I can’t reach for you
It hurts to think about the last time I reached for someone
That should bring you comfort
To know that should you ever reach for me
My hands are empty

You want me to write of sexiness and what my plans are for your ****?
To go into some detail concerning how I’d bust a nut?
It’s really not that interesting and it’ll only end the same.
You’ll forget you have a boyfriend and I’ll forget your name.
Oh sure there’ll be some biting and we’ll throw out words like ****.
But isn’t really arbitrary when it comes to this tired stunt.
I was hoping for something deeper, no pun there intended.
But if you could turn my mind on, well that would be just splendid.
So go ahead and spread your *** if that’s all your here to do.
I’ll pump, you’ll moan, there’ll be some licking, then it ends with goo.
Though if you’d like to take a shot and let me in your head.
You best start cancelling plans because we’re staying here in bed.
The moon can listen in and even stay to watch the show.
Right up until and even after I lose my **** there in that hole.
So wouldn’t it be nicer if we adjusted this little game?
Tell your man to leave the room and I’ll write down your name.

Cut your tongue on my apathy and paint me a picture of your woes.
Make the contrast sharp, so that I understand.
Don’t go muddying up the image with intricacies, get to the point.
We don’t want any misconstruing.
Untie the tongue of your callousness. I’m sure she’s got plenty to say.
If I’m going to bleed for you, I’m going to need you to lick my wounds.
Because the stars are starting to fade again and tomorrow just won’t mean much if you’re not here.

I’ll tell myself not to look back.
That there’s nothing there.
Nobody to wave me goodbye.
Still though.
I will.
And I’ll have to reconcile with that part of me that is laughing his sick ****** head off.
So in spite of his laughter.
I’ll stare at the shoreline.
In defiant hope that someone.
Someone will come down to say goodbye.
And he’ll keep laughing as the shoreline fades off into the horizon.
And I lower my head.
Resigned to his eternal torment.
This devil on my mind.

Before the snow falls
And you slip back into the folds of winter
And the sapphire of my world diminishes
Could I hold you
Like I did that time
Before

Three dogs walk into a bar one day.
The oldest one says “I’ll go up and pay.”
“Excuse me sir, may I have three beers?”
The bartender can’t believe her ears.
“******* a talking dog! Let my customers get out their phones.”
“Yeah my name’s Huey I chase cars, **** old socks, and bury bones.”
The bartender gives Huey his three cold suds.
The second dog offers the next round for his buds.
“Hey lady you think can I get three more?”
She waddles over, feet all sore.
“*******, you know the other dog who talks?”
“Yeah my name’s Duey I chase cars, I **** old socks.
Can I get three beers if it’s not much trouble?”
“Of course good boi on the double.”
The third dogs turn he goes up to buy.
She toddles over she’s thinking she’ll try.
“Lemme guess, your name’s Luey, and you chase the mailman away?”
“No, it’s Old Socks and I’ve had a bad ****** day.”

I had a dream come true
It was as soft as the sky is blue
This dream I had come true
Started when I met you

My mind misses you
It’s unhappy with my decision to leave you
It has no nerve endings of its own
So it’s trying to turn my heart inside out
That’s why I know it’s angry with me
And the fact that it has now turned you into a specter
You’re giving me that look
That “you’re being ridiculous” look
I see it every time I close my eyes
Something else my mind is good at
Imagery
So no
I’m not going to forget you
And for that reason, I’ll probably still love you
Long after you think I hate you
You’ll still be here
On my mind
Giving me that look

I hate the tv, I hate The Doors, and I hate this ******* couch.
I don’t like soup, Ellen just *****, and my cat is a ****** slouch.
Both parties ****, Steve Harvey’s an ***, and *** is antifa?
My job’s pretty cool, the pay’s not bad, still *** is antifa?
The *** is good, see I’m not *******, but the milks gone ******* sour.
My dad lost his watch because it’s been ten years and he said he’d be back in an hour.
There’s too much *******, not enough *******, because now there’s too many people.
The reason being, these pious ***** take their orders from a guy in a steeple.
So yeah maybe I’m *******, tuna’s too pricey, and I ****** hate Country.
We get it, you’re drunk, your truck broke down, and your wife left you for Humphrey.
You know what it is? Why I’m this way. A cynical merciless *******.
I’m too **** busy at work all day, when I could be getting plastered.
Ok fine. I’ll stop for now. And you’re all some lucky suckers.
Btw Johnny Cash blows. Take that you bunch of neckbearded *******.

She’s a painting in motion.
Could I love her?
From a thousand yards out on the darkest night to be found.
Yes.
Even in the absence of light in my life.
I could love her.
But I won’t.
To add me to the landscape of her painting, her life.
Would only serve to muddy the imagery.

