Excuses are drugs
you have given your sense
Excuses are masters
you have given your means
Excuses are graves
you have given your future

between dreams and deficiencies

for a moment candied whispers
mask the taste of stale drags

I know these moments can't stretch
long enough to make the feeling real

but for now I drink the ichor of your lie and
I am lovely

I am the salt water on your cheek when you're alone
thinkin' about how strong you used to be for everyone.

I am the torn dollar in your pocket on the floor
wonderin' how you always seemed to work it out before.

I am the mirror looking back into your soul.
You already know my name.

she saw me see her through countless
classmates running wild Mrs. Robins
sees all of the yard  but the soccer field
corner where the oaks lay thick shadows
clasping hands we ran into hiding my plan
“you show me yours and I’ll smile and scram”
her plan “You show me yours and I’ll scream,
I’m a lady” too trapped in each other’s eyes
we stared until the class bell rang walking back
I stopped her just before the door and kissed
her blushing cheek in the sunlight

does your **** get hard when you hear your own voice
or are you really auditorily jackin off a softie?

chokin on pulls between bottles and bowls
we all know you're full of ****
yellin unfair brackets are the worst of it

come back and talk to me with eyes a little less red
with some stories and quips you haven't beaten so dead

if you're fed up with the honesty then get up and head out
I'll never be stoppin ya
scream and shout as much as you like but somewhere else
cause I'm seconds from droppin ya

an understatement is ever hearing your voice again would be too soon
just the memory is worse than a broken out of tune bassoon


in short I don't hope you end up dead in a fire
but to say I'd be sad would just make me a liar

She has the look of the angel.
She has the voice of the fallen.
He has the hope of the child.
He hears the words and crumbles.

lies my still beating heart
in a box in the drawer of a desk.

Over here
lies her still beating heart
in a jar on the closet shelf.

We'll have them forever
'cause cause no one is better
or able to be more secure.

We'll have them forever
'cause every letter we write
makes the butterflies
dance round inside.

We'll have them forever
'cause love like this doesn't
revisit or wait, you just
grab on and hold.

We'll have them forever
'cause....


No take-backs.

the chilling arbitrarities
of steps and thoughts and fallacies
the colors of the changing leaves
are tired warning signs

when each and every passing dawn
rips through me like a lover's yawn
I lay alone the curtains drawn
with consolation bled and gone
I can't escape the lie
*I'll miss you when you die

artists of flesh
wielding shades of exertion
splashing on canvas sheets
bright through closed eyes

I'm your thumbprint expressionist
mattress impressionist
bristles for taste buds  make
broad strokes the emphasis

aptly utensil
fills focal to edges
though tipping the easel
conception seems effortless

brilliantly tincture
accentuates fervor
while crescent depressions
raise apogee further

ten for a dollar, twelve on Thursdays,
many more ways to realize they're all
actors brandishing turtle wax not
swords and axes, shields without a dent
but tales are larger than Typhon, ****,
tell me again how scary facing
the kraken was and how you made it
back from Tartarus without even
a finger missing, you didn't, I
know, I didn't notice your *******
gleaming on the way down or up, I
was busy fighting anyway, my
armor gashed and crushed and opening,
showing the spaces where flesh blood and
sinew used to be, my horse died years
ago but it'll take more to slow
me down, cause I found her flag, shining
or not this knight won't let it touch ground.

