I'll sit and smoke a cigarette with death,
before we step.
We'll share a couple shots of bourbon,
then we'll down whatever's left.
I could argue on our love,
and all the memories we've kept.
But a part of me is bound,
just to stand and accept.
I don't enjoy a wasted word,
it'll leave me bereft.
So I'll just look him in the eye,
take a drag and save breath.

Hello my dear, how are you?
It's been too long since we last spoke.
I'm running short on happiness,
I'm running out of hope.
I won't ask you where you've been, where you've gone or what you've done.
I just need your company,
some luck, and a little love.
Ask me how I'm doing
and I'll never find the words.
Every day without your touch,
is just another day that hurts.
I can live without you, I'll move on and I'll be fine.
But every where I go just know you're always on my mind.

When I get up at night,
and I'm looking for a light,
thoughts of you start spinning in my head.
I look up at the stars,
and I wonder where you are
but I know it doesn't matter in the end.

You left so long ago,
I think of where you've roamed.
I know it's for the better that you're on this earth.
Do you ever speak of me,
with the people that you meet?
Does a single one of them know what you're worth?

I hope that when you're cold,
and when you feel alone,
you remember when I promised you my heart.
Maybe you will view the sky,
and ponder just like I,
how long our paths are meant to stay apart.

No matter how hard I try to deny it,
people are beautiful.
I used to focus only on our misgivings,
our malice.
No longer;
for I have seen the balance.
We as human beings,
are capable of all extremes.
One or another of us will reach them.
But we will always equilibrate.
Fear not my dear friends,
you will find your way out of despair.
Do justice onto whom you replace.
You will find hope again; spread it on/.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 ****.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 just can't seem to get out of my head these days,
that's why I've got a penchant for smiling, when it rains.
You don't quite see the sun when you dwell in the shade,
I've grown beyond a longing for it's warmth on my face.

Nothing's concrete, I see the grey in your white and black.
It's a paradoxical existence, much like Schrodingers' cat.
Am I dead or alive? ****, where the hell am I at that?
My thoughts zip through my head like a thousand angry gnats.

Living The Heart of Darkness things seem increasingly insane,
but I'm trapped on this twisted river, heading deep into my brain.
Maybe it's because in here, I form monsters out of pain.
To feel emotion's difficult, but monsters can be slain.

Oh, the days are long,
and the nights are cold.
Maybe I'm just growing old,
but it seems to me,
that we have lost control.

We will carry on,
and play our hand.
Some will even make a stand.
And if they fall
it's all part of the plan.

I like to write when drunk and high,
that's when emotions run.
Sometimes I even find it nice,
to set ink when I get spun.
Alcohol is lubrication,
when my thoughts are just too bound.
The ******* see's acceleration,
words just flow when I get wound.
I'm  not an addict or a shmuck,
I'm a pretty simple man.
Just one who's more than down on luck;
my whole life has strayed from plans.
Yes I'm often found inebriated,
I hope you'll excuse the current condition.
It just seems to me while obviated,
I adopt a cleaner disposition.

The prince is dead
the castle has crumbled
he failed the quest as soon as he stumbled
off a high wall
and down to the ground
upon which he perished with hardly a sound.
The princess is doomed
now trapped in a tower
where she watches the world blacken hour by hour
the sun went away
and the grass shriveled up
the demons now revel in the ash and the muck.
Oh the kingdom is ruined
and the people all wail
but heroes all die in true fairy-tales.

This twisted existence is beginning to push my limits.
I've had enough of life I only strive to see it finished.
No matter how I try the timeline won't diminish;
I guess I'm meant to stick around for more than just a minute.

It sickens me to watch as old friends depart the earth,
As I'm left to sit and ponder on life and what it's worth.
It's hard to carry onward with this never ending search,
while other men just wander in apparent ceaseless mirth.

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.

I write my lines in a corner of this dimly lit bar,
unnoticed.
People float around me like fireflies,
little sparks in the darkness
unaware of their own illumination.
I take every ember
and stoke a fire that holds me over,
for the night.
I don't need permission,
to perpetuate my own existence.
I trade what little I know freely.
Only hoping for inspiration,
one more poem,
one more line,
just one more word.
If you drop it I'll pick it up,
no need to feel indebted.
For every word I leave I know,
the world is better than when I met it.

I rise before the sun,
to start my days.
An old night owl ready
to ***** the early bird,
for the worm.
Too much left to be done,
to risk slipping into the grip,
of slumber.
I'll catch up on rest when I'm dead.

