspiration,
Resurrected.

For those who've seen,
or worse yet shaken,
Deaths' hand leaves, but little trace.
Unharmed they seem,
don't be mistaken,
Death scars all, who've seen his face.
They fail to sleep,
from nightmares waken,
Death holds strong, in his embrace.
At night they'll weep,
all peace forsaken.
Death befouls, who've met his gaze.

I opened the door this afternoon,
stepped onto the porch.
Greeted by a bleak and cold wind,
I lit a cigarette.
There I stood looking up at a dead sky,
shades of grey that smother the sun.
Thoughts growing dark,
in kind.
Out of this void there rose,
a melody.
Simple.
Tranquil.
"God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman"
Played as though it was just for me.
And as the church bells rang on their somber tune
I thought,
"Perhaps, it's not all so bad."

If you took a razor and with it tore this carpet up.
I'm certain you'd be sure to find a brief but well-worn rut.
For now it's rather shallow, a furrow most discreet.
Time flows only forward though, as do my weary feet.
The days slip through my fingers, like so many grains of sand.
The hourglass is broken, life just wasn't what I planned.
I waste my nights just pacing, my steps fall heavy on the floor.
This rut will be the solemn tale, of the weight my shoulders bore.

My words won't seem to flow of late,
a couple lines then rhymes deflate.
Too soon they stumble, thoughts abate.
From mouth does tumble basest prate.
Maybe whiskey, swallowed straight,
or potent herb, consumed in weight
will end this twisted, tragic state
of yearning pen, without will to sate.

Even when I was young,
I knew things,
perceived things you didn't think I could.
I knew it was time to stop talking,
when that distant look suddenly crept into your eyes.
I knew it meant you weren't really there anymore,
you'd traveled back in time.
I learned quickly,
there are some things you don't ask a man.
Ever.
As I've grown I've learned more,
still probably without your knowing.
I know when you attempt sleep,
memories you've learned to shroud from light of day,
spring forth and reign terror on your dreams.
A grotesque cinematic beyond my imagining,
yet all too real.
I know why you struggle with people,
and with crowds.
I know to you,
anyone and anything could be an enemy, a hazard.
I know to this day you see blood on your hands.
I wish you knew your sons do not.
I know when you look in the mirror you see a monster.
A younger you, with hollow eyes
and as you once so eloquently said,
"A smile that speaks, of death delivered"
I wish you knew,
to your sons you stand a warrior.
Tried but unbroken.
I know you didn't want to go.
I know a part of you died there.
I can hardly fathom,
how deep it cut to return home labeled a murderer, and worse.
So much guilt already on your shoulders.
But I know you've never gotten over it.
I just wish there was a way to tell you,
it is not your fault.
You did the best you could,
you did what you had to do.
Maybe someday you'll understand,
You are not what happened there.
Maybe someday I'll find a way to tell you,
The war is over, dad. Come Home.

I've wandered quite a while now, and I think it's time to sit.
I'm beaten, bruised and battered; reaching the end of my wit.
Start sifting through statistics there must be something I missed.
Or maybe I'm just chasing wraiths, that never did exist.
I no longer see the sunshine, ever shrouded in this mist
the forest plays a game with me, "Can we make him lose his grip?"
It's bad enough these ******* maps resemble twisted acid trips,
But I think my compass finally broke, the needle spins and spins.
The path is hardly visible, with incessant turns and twists.
Every time I think It's straightened, it invariably splits.
I'll slowly saunter onward I've too much pride to quit.
I may be lost forever, but that's just how life is.

It's strange to think that of my shotgun,
I'm growing rather fond,
but everyday I find that life is strengthening our bond.
I rise from bed and play my part,
in this appalling masquerade.
All the while this dreadful play has been cracking my facade.
I think I'll grab my shotgun,
prop the barrel under chin,
And with a gentle pull and click I'll end this story, fin.

I've been contemplating suicide,
as of late.
Not your standard,
bullet to the brain,
ending ones physical existence,
type of suicide.
No,
I'm considering something... more direful.
I'm going to commit a writers' suicide.
I'll start by deleting my various internet caches,
like the bat of an eye they'll all disappear.
Blink, blink, blink!
For extra measure,
I'll stick an Ice pick through this computer,
then sink it,
in the lake.
I'll follow that up,
by dissolving my pens in a vat of acid.
To the wood chipper!
Go the pencils.
I'll have a bonfire,
burn all the physical text I have,
and every single scrap of blank paper,
within reach.
To finish it off,
I'll break my thumbs,
pull out my own tongue.
Is a writer really alive,
without his word?

They say,
old habits die hard.
Don't I know it.
I put down the bottle for a while,
picked it back up.
Older now, more refined.
Bourbon,
instead of the cheap rot gut,
of my youth.
It all kills you in the end.
Still can't go out in public.
Teeth grinding,
Who's the enemy?
Who's the snake in this crowd?
Do I have my weapon?
Constantly clutching leather bound steel,
haven't needed the blade,
in a long time,
but must always be ready.
Marlb menthols,
pack a day, at least.
Smoke one to take the edge off,
there's always an edge.
Serial monogamist,
constantly striving for love,
hopeless romantic.
Hopelessly falling for women so venomous,
they could teach vipers,
a thing or two.
Picked up
a couple new ones but,
the old habits die hard

I'm drunk on Rebellion bourbon,
and I can't help but think,
what a ******* brand name man!
Coming from a cynical, sadistic,
sometimes near maniacal *******,
That's the kinda **** I wanna hear.
Start the rebellion!
******* A right I will.
I'll down this bottle and go off into the night,
my teeth sharpened
and a razor under my tongue.
A bottle full of gasoline,
a pocket full of matches.
I'll set fire to the village,
and watch as the fire dances.
Burn mother *******!
Then I'll hit the bar,
the next town over...
Continuing my little mission,
I haphazardly target victims,
Then incinerate 'em with powerful words,
If I fail to defile minds I'm setting teeth to curb.
Eventually the police will show,
too late.
I've already slipped out the backdoor
and skipped town.
Confident that I can start a riot before I pass out.
I figure eventually on me these crimes they'll try to pin it.
I'll sit back uncommonly calm and tell 'em the bourbon did it.

Every night I drink,
while trying not to think,
about all the opportunities I have blown.
Then I smoke a pipe,
contemplating life,
while I listen to the winter winds that drone.
By the time I hit the nicotine,
I'm feeling fairly libertine,
Certain notions get to flowing like the Rhone.
I'm sick of this existence,
the image gets persistent,
I think it's time I put a bullet in my dome.