Everyone thinks I am high
and so I am

Everyone thinks I’m gay
And I’m not

Everyone thinks I’m soft
But I’m hard

Everything is old
And so too
I am

Everyone thinks they know best
And I don’t believe they do
except for that one guy
Where I think
I know
That he is wrong
And I
Am right

Everyone thinks that the end is near
And I know that it’s all about fear

I do wish I had control of my emotions
And didn’t have to hear my  neighbors commotions

But I do

Everyone thinks that I am angry
And I am angry

I am very angry

I am so angry that my head will explode
If I don’t stick it out the window and scream

And if the window should collapse upon my neck
And shut neatly on the windowsill…

…where often there are plants that are watered
I would like to think
That I may be watered too…

And if my shouts and screams should be heard
I would like to think
My lack of faith
Should not be replaced
By fear

++++++

And let the window
collapse upon my neck
And shut neatly on the windowsill

Where often enough
There are plants that are watered

Future projects include, trimming my beard, but only to replace the one I have.

Another project could be to omit the subject noun whereby relaxing any proposed meaning to superficiality or replace with an Ubernoun to be discovered later.

I am writing in the stile of Typhoon Murphy.  

I am having a profound realization that my non-writing writing has gone all wrong.  I, for one, am not worried as much as profoundly disengaged.  Dot, dot, dot.

A bio-recap:  If I am conscience of God then I am also wrong about many other things too.  

If I ignore my thoughts, they then, in turn, will ignore me.  BUT STILL...it hurts.

If the water I drink is tainted then I am slowly poisoning the earth EVEN AFTER cremation.

The tremors of the heart
Can be mended

But slowly, slowly, slowly

Would you care to be laden by the fire?
O, someday, someday, someway

Will you dare ever waken to a song?
Sat song, a sitting song, that you wont need to don’t get up

Far be it from me Mr. Snead
To level off on the misty foutenou

Winding down a path of fortune heading south on
Bare breast street, looking for but longing more

Under-bred sister with her family get-togethers
Passing the
Potato famine remembered story

On the rhinebek [Rheinbach] mountain top
Swig after swig
Dwarfing all that come after
Our being here

Let that be the lesser

I guess I want

I want the prize of youth
I want an atheist certainty
That pride in knowing how things are
I want that person who ignores me

I want what my father and his father want

A faith that has a dollar sense about it all

I want that death knell

To freeze.

This then

Is a last ditch effort to throw words at you

Without hate.

dickens might have complained
how unlucky
it was to be born,
poor, helpless, friendless, body-less
painless,

my lies lie with my sins
like white **** frost
trying to warm my heart

but so far nothing.

I would liked to have kept it
that way

last year, anyway

this book is
based on an
inner experience…

no, strike that

an inner experience
basked in sun drenched
aura's spilling their little yellow drops
of
blood money.

Modern pieces less than broke
Greater than places to store them

Less than assunder
Torn
greater than
By bankcraft
Greater than
Frightened less than
By Cowering
Wretched
Towering

Greater than shivers
of unending
Guarantees of happiness

Basically

unkept
Promises

Opening up to swallow
Your less than ninth
scented sensed
Throated
Greater than less
Om