Her laughter floated,
like smoke on the wind.
All grace and beauty as it danced in the sun.
Short lived and,
short tasted before it dissipates.
Yet,
for all the music held within her voice,
the melody held delicate notes,
of heartache,
of sorrow.
I could always hear between the lines.
She made me cry while I smiled.

Everybody will tell you,
"Now don't fall in love with a poet,
or a writer.
They're all liars or manipulators or both.
They're twisted in the head!"
Now,
I won't even argue the truth in that however,
what the **** is life without risk?
I'll take your stale white bread existence and flavor it!
I'll weave words that'll hit your ears like silk!
I'll show you pristine mountain peaks
and dark alleyways from a perspective so radical,
you won't know the difference.
I'll show you the whole ******* world from your couch.
That is,
if you'd fall in love with a poet.

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.

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 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.

What use is sleep when your spirit
And perhaps your heart,
Have surrendered to a power that you could not resist if you wanted.
The fire is lit anew and the engines,
Stoked as high as they ever have been,
Very rarely.
Forget sleep!
You can take sleep and stuff it!
We're running this train at full steam now boys!
We're plowing through,
Day and night,
Brick and mortar!
We're not stopping!
So you take your sleep,
And forget it.

I fled from society, failed at human bonding
too fond of the Siren's song and searching
for higher calling took to lurking beneath
the surface, the silence is calming.
Tragically lost the path and got tired of wandering
so I put a spark to match set fire to the forest
and torched it to find I'd been encircled
by enemy enforcers slowly encroaching
upon my little plot of land, far from final stand,
just a part of the plan.
See this **** was specifically scripted,
a switch flips to see the paradigm shifted.
I'll have you dreaming up apocalyptic visions
of me leading legions of seething demons
who feed on the meek. Whatever fortress you seek,
I'll ******* crush it, sowing fields of decimation,
I'll water with blood from buckets. By estimation,
I'm judging you won't recover for generations.
My friend, I suggest you switch your position,
"The end is ******* nigh" and you better ******* listen.

I have never allowed myself to abide
by the unfortunate misgivings of
censors and their hollow minds.
I love to abusively use the word ****,
and every time I see you with your kids,
I light one up.
Blow smoke in their ****** faces,
then I'll tell your innocent little *******
about the last time I was completely wasted.
See I'm morally opposed to all forms of censorship.
That's why I drive drunk, three stogs in my mouth
and I answer honest when your wee kiddies question it.
"Sir, what's the white powder you have upon your face?"
"That? Oh no worries my little brother
that's just a bit of *******."
At some point, I think I lost societal membership
all due to my personal policy.
Simply, **** censorship.

I'd like to make a toast to the ghosts,
settled softly on my shoulders.
Shapeless apparitions,
creating such a pressure I stagger,
with every step.
Here's to you,
the permanent parasites of my mind.
Never worry old friends.
I drink one for me,
and one for each of you.
I will let the burden,
carry me forever downward.
I will not forget that which was once flesh beside me,
now turned dust beneath my feet.
So cheers!
My ghastly ball and chain.
Pray that you rest soundly,
while yet gnawing at my brain.

Ghosts
ghosts are real.
I know this
because I know men who see them.
Men who are...
to say the least rational.
Men who are of sound enough mind
not to believe in spectral forms
or fairy tales.
And still I've sat in rooms with such men
watched them cast a glance
toward empty corners.
Watched as their eyes glazed and brought them
elsewhere.
Ghosts exist in the mind.
And that which exists in the mind of men
is very much as real
as that which exists
in their physical worlds.

He wandered a winding path,
through a wood he'd never traversed before.
No particular destination, he would know when he arrived.
The birds chirped and a spring doe darted through the brush somewhere.
He saw sunbeams dance through the budding trees
and felt the cold steel clutched in his hand and he thought
"It is a good enough day, for this sort of walk."
The wind blew,
mixing the music of the birds with that of it's hollow whistle.
The trail broke suddenly, disappearing  like a magicians rabbit.
Sun flooded his eyes, dazzling the senses.
He squinted, seeing a small and lonely field, grass blowing gently,
as if giving him a solemn bow.
The light warmed his cheeks,
and he thought, "Ah this, this spot is good enough."
The walk to the fields center was longer,
then he thought it would be.
And strange,
he couldn't hear the birds anymore.
But he could feel the cold steel clutched in his hand and he,
pressed it to his chin with a BANG... and he thought nothing.
But the wind still blew, and the sun still shone, and the day,
was still good enough.