A list celebrity.
Owns four homes each eight figures.
Makes eight figures a movie.
Wants me to donate five dollars.
*******!
Just don’t buy another home!
That’s twenty million!
Now could you stop trying to guilt me out of buying lunch?
I feel like a ******* for taking a long shower.
While people in Puerto Rico are going without.
And Mr My Bentley got **** on by a sparrow so now I have to take the ****** Bugatti, is over here washing his dog with Johnnie Walker Blue.
The ****?

How odd it is to be
That you would see in me
A reason to be
When all I see
Is you

I had just finished cleaning the bedroom, I even dusted the duster.
I gathered up the condiments, except I forgot the mustard.
She’s stares at me from under the covers a longing in her eyes.
I just needed time to get ready I’d lined up quite the surprise.
It took me a while to get it upstairs, that tank must weigh quite a lot.
I hooked up the lines, check the gauge, sure I’d found the spot.
She got high, I got ready, and I went around lighting up candles.
To look upon her in the morning, you’d think that it was vandals.
The helium tank was empty, and she was feeling fantastic.
We spun and we danced, laughed and cried, it got a little spastic.
Then go figure, I slipped on mayo and she flew across the room.
She bounced off the dresser spun to the candles and that’s when she went boom.
A bright flash of light, she flew out the window, I never saw her again.
Now whenever I smell helium I can’t help but think of her when.
So now I know for next time, don’t ever use noble gases.
They’ll exploded around fire for sure, especially when you bite their *****.

They’re going to call me an indigent, it’ll say so on the tag.
If you want to read the c.o.d., before they zip up the bag.
I’ll lie in a freezer for a good eight days, then it’ll be the furnace.
Was life supposed to end like this, why didn’t somebody warn us?
If nobody comes to claim the body, the ashes will go in the trash.
That’s what happens when you die alone and with very little cash.

Believe me I want to stay positive
And I’m positive of one thing
I’m positive I don’t want to be here
And that’s the only song I’ll sing
I don’t know what I’m doing here
And I’m positive I don’t know why
I don’t know any of these people
I want to go but I don’t want to die
So if I must stay here unwillingly
Then I’ll do my best to stay drunk
Otherwise I might do some damage
Says the guy ******* in my trunk
He asked me too many questions
I’m too certain he knows too much
So I offered the ******* a ride
Next to my spare tire and such
But now I’m starting to wonder
While sitting here eating my brunch
He’s been quiet for sixty miles now
I should let him out for lunch
Maybe again I’ll ask him “why me?”
Why is it I can’t find any meaning
I’ll bet he’d happily answer
If on his throat I’m leaning
Eventually my hopes will fly
Cause what he says makes me sick
“My name’s Craig and I work at McDonalds now let me go you ****!”

There’s a cat staring at me, the internet’s out, and I guess it’s time to start drinking.
If I thought that it mattered or thought that you cared, I’d tell you what it is that I’m thinking.
But since you’re not here, and I’m all alone, I might as well forget your name.
We could stare at the moon, from under our lovers, hoping the song is the same.
Or I could light up the sky with a thousand house fires so that you could find your way.
You could sit on my porch with me as we listen while the fires turn night into day.
You’ll smile at me, I’ll laugh out loud, and then we could pull out your hair.
You’d wake up to ruins, rub your bald head, and smile because I’m still there.
Another drunken daydream, another moment where I bask in the sun.
Before that demon sobriety finds me, and reminds me I’m not the one.

We wander to and fro as you in likeness
Our spirits though
They wander in the forest of shadows cast by those we emulate
Deserted in a world within a world
So dark and so cold, light can’t survive it
Some of us just linger there
Letting time have it’s way with them
While others just keep walking into the folds of the night
So broken inside
They’ll stab the hand of salvation
Not out of contempt for the savior
But because they aren’t even worth saving

I’d like to think it’d mean something. That you’d stop and think about that time I made you laugh. Perhaps you’d consider something I said with a little more importance. On just how amazing you are. And how it is you are a light.
You won’t though.
Because I never mattered enough for those things to be regarded with any credibility.
My passing will have no more affect on anything than my living does now.
So it makes no difference.

You get off on licking your own skin, lapping up that which you sweat.
It’s who you think you are that you love more than anything else.
A trough for the masses who seek to get their fill until you stop smiling.
Misery lies in wait while you bask in the glow of idol worship.
Getting off on getting off until all that’s left is a lie and an empty bottle.
You better hope that that mirror is as good liar as you are to yourself.

