I know,
I know there lies no answer
in the bottom of this glass.
On occasion though,
it certainly kills the question.
And yes I know,
this glass holds no peace,
but it certainly makes telling yourself,
you've found as much
a little easier.
And yes,
yes I know.
The glass holds little more than a slight reprieve
from self loathing,
from guilt,
from the colossal weight upon my shoulders.
But it seems you,
and hope,
are always gone.
And the glass is always here.

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.

The modern medicine man is subtle.
No longer,
is he held in high regard by his peers.
More often than not,
he is not even acknowledged for his power.
In a world that demands instant gratification,
it is difficult to appreciate a man who has what you need,
not what you want.
If you run across him,
notice he holds all those little vices,
the ones that open a man,
not numb him.
Admire his ease,
and the pivotal wisdom he's bound to drop.
Hold in high esteem his timing in arrival;
for it is not by accident you've run upon him.
Thank your local medicine man if you should find him,
for it is a subtle duty,
and one that goes too oft,
unappreciated.

When you're afraid
you lose out.
You'll miss opportunities you could have had.
When you're angry
you'll ruin all opportunity set in front of you.
Anger leads to spite
and spite crushes all that lies in front of it.
When you're depressed
you'll just stop
or you'll want to.
Depression and sadness
lead to a path that ends where it began.
But hope.
Hope is our most dangerous of all emotions.
It comes from nothing.
We as human beings
will create hope anywhere
at anytime.
And
while to some this may seem powerful
I can't help but find it a flaw.
There is nothing worse in this world
not apathy
not rage
not terror
than being left without that spark you created.
There is nothing worse
than finding your hopes to be false.

My words are stuck again;
my tongues gone almost stiff.
Guess I got hung up again.
Got caught up in the mix.

And there's no one to blame,
the tales always the same.
I'll always think of sunshine when someone says your name.

We both knew it had to end,
we both could see the rust.
I'm only sorry that I left,
before I lost your trust.

And there's no one to blame,
the tales always the same.
I will always see your smile at the end of my hard days.

When I get drunk alone,
I think of how you laughed.
Then I look down at my phone,
and I let the moment pass.

I swear there's no one to blame,
this tales always been the same.
I still hear your voice amid the murmur or the rain.

I know,
ten dollar bottles of whiskey
and cartons of Marlboros,
are certainly a way to accelerate my untimely demise.
But women,
now that'll be the death of me.
Underneath the drunken stupor
behind the walls of smoke;
I'm fragile as any fabric.
I can only be cut and sewn so many times...
Alas,
as with all my vices;
the whiskey,
the drugs,
the cigarettes,
I'll dive head first into the next one.
Give it my all.
Take it or leave it,
you'll have the best and worst of me.
And when you leave it,
I'll sew myself back together,
just one more time...
And it'll be on to the next one,
until I die.

I formed a personal goal.
I swore I'd be a more peaceable
a more centered man.
For a while I had maintained it well but
but now I'm finding I crack under the pressure
of what is a pseudo serenity.
A restrained anger
does not constitute a lack of it.  
I can't help but think
maybe rage hurts you
and maybe peace just adds another weight
on the back of a modern Atlas.
What more than the world can one hold atop his shoulders?

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.

Hello, I am the salesman,
though no solid wares I vend.
You see I've come to hock some love,
to hearts long on the mend.
They say I have a way with words,
though modest, I remain.
If you'll stop and trade your time,
you've only peace to gain.
I'll take in all your troubles friend,
these shoulders can bear the load
and if it's faith in life you've lost
I've been known to peddle hope.
So stop and start to barter,
I'll show you all the world is fine.
No worries if you're hurried now,
I can bottle joy like wine.

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.

I have a friend
who likes to tell me
that I have a calming aura
as his litter of stray kittens
proceeds to envelop me
on my arrival.
As his dog lays at my feet.
Sometimes
I like to think he's right
that I exude peace and kindness.
Other times
I think maybe I just attract the sad and broken
the weak and needy.

There are places in this world;
places you'll find that'll grab you right by the heart.
Shaking you they will scream,
"This is it! This is where things are as they should,
not as they could be."
If you have the fortune to find that little slice of wonder,
absorb it as a sponge does water.
Breathe it! Eat it!
Let it soak to your bones.
More importantly,
do not ever allow yourself to forget how you felt when your heart was shaken.
Do not ever forget what you learned.

Time flies when you're having fun?
*******, time flies when you're down and done.
Time flies when you're dying inside.
When you're picking up the pieces and crying in need,
time leaves.
There's no time, to settle or ease.
There's no time, because time never sleeps.
There's no time, so don't beg and don't plead.
Time will leave you for dead.
Time left, and it doesn't care about the time that you spent.
You're going through the motions and you're barely alive but,
time flies when you're dying inside.