I must've heard the phrase
hundreds of times by now.
"My life's going to hell
in a handbasket."
Or some such variance.
Only recently have I become able
to tell you what that actually looks like.
See
you start with a cute wicker basket.
The kind grandma might give you muffins in.
Then you place all the things you've managed to hold onto
inside of it.
Your friends, your family, your job.
Next goes in all those possessions you hold dear.
Your car, your house, your dog.
Lastly
in go the intangibles.
Your hope.
Your dreams.
All your positive feelings.
Then you set the ******* on fire
and watch it all burn away.

I'll always have the vague desire,
that someone will catch my work
and help it really get somewhere.
Then I remember,
I write drunk
and ****** up
at three in the morning.
"Nothing good ever happens after two in the morning"
right?
I'll just be content,
with writing for the drunks,
and the drug addicts,
and the sleepless.
I try to tell myself maybe,
that's who really needs it anyway.

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.

I'd searched many a day,
before I found what it was
that I wanted.
The first night I went to bed with her at my side,
and rested easily.
That was when I knew.
All I had ever wanted was some place,
or someone,
that made me feel like I was
home.

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.

The wait here is breaking my bones,
I'm always searching for love or I'm searching for home.
No matter how hard that I seem to try,
I wind up just standing in line.
This whiskey will **** me no doubt,
but it's better than tasting your name in my mouth.
I can run, I can hide, I can waste all my time,
but you always wind up on my mind.
The good ones keep walking away,
while the worst ones come through and keep trying to stay.
I'm always asking the world to send me a sign,
but it seems all my hopes are declined.
I've learned on my own I can stand,
that won't ever stop me from grasping for hands.
At the end of the day I'll seek and I'll strive
for a woman who's strong, true and kind.

I can't write tonight,
but I'll force a couple lines
and hope to see revealed
all the answers I'd like to find.
I can't fight tonight,
so I'll sit here and smoke.
If I can't forget my sorrows
perhaps I can make 'em choke.
Just full of strife tonight
and all alone I wallow.
So I'll just grab another,
I'm seeking company in bottles.
I can't write tonight...

Sometimes,
Sometimes I can't sleep as horrors unforgotten slip their way through the thin veneer I have strung across a dark corner of my mind to hide these thoughts from the light of day.
On these nights,
On these nights I smoke a cigarette in shadows unbroken by the dim city lights and listen to a lonely cricket chirp and know at least we stand together in this midnight rendezvous.
In that I find peace.
Sometimes,
Sometimes I find myself unwilling to rise from my cold bed and face another strife filled day in a world full of challenge and misery that I was not asked but forced into.
Sometimes,
Sometimes I find my mind consumed by fear and hatred and anxiety inspired by a lifetime of bad decisions and worse luck in a seemingly never ending spiral of **** ups and shame.
But other times,
other times I find the smallest moments of bliss can rekindle the spirit and remember that goodness put forth will return if in nothing more than clear conscience and a light heart.
In the little things, I find peace.

The first time I saw you smile,
It was like a punch in the face that sent me spinning into euphoria.
Time stopped.
A crowded room,
mind clouded with *****,
**** and,
*******.
And I saw your smile,
like a sailor lost on a dark sea, first lays eyes on light from land.
I imagine nothing short of a
lightning strike,
could near compare to the shock my system was rendered,
by the subtle lifting of your lips.
The first time I saw your smile,
was the first time
I knew love.

I miss you,
when the wind flows like music
through the trees.
And I hear it as I once did your laughter.
I miss you,
when the sun sets
and I see it as I once did your smile
beneath your now sorrowed eyes.
I miss you,
when the stars hang high
and I find myself cold and alone in the dark,
for lack of your warmth.
But I miss you most at night,
when I wake up in an empty bed
searching for what's not there.

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.

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.

In a valley dark and dead, a little lamb did lie,
he'd given up, enough's enough! And here I'll tell you why.
You see his spirit had worn away, with every fang-ed smile.
This meager sheep was born and raised, within the land of lions.

The little lamb toiled all day, he struggled to find a purpose
while everyone he'd ever known, just filed into the furnace.
He looked around at all the lines, how they carried on for miles!
But this is just the way it goes, when you're in the land, of lions.

And despite the effort he'd commit, the cycle wouldn't stop.
All hope was lost or beaten out, of his meek and wayward flock.
They'd turn their heads and softly say “We do admire your defiance,
but we're very sorry, little lamb, this is the land of lions.”