I never wanted to be your broken heart
I never wanted to be the sound of the door
closing behind you

I thought we were forever
but somehow the devil knows me better
than the back of your hand knows my back pocket stitching
than my fingernails know where your back is itching
than your lips know how wide they can smile just for me

can't you see the way we should have been

obsidian black-rock soul
lackluster and cold
loosing shards over backyards
failing to heed mother's plea
"keep to yourself, the children are here"
maybe tomorrow i'll borrow compassion
and fashion a rope out of all i can ration
to hold together 'til calmer weather comes
sneaking from behind the peaks and treetops
and leaves me the **** alone
as if
forget the children
they'll know soon enough the taste of hate
and the twinge of pain that precedes disdain
if only i could care
if only i could share a prayer
if only i could waive despair
anymore
anymore
anymore
obsidian black-rock soul
i’ll keep it to myself cause i can’t lose pieces
anymore
there’s not enough to reshape
anymore
just shards all over backyards
each one a bard that only knows how to sing
the ode to rejection
preach only self hate and the neighbors won’t love you
anymore
you’ll find yourself desperately clinging to
anymore
palms sweatier than when mom
found out i bombed writing class
i thought i couldn't be expressive
anymore
like Bob Ross coping with the loss of his brushes
hushed whispers don’t hit canvas like paint does
anymore
happy trees happy trees just have to get angry
when the sun can’t be created
anymore
maybe life is a portrait that we constantly create
experiences chances taken stain the canvas
in specific ways we’ll see at the end of our days
but we can guess what kind of colors we’re creating
we can’t claim sadness and ignorance
anymore
so the soul must be a palette not a ******* stone
those aren't shards they’re splotches
making everyone’s portraits
a few notches darker
we all splash them back and forth
not even thinking about the mixture
we can’t keep using only black paint
anymore

RH I should've listened to you more
JH I should've showed you more respect
AH I should've been kind instead of firing back
CH I should've reached out while you were still around
JW I should've been less competitive and more honest
EM I should've listened more than I lectured
MC I should've taken the chance
EW I should’ve been more open with you
ED I should’ve held on tighter
AW I should’ve given you more credit
EL I should've talked to you more
EG I should've tried harder
SW I should've been a better mentor
MG I’ll take care of you as much as you take care of me
RK I’ll motivate you more
AK I’ll be a more firm guide
JC I’ll try to love you anyway
TU I’ll tell you more how amazing you are
GB I’ll let you know how much I respect you
TC I won’t stop striving
AS I won’t let go

Be known for always holding a torch,
‘cause inspiration shouldn't be underrated.
Don’t let good thoughts remain good thoughts,
work up the courage to make them good deeds.

Or I would be, could be if the
sea was a memory, distant periphery,
granted sideways glances between
sought out land masses that can
offer some known substance, sore
eco thumb prints making them
seem special, almost terrestrially
relatable, debatably to people,
less contested to ideas, thoughts
and reasons beating back brazen
treasons of the seventy percent
that needs to take over, its
meaning is deeper than dirt.

Everything is ghastly when the sun goes away.
Not away for the night, completely taking flight
withholding its brightness, no amount of
politeness able to woo it back from the dead.

It doesn’t just leave, some people fear
being burned enough to shun its rays and
keep to tunnels and caves that would seem
safer save for the isolation they discover
too late. tunnels are hard to shake off

It’s not hard to chase dying candles when you
realize you’re missing the sun. addiction
It’s not hard to stop caring enough even if the light
you were running towards is real. depression
It’s not hard to lose hope because you may not live
long enough to make it back outside. cancer
It’s not hard to relive the past and accidentally push
others away when you need them most. ptsd
It’s not hard to forget that your mind can always move
even if your legs can’t carry you anywhere. ms
It’s not hard to be out of energy before you’re
able to make it all the way out. insomnia
It’s not hard to run away from people forever because
someone betrayed your deepest trust. fear

It’s hard to keep reaching until they finally take your hand.
It’s harder to keep holding after they let go.

Don’t stop searching the darker roads.
*We don’t want to wander alone.

I saw a man whose face I should have known.
He was with men and women I recognize
from the sections in my head where I
put them to rot.
can I be more forgiving than the world?
I don’t despise anyone. I just don’t let them in.
I assume because they’re heading in a different direction,
or no discernible direction, they won’t be worth the time.