Timing's a funny thing.
It seems I always stroll into a persons' life,
exactly when I'm most useful.
Just a stranger who pops in,
straightens up the place a bit,
then leaves.
Rarely though,
is my timing ever to my own benefit.
Too late, too early,
doesn't matter.
I can only hope that perhaps one day,
I'll find myself somewhere I'm meant to stay.

So much death.
Twenty-two years of life
and I have experienced,
so
much
death.
My heroes all died,
as they will,
when youthful ignorance
turns to a bitter understanding on the reality of men.
We are flawed.
But it didn't stop there.
No,
year after year it seems,
death reaches all too soon.
A drug overdose,
a car accident,
a suicide.
One by one,
friends, family and enemies alike,
all have passed.
Some sought the grave,
some simply stumbled upon it.
It's all the same though,
the dead slumber;
the living carry on.
Until they don't.

I never thought,
I'd live for very long.
As long as I can remember
every instinct I possess,
has screamed of impending death.
I had accepted that,
lived in kind.
As I sit here,
only twenty-two years into this catastrophe,
called life.
I feel ******* ancient.
Something went amiss.
Now I'm forced to watch,
as days fly by me
wasted.
I had nothing in the works,
for this.
I'd prepared for every eventuality,
except the one,
where life went on too long.

True criminal, I sold my soul and stole it back.

All my attempts
to grasp upon inspiration
that will linger for more than
just a moment,
end in flames and utter disaster.
Yea,
the fire lends me light
but it's a momentary
high before I drop from the pinnacle
and return to earth
with a crash.
I'll never stop the campaign
but I'm growing afraid
that if I continue this path
I'll wind up broken and cracked.

At twenty-two years of age
I have experienced more death
than many of my elders.
In the past year alone
one expended his brains onto the ceiling
one died a mystery
face down in the river
one died in a car crash
on the run from the law
and the last faded into an ****** induced dream.
Twenty-two years
and I can no longer count the lost.

You died two years ago,
when she left.
Yea you're still walking but you're just a corpse with a heartbeat and you know it.
You're trapped.
She never bothered to release the restraints she placed on you so you stay shackled by misery in a room guarded by lonliness.
You sit as your heart tears at itself while your brain stands watching in callous disinterest.
Sure,
you breathe,
but each inhale leaves only the feeling of drowning without the sweet escape of death.
You beg the reaper to take you, he says he wants to see how this all plays out.
He's never seen a man eat his own heart.
Everyone else insists you must keep going but,
they don't know what you know.
They don't know you died
two years ago,
when she left.

I always think I'm prepared
but,
every time I bump into you,
my heart turns to a thunder clap in my chest and,
the world spins
a little.
Just before I left you told me,
you liked my hat.
I wanted to tell you,
I liked your everything
but,
you would know,
I never did corny very well.
So I just said thank you,
lit a cigarette with shaking hands
and walked.

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.

It was a wild ride, today from yesterday.
I made mistakes along the way,
I smoked, I stole, I lied, I drank.
So when I went to heavens gate,
I expected only solemn look,
And for St. Pete to close the book.
Was to my surprise to find,
A cheerful grin and words so kind!
I apologized for being late, explained my shame,
For my mistakes.
“We know you’ve sinned son, and that’s just fine!”
“Because we know you always tried,
Trust me, you arrived in time!
We’ve set the tables, poured the wine!
So come on in son, have a seat.
There’s rest here for your weary feet.”

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.

I've learned many a thing,
in walking with the moon.
Most importantly I know, the night is a bitter mistress.
She gives no helping hand,
nor warmth or comfort.
No,
she offers naught but a cool touch and a silken whisper that says,
"You are all alone."
But I impress,
I've learned many a thing in walking with the moon.
A muse, is a muse, I suppose.
And I know,
A heavy heart is no burden to place
on a thing of flesh and blood.
So I'll saunter softly, through the lonely dark,
Sorting through lifes' simple pleasures,
and utter miseries.
Knowing that sometimes answers are only found,
when you're walking with the moon.

They tell me "Don't be bitter,"
"Cuz son we were the victors!"
But still my anger simmers,
I just can't find the cause.

Can't ever close my eyelids,
All I'll see is violence,
and many good men dying,
When will these nightmares stop?

Back home, there's no hope there,
The people do not care,
they all just stop and stare,
My soul's forever gone.

To watch a man,
attempt the washing of blood
long since spilled,
upon his hands.
Is to watch an agony I cannot describe.
How do you see yourself
when in the mirror,
there is a monster?
When in the shine of your children's eyes,
you see only reflected
a murderer?
Where do you find joy,
in life?
When you wish perhaps,
you'd been not so "lucky."

