I’m going to tell you that I love you
And here’s what you should do
Take this here I love you
And keep it as a clue
So that when you ask the stars at night
Who it is that holds you dear
Take that there I love you
And know that I’m right here

Some of us write from the heart
Some of us from the head
The thing we all have in common
Is one day we’ll all be dead

So we put our thoughts to words
Penning our woes and such
Silently screaming into the night
Using poetry as a crutch

If you’re lucky someone will hear you
Your words might strike a tone
Though most of us will go unnoticed
Forever remaining alone

A spring of night bubbled from atop her crown
It meandered down past her cheeks
Small streams of starless skies rounded her chin
Then fell upon her shoulders and pooled around her neck

It was in October.
The rain fell ******* tin roof over the deck.
There were only three candles left but there was plenty of wood to burn.
There was a ash colored teapot.
The fireplace sat between two windows that overlooked the lake.
I couldn't tell if you had been wearing the same stretch pants for two days or if you owned multiple pairs of that color.
A blanket of crimson cashmere draped over the back of the couch.
The kitchen smells like bacon, the livingroom of old cedar.
The stars found solace in your eyes that night.
As did I.

Fingers dragged kicking and screaming across an illuminated dance floor as if this were some new age line dancing competition for people who have no idea what they’re doing.
That’s what this is.
It’s like being asked to sculpt out a scene from MacBeth in jello using a chainsaw after doing blow with a hyena who has a grudge against HR over the comprehensive dental plan.
Do you see where I’m going with this?

They told me to be who I am when I got here
But I don’t know who that is
Can I step out for just a sec
And come back in again

The moonlight creeps through my garden like a white tiger on the hunt.
It caresses the bench where you used to sit.
Come morning these trees will burst into flames of crimson, sunflower, and oranges.
I’d like to be able to imagine you there and when.
Add it to the list of things I’d like.

Lie to me
Or
Tell me the truth

I wasn’t there
So
I wouldn’t know the difference either way
So
It doesn’t really matter

Candle wax and sweaty backs
Empty packs of butts
Balled up pants, and a passing glance
What more could there possibly be

Empty bottles the hard **** waddle
And the chicken got left out
Your kid is crying, I’m over here dying
Surely we are blessed

A morning beer dost make things clear
Underneath that callous sun
A new day calls I scratch my *****
Truly this is heaven

I beseeched along the road I walked, these things I held so dear
Hoping all along one day to see my path laid clear
Those dreams I had of her and I
These stones that I’ve collected
Now litter my past, that went so fast, more so than I expected

I should be able to tap out.
That’d be nice.
If I could just place my hand over my heart. Give it three quick taps.

Are you still there?
In the mist, where I left you.
Under a crumbling sky.
We were alone
And I couldn't understand why you were looking at me.
Wisps of fog march passed us.
Like an undead army from an ancient battle.
You sounded more frustrated than anything.
So I left you there.
I still think about you.
On those dewy mornings.
As the sun breaks over the trees and sets the world on fire.
I'll smile to myself
"the **** was I thinking?"

We’re coming close to the end of things, of things I’d like to say.
Here’s a list of some of those things I said before I pass away.
I called an old woman a **** one time for reasons that are my own.
I don’t regret it not one lil bit and let’s just leave it alone.
I once told a small child I’d cut off his face and use it to wipe my ***.
But to be fair he was stirring my scotch but he went and chipped the glass.
Then there was that time in church when I said “what in the **** is a ******”.
Or that time I told my girl that I might as well go **** a sturgeon.
The end.
Don’t forget to tip the coat check girl. She’s homeless and afraid of homeless people.

They tell me to write what I know.
Pen out the feelings inside.
Well I’ve been holding this quill and smoking all night.
And I think that I’ve already died.

It’s like reaching into a vase.
And finding nothing is there.
Cold blind hands scraping the walls of nighttime in a bottle.
What’s worse is I can’t even care.

So I put the vase outside to soak.
And watch it grow cold in the sun.
In the fall it fills of death, in the summer it’s colors will fade.
And sadly no where to run.

A moment unknowingly waits.
This vase will surely break.
From water and mud it came, to ash and dust it’ll be.
It suffered for sufferings sake.

What yonder light they said be seen; in hues of yellow, red, and green
Fields of satin sands run high; beneath the clouds as they roll by
The dolphins play amidst the surf; the bays, the waves, the sea their turf
A gulf born whispering wind; will find its way and begin again
There’s nothing here to be said about i; another cloud just passing by

Look it here what I did with words; I lay them out till each one curds
Then I skim them tops with my favorite knife; just leave them with a little life
Just enough for them to be true; when they whimper “I love you”
This rhyming **** isn’t so hard, most words used are just plain lard

I’ll probably stop on this verse three; in keeping with the trinity
Don’t wanna ******* any would be gods; just in case they’re not all frauds
Besides let’s just be honest here; nothings ever crystal clear
Like this here flow it has no meaning; just the ravens eyes in the darkness, gleaming

They’re like those puddles of rain.
The ones you find in a parking lot littered with oil spots. The colors that swirl about within. You just gotta stop sometimes and look at them. Just for a moment. Give them all of you. Maybe you part ways with nothing. Or. You walk away having seen something that no one has ever seen. And it’s yours. To think back on at your leisure. Forever.
These people.