I never consider that my path could be the different one.
I’ve always just assumed and put the others in their sections.
Send the wanderers away for another to deal with.
Separate the wanderers so there’s no mistake.
They’re away from me. They’re not the same as me.
I don’t have to deal with them.
When the realization sets in attitudes can change.
realization that everyone we meet is wandering through their
fishbowl castles and burning corn mazes,
right next to yours.

it’s time to put separatism aside

We all have our different sections,
our strictly separated sections.
We all seem to be different,
we all need to be different.
or so we think

Look closely enough and
the world is just a giant cracked mirror.
Look closely enough and
we’re just finding ourselves.

we need to hold hands more…
                                                           ­       look into each other’s eyes more…
we need to be honest about important things more…
                                                           ­                            tell our secrets more…
we need to be alright with silence more…
                                                           ­                              take chances more…
we need to let go of the past more…
                                                          p­ay attention to the little things more…
we need to fight for ourselves more…
                                                           ­                       watch the clouds more…
we need to talk to the trees more…
                                                           ­                       listen to the wind more…
we need to move on more…
                                                           ­                                          laugh more…
we need to hold on more…
                                                           ­                                        forgive more…
we need to enjoy more…
                                                           ­                                               feel more...
we need to believe more…
                                                           ­                                          know more…
we need to live more…

                                                we need to love

Stained glass snakes turn thoughts into ghouls
while sanity blows the barrel to ****** ******.
Glistening molt forms a lead-lined home
through fissures where brain and bone used to be.
Slithering kaleidoscopes mar face and eyes
but anguish seems friendly in multicolor.

Becoming mad doesn't mean I now have nothing to say.

At my first attempt to speak it strikes. I taste copper and the sting of candied fangs injecting crystallized honey, I can only bite back. It shatters behind its shining eyes and long body falls away while I chew the head, paying no mind to gashes in cheeks and blood filling stomach. I feel my tongue begin to melt and drip down my throat, mixing with blood glass and bile. Death appears to me, stepping out of a pink clown car winding up to throw an unlit birthday cake, I'm not ready, I have so much more to try to say.

I remember I have hands. I remember.

I push my fingertips in below the ribs and open my stomach to shovel the contents out onto the ground. As I do the soil turns black and grass grows into twisted thorn bushes around my body and into my wounds posing me as a grotesque homage to the sadistic. Death sets aside the cake to watch with a smirk but it isn't long before Elvis tapes a "kick me" sign to his back and finally drops dead and sinks into the ground and I feel the thorns grow thicker and longer piercing into and out of my flesh burning and spewing red smoke replacing the air making breath heavy and unforgiving I reach through and pull out my lungs to spare myself but Death is distracted he won't let me leave God missing Teresa in chains Stalin playing Pat-a-Cake with Shirley Temple on fields of infant bones and burnt bacon I try to twist my eyes out next but the snakes hold them fast so I watch

through horrific shades the earth fold in on itself.



*Yes, I remember.

We are God, Maybe not God as in almighty
but God as in we can hold everyone tightly
spreading respect and compassion both daily and
nightly finding wanderers who sadly have all
chosen darker roads but didn't want to be alone.

It’s just difficult to process all this
power we possess inside so some of
us can’t help but turn away from open
arms and hearts ablaze with right intentions.

We always need to be pulled more than we’ll ever admit.
We always need to pull harder than we ever will.

What if that were to change?
What if on Sunday mornings we didn't pray,
instead we said each other’s names?
What of pain is just the love we keep?
Happiness is letting it flow.

because in your laugh there's something more than joy,

because in your smile there's something more than passion,

because in your soul there's something more than grace,

because in my eye there's nothing more than you.

I watch the petals drift away.
I watch the petals drift away.
I watch the petals drift away.

I watch the petals drift away.
I watch the petals drift away.
I watch the petals drift away.

I watch the petals drift away.

No one told me cloud nine has a boarding fee.

At least the the elevators run easy.

Some red on the pavement is the quickest fix there is.