Just wasted days
and wasted pay.
All you've said was wasted praise.
Wasted time,
and wasted dreams.
Most of life's a waste,
it seems.
I'll waste away,
just smoking haze,
with every second I'll waste my brain.

I found a man, amidst the chaos.
No lighted eyes, his dreams were lost.
I asked him was it was that ailed him,
Though I knew, ‘twas hope that failed him.
“I’ve looked upon the face of death,
And feel his hands, upon my chest,
reaching for my aching heart
I lost my faith, right at the start.”
I smiled weakly, I felt the same,
Except some hope I had maintained.
“We’ve been gone from home friend, for far too long
But I promise you, we’ll see the dawn.
The sun will rise, and it will set,
And with it we will get our rest.
You’ve marched and fought and carried on,
You’ve charged into the raging throngs,
Watched your comrades fall and die,
Seen life snuffed, as have I.
I cannot ask, you maintain faith,
Not here, not now, in death’s embrace,
For we’ve been gone from home, for far too long,
But I promise you, We’ll see the dawn.

Does the **** have any less a right to grow,
than the rose?
Does the moon love the sun for lending it light,
or envy it for the same?
Does the wind bear ill-will to the trees for the obstruction,
or does it thank them for the music?
Are we all in this world marching toward an end,
or back to the beginning?
These are the things that keep me awake at night.
These are the things that impede my dreams.

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.

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.

Where?
Where does misery end
and
happiness begin?
I'm now certain
the line does not reside
at the bottom of a bottle.
I've finished many
to find nothing but an empty vessel.
I've chain smoked my way
through a thousand packs
to find myself still wanting.
I've loved.
I've hated.
And still I have to ask
where?
Where is the line one crosses
into happiness?
Into peace.

I know of a place,
where it only rains ash.
The sun doesn't shine,
it was swallowed en masse.
By an ominous void,
that's now stifled the grass.
I'm loathe to return,
but I'll lead you if asked.

We'll journey on over,
to death's little home.
Where graves fill the fields,
in neat little rows.
Not a songbird in sight,
just cackling crows.
Nor will flowers you see,
where the bone roses grow.

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.

Now to put it plainly,
I don't believe in reincarnation.
Nor any other form of after life.
I will be dirt.
You will be dirt.
We're all just ******* dirt.
However,
this leaves me vexed.
For I feel the most nostalgia,
towards things I have never experienced.
Music from the 1920's
to the 1950's,
makes me yearn for days,
I never had.
I only feel empathy for war veterans,
some part of me feels the pain.
Maybe I'm wrong,
or perhaps just strange;
who knows?

I tear flesh from myself and toss it into the flames;
Not to watch it burn but in hopes I can make the hole in my heart a tangible part of my being..
I won't need a warning label if people can peek in and see for themselves there's nothing left of a real man.
Like Pinocchio I strive to feel a thump in my chest but a wooden core doesn't pump.
I'm dancing attached to strings like a Halloween skeleton in a bad movie.
All grin and nothing to back it up.
It's useless to think someone might share their heart with mine and bring me to life.
I'll fill the hole in my chest with clear apoxy and dance empty with that skeletal grin stretched comically over a hard face holding nothing.
Eventually I'll feed the fire with my bones and turn to dust,
as old toys do.
There's nothing like a paper man for tinder.

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.

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?

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.

You.
You are what once stayed my hand from rage.
You once blocked my lips from every bottle,
with your lips.
You are what once prevented tar from coating my lungs,
and you kept hate from filling my heart.
You once prevented my untimely demise.
You.
You are now every punch I throw and take in return,
You are every ounce of liquor that filters through my kidneys.
You are now every carcinogen I too often inhale,
You still keep my heart from hate,
Because you filled it to bursting with sorrow.
You are what I now follow to my grave.
You.

Almost everyone's heard the old adage,
"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink."
I believe this to be surely among,
the truer of truths.
The question I'm forced to pose however,
is does this mean you should in fact
not lead the horse at all?
I feel many in the world today would say yes!
**** the horse!
Personally,
I'll always show him the way if I know it.
Sure,
I can never force him into getting what he needs,
but in the least,
it could never hurt to point.

I like to think I've seen,
my fair share of life.
A city man,
sculpted of concrete and steel.
My years on this earth may be yet,
short.
That life however,
opened my eyes to much.
I know about the lows of man,
about how far some of us will stoop.
About what it means to survive.
But,
You dragged me,
drunk and complaining,
out into the hills.
You sat me in the back of your truck,
and you showed me the stars.
I don't know if it was the urban lighting,
that burns eternally,
or just that I'd never looked.
But you showed me the stars that night,
in all their luminescent glory.
I will never forget that.