You call yourselves poets
Artistic souls that see the world through the eyes of angels
Filleting their feelings like strips of cod, laying them out before a market of other poets
The air in here forces me to scoff, to gag on the air of over embellishment.
I pen as well, but not as well
I’ll admit to that
Over a thousand poems can be arrested to me
Though I do not call myself a poet
No
No my hapless ink stained celestial bound brethren of disdain and misery
I am a mad man.
Always desperately trying to find the right words
Frantically mashing away as if my fingers were trying to stomp out a ****** fire
Trying to keep my fingers busy
Lest I leave them be
They’ll **** me

I beseech you
Please
Make it stop
Say
Goodbye to me
Please
Let me go
It
Hurts to wake
And
Sleep’s no friend
So
I beg you
Say
Goodbye to me
And
Let me go
Once
I am gone
You
Can start forgetting
I
Was ever here

I’ve written over a thousand poems.
I’ll probably write a few more.
Maybe I’ll stop tomorrow. Or maybe never.
I’ll write a letter to Death and ask her for more ink.
If she tells me to use my own.
Then I’ll write shorter poems.
But I’ll never stop.
Not until one of those poems hits its mark. And her heart weeps out of joy.
Not until it’s so beautiful that she cradles it like the starlight in her eyes.
Then and only then.
When she realizes just how much she means to me.
Will I ask her to do **** stuff.

Your parting lips only serve to decimate. To remind me of what I already know.
How it is and what isn’t real, beginning to twist and intertwine to a point where I can no longer follow any stream of thought with trust.
I roll back. Holding my nose out of habit the dark waters in the back of my mind envelop.
Tranquility doesn’t reside here. There’s no shelter. No rest for the wicked. And I’m wide awake.
Chaos and order dance here. Like Astaire and Rogers. They waltz and spin across a floor of fire and ice. It’s beautiful here and there’s nothing to see.
I write here. I wallow in angst amidst the pages that don’t make sense. Dripping with ink and tears I’ll scratch at the walls in vain for hours. Until. That word that fits comes to me. That word that I hope will drive my point home and scream “*******!” into the deafest ears.
And sometimes I write about you.
My bane. The Achilles’ tendon that keeps me grounded. A reminder of who I’m not. One who cannot be so fortunate but must toil in a pit of my own design.
I’ll emerge from those tranquil waters. My bath that does nothing to cleanse my soul. And I’ll fall again into my role of perpetual sadness. Because I cannot see beyond death. Her wings unfurled before me. Her warm darkness longing to envelop and shroud me from my own reflection.
Where are you my love?

We understand the futility of endeavoring to unravel the intricate illusions of life. We’ll acknowledge without hesitation that ultimately nothing we do matters.
We’ve discussed how the human psyche is just too fragile to grasp the truth of our existence. Ineffectual beings of nothingness. Meandering about under the delusion that we as individuals, have a purpose for being.
And yet, even under these shared circumstances. This mutual acknowledgement of understanding and empathizing with each others plight.
Funny.
That we still struggle.
With things as simple as ourselves.

Pack up your bowls and check on your pockets.
Take out my eyes and stick your fingers in the sockets.
I’ve been your dog and I’ve played your game.
The least you could do is to call out my name.

Well the tourist have gone and I’m still standing here.
I know you can see that I just want to be clear.
So you have your fun until the rivers run dry.
And I’ll still be here because I believed the lie.

So just tidy it up and we’ll tell the devil we know
The moon is too high to have seen this show
Don’t say it first, don’t you cast that stone.
That dog is done dead let’s just leave it alone.

And now I’ll retreat to the back of your mind.
You could only hope that I would treat you in kind.
But it’s really not safe and there is no light.
Where I put things to suffer and out of my sight.

So trademark that **** and put a stamp on your thigh.
I’ll be smoking my dreams staring at the sky.
We’ll grease our thoughts and set them free of our will
Then we’ll bury their corpses out back on Blue hill.

Don’t presume to think that they love you, because the truth is that they don’t.
Nor should you ponder whether they’ll want you, because the truth is that they won’t.
They tried to warn you ahead of time, they were trying to save you the trouble.
Apparently they saw your future, just your dreams in ashes and rubble.
You didn’t listen, you held on to hope thinking it was at least worth a try.
Now you drink, you smoke, and you curse. Because you believed your own lie.

You can search if you like, the library of those who have lived.
Row after row of dusty books, stories of some that gived.
Others are just pages of lamenting, describing their pain and loss.
Scribbles of things unsaid and things that silence cost.
You may just find your book, amidst the stacks of stories unfinished.
Ink still wet on the pages, of a life not yet diminished.
In there you’ll find a sentence, in which you casually mention me.
In my book you’ll find a chapter, of which was written for thee.