These symbols come out
as I hit these buttons. But they
could never grasp the way I feel
about you. Even IF they could,
I would choose not to speak, for I
would want these feelings all to myself.

I can feel the sadness,
the disinterest. the choking
and distortion of this illusion.
  The empty eyes they all give me.
Sometimes i try and look for
    someone that means it. But
nonetheless, the same is in all
of us. Fear of not knowing, or
denial of the inability to understand.
I just want to say- Wake up!
  this is it. Every moment in time has
led up to this one. So why be afraid?
  Death is such a painful thought,
inconceivable. but simply ask one
"where were you before you were born?"
And all the sudden their eyes light up.
  We were everywhere and are everywhere, all the time.
This is the good news.

Someone once told me that
language is art. No way that
  Bukowski could be a
Picasso. But I think I may have
been wrong. The words give the
collage of ideas a meaning. Purpose.
Art is purpose.
At least, if you paint with words.

I have been swept away now; haven't we all.
These words are muttered and mumbled,
crowding my head like the bar I
left my soul in. The smoke choking
   broken thoughts- my mind
can't breathe.
Another cigarette and i'm
on my way through the
empty streets, looking
for the others who have
  nothing to give or
receive, just themselves.
And when the sun
comes up, we will
  go back to our aimless tasks,
praying life
would just take us away.

sometimes i shut
the blinds and open
the window. i don't
like for
  them to see me
but the sounds of life
are too precious
    to miss.
especially when i
hear your car pull
in, and i prepare
myself to be
  happy again.

I might have found
  myself today. Or
maybe not.
I might
have found
who I want
to be today. But
maybe it was
I knew who I didn't
want to be.  Either one
  works for me. I guess
I will have to see.
  But maybe I could
stop wandering if
you said you loved me?
  Just Maybe.