It is five in the morning.
I’m still awake because
fools have dreams and
I have reality.

There are mice in the attic.
I let them stay because
they’ll keep warm and
I’ll never be alone.

There were holes in my shoes.
I fixed them because
I’ll take faster steps and
the earth is too much to feel.

thumbs **** back black glocs
heat’s on head’s gone
pull it for the crack rock
heaving thick and heavy haze
white and green all mix with red
ticking tendrils round the numbers
seconds are fast after taking life
over grains of time suicide
untouched potential left so
in the wake of pooling blood

tick tock tick tock and time turns the tables
clocks give more gut rot than one-fifty-one
panic over life’s deadlines disables
the mind from seeing anything but guns
and chaos and filth under fate’s tight spun
web of lies keeping eyes fixed on fables
of flies that cannot overpower fate
though they try but have you really tried to
take flight mister fly or have you simply
seen your friends cry and put away your wings
acceptance is the simplest way to die

fair specters whirl through strains of mind
between comfort and sorrow they sing
lyrics better left silent in the depths

when I wake mortal planes expand
dreams drift begrudgingly from sight
fierce sunlight ruptures vexing veil

all things estate of day or night
become confounded by the heart
which seldom senses verity

Autumn leaves exposed nerves
and frost brittled bones.

Toes gasp through clay.
Fatigue threatens grip,
yet flayed arms extend.

Fingers fall from reach.
Sapwoods freeze like blood
beneath blizzard winds.

The hardest thing about closing the door is
watching the silver lining drift to the floor,
ground to dust and swept under the rug,
floors are much quicker to let bygones be.

The hardest thing about closing the door is
the screech of hinges boring through skull
like worried whispers heard before that
made the iron oxidize.

The hardest thing is clicking the lock
and seeing both keys on the table top,

then clicking your heels
but you're already home,
just seeing how empty
it is on your own.

They were right when they told you
money can't buy love,
but feigned infatuation is
inexpensive and fun.
Give them just one hundred
and they'll **** out your soul.
Don't worry, you won't need it back,
the best rides end up down below.

Autumn leaves exposed nerves,
not ready for winter.

Toes gasp through clay,
never long enough yet
flayed arms extend.

Fingers fall from reach,
sapwoods freeze like blood
beneath blizzard winds.

Spring is too late.

Now and then I walk through a graveyard at midnight.
Partly for exercise, but mostly to pick out my plot.

You need to see tombstones after dark to get things right.
The sun doesn't dance over etched letters gracefully
like the moon, and the shadows are too thick.

Maybe there's a shared finality between darkness
and death that makes them fit perfectly together.

Maybe when we close our eyes we're just getting
comfortable with the eternal darkness we'll meet.

All I can do is find where I belong before the end,
walking the aisles where the dead inform the still living.
Where still darkness and spectral light marry.

I will find where I belong for this time of living,

and the rest.

Time is ageless,
sadly most just can't look past what we're not.

I loved how my great-grandma said "I'm ninety-two years young,"
when all the young ones would fret that she was so near the end.
She spent all of her time so far ahead of her time,
loving what time she had instead of staring down the second hand.

I want to live in a world where counting up is the normative,
where age is the cumulative of positives, not a death march.
We need to lose the mentality of counting down our mortality
while making life a banality, 'cause every day here is a treasure.

When clocks are kept on shelves
instead of burned in our minds,
no time is spent counting down.

It's only spent living.

Spring's first dew is doo-doo next to the dew that you do when I do you.

broken windows framed with faded green trim
un-invite passers by with the darkness
they seem to project through the curtains grim
and wriggling slightly against the sharpness
of the glass left standing in the open
mouths of walls that seem to no longer have
reason to stand now that the Smith children
grew and moved and lived and died all while half
the rooms in the house collected dust and
sat waiting for the rest to abandon
the tile floors and wood cabinets and grand
piano and frames on the now barren
walls streaked with dirt instead of times gone by
just waiting to be torn down by and by

Every noon we sit for food,
sit in chairs cold as tombstones
even after waiting in the sun.
On cloudy days they are ice
and we wonder why the wood
and iron have so much hate.