The harshest of realities
Is when you realize
They feel the same way about you
As you do

Those frosted amber days of fall have come into fruition
Leaves fall like money dropped, the trees just paying tuition

The dew upon the spiders web as if all she caught were diamonds
And sunlight spills out on the valley to nudge the sleeping highlands

Tell me then just what you said from behind that veil of fire
That night we saw it all come down and you called the moon a liar

These days fall short of 5 o’clock and the night is extra quiet
It hangs its head and drags its feet with no one to stand by it

I’ll tell you what you told me as your lips were burned away
You said “maybe, I don’t know. But I can’t, not here today”

This is why I don’t mind that there’s a vacancy in my life
No confusion to be sorted out no cursing and no strife

So I’ll drag my feet along with the night through streams of dying leaves
And those who see me on the rivers shore will know the one who grieves

A poem a week, or so to speak. A rhyme, a quip, a riddle. This isn't the only thing I **** at. You should see me play the fiddle.

Some folks here, will write about love. Found, lost, forgotten. Though much like the *** of a long dead chicken. Tis seem a lil bit rotten.

Nah, I'm here to speak today on behalf of the absurdist view. Now take a deep breath you rat faced *****. Your perspective is askew.

Absurdism lends itself to the idea that none of it makes sense. That everything you think you know is derived from experience.

Your senses along with your mind in tow, shape how you think and feel. Though adept as they are, there's still some gaps between what's fake and real.

Falsified memories, vibrating atoms, light behaving like matter. We collectively dance, to the sound of the wind while watching our ashes scatter.

It's absurd to insist you understand life, when you've only just arrived. Nobody can tell what it all means, when nobody has ever survived.

So doubt the nature of nurture vs genetics, and forget everything I've said. Waltz and sing with an absurdist tonight. Cause tomorrow, you could be dead.

The whiskey ran out but the shrooms kicked in
So I’m off to a pretty good start
The church bells ringing reminds me of home
And covers the sound of my ****

I found my fingers on the ends of my hands.
I thought I’d never find them
I needs these fingers to catch these thoughts
So that I may hush and bind them

I lit you a candle and it burnt down the house
But I found your diamond ring
You could give it to that charred mockingbird
Though I doubt he’s gonna sing

Just hold on my nuts, when I order a sundae
I sold my epi pen
There’s a blind lady waiting to tell me some lies
About how she’s back again

Sitting under a bodhi tree, hoping for some truth
Or even a sincere lie
I’ll burn to ash every **** tree in these forests
If I thought we both would die

If what matters to you, is the illusion; then let the illusion become what matters.

It’s not what they say or how they say it. It’s how you take it in.
If you’re wondering aloud “what’s it for”, that’s where you should begin.

A bear is a bear because you called it a bear, the bear itself don’t care.
It’s not aware that it’s called a bear, it’s simply not here or there.

Your existence is so improbable, in fact the chances are practically zero.
But here you are, the king of your dreams. Your very own ****** hero.

A photon can traverse the universe from billions of light years away.
Only to die in the blink of your eye at the end of another bad day.

If you assign a thought to someone and hold them to that standard.
It’s you, not them, that stepped right up and wrecked your delusion of grandeur.

I think it was Matthew at 6:14 who said forgive them for what they’ve done.
Those that would trespass against us, before gods dying son.

There’s nothing to prove that every creature doesn’t share in your same fears.
Will it die for reasons unknown or has it a few more years?

This wasn’t suppose to make sense, it’s simply some observations.
That’ve come into view under many a sky while searching for constellations.

Though I urge you to think about these in moments of conflict and strife.
Kindly remember that while we’re here, what matters is only life.

A *** bellied cockroach once tried to tell me, a story of woe and revenge.
Involving a candle, a beetle named Chloe, and a rat whose fur he'd singed.

I dusted my chest of parmesan, I stood up and said "**** me?".
"Well what I will do about this good sir, you'll just wait and see!"

So I put on my top hat and googles, and put my new friend at heed.
I summoned my most trusted horsey, and took off for the village with speed.

Of course I don't own a horsey, but the cockroach doesn't know this.
And once I talk to the rat, he'll see I'm just *******.

The imagination's a weird place. You never know where it'll take you.
You smoke enough hash and snort enough cheese, that ****** might just break you.

So yeah this linguistic adventure might be an exercise in futility.
But it's moments like this, I must insist, that there is at least humility.

It's as if the building is on fire
And I'm just happy I can finally lite my cigarette
My lighter, much like hope, had only temporarily been mine
I lost one in a field while wondering why I'd let go of the other
Honestly
I'm not sure it was ever mine to hold onto in the first place