I believed only men could hate,
and pondered while having my food.
We only bring bowls made of wood
as they don’t mark the tombstones,
but like the chairs they are ice,
unaffected by the sun.

My thoughts fixate on the sun
and how light does not wash hate
but should be melting the ice
while we prepare our midday food.
Still cold are the pieces of wood
we use, and the dark tombstones.

Now I know that the wood
is simply blocked from the sun,
and the heavy tombstones
siphon off of our hate
to use as bitter food
to help them maintain the ice.

I came to realize the ice
is not only in the wood
but covering our food,
defying the warmth of the sun.
We realize that our hate
is why there are tombstones.

All the hard etched tombstones
are now three feet beneath ice
next to us, and our hate
in the iron and wood.
We pray for brighter sun
and some stronger food.

But heavy food won’t delay our tombstones.
Nor the brightest sun melt our ice
stuck in wood boxes, strengthened with hate.

I’ve always believed in logic more than love,
logic lets you know when you’re a mule.
Using your head first means no one can hurt you.
The trembling clutch of fear falls short,
numbing cold-front warms and mobilizes.
Still, without contemplation I would die for you,
and would you expect less from your knight?
Someday I will die for you,
and you will watch with clapping hands,
applauding my selfless actions,
now still able to applaud others.
After all, you would not heartlessly
cast off your veil.
Even rocks and trees sing the obvious truth,
love shrouds all we know in darkness.

My feelings for you are hard to describe.
You make me want to destroy all you own.
I should go have some relaxants prescribed
before I snap and make everything known.
I wonder who would renounce you quick
and who would linger, searching for some light.
So many things you’ve done just make me sick
enough to forget my virtues and fight.
I guess you’re lucky I have such control,
and would never forget the oaths I swore.
Even though you fire my rage like pistols
I’ll wait for you to leave for distant shore.
From then on you won’t ever cause itch.
I’ll just let karma be that vengeful *****.

It seems the world is losing sight,
while stars and sky grow dark.
The will of man is finite.

Blood and bond are seen as blight,
truth as an unseemly mark.
It seems the world is losing sight.

Righteous men have lost their light,
and others frightened fly as larks.
The will of man is finite.

Heros are not born of right,
they change our fate with iron heart.
It seems the world is losing sight.

Evil takes another bite.
Too weak to tighten tourniquet,
the will of man is finite.

**** the masses who take flight
instead of fighting hard and sharp.
It seems the world is losing sight.
The will of man is finite.

now exposed to you
no secrets left to explore

will you still love me?

less vibrant with age
no longer best or strongest

dust caking trophies
and none new to replace them

voice soft and cracking
losing its former vigor

will you still love me?

inside your pale eyes
is only my silhouette

you see nothing else

Love is an illuminating fire.
It lets you feel all the cracks in the water,
hear the shadows dancing around your eyes,
and endures.
Jesus loved us even after Calvary.
Love is a thick veil.
I’ve always believed in logic more than love,
logic lets you know when you’re a mule.
Reasoning makes you strong.
Using your head first means no one can hurt you.
The trembling clutch of fear falls short,
numbing cold-front warms and mobilizes.
Still without contemplation I would die for you,
and would you expect less from The Hill?
Someday I will die for you,
and you will watch with clapping hands.
I believe they will be applauding my selfless
actions because they now can still applaud others.
After all, you would not heartlessly abandon il tuo amante.
Even the rocks and trees sing the obvious truth.
Love shrouds all we know in darkness.

In the night when the full
moon lights your bed clearly,
you call to me. Your eyes
guide me close to your warmth.
I smell your need matching my own.
I taste your pulse as it quickens,
drawing me deeper. Deeper
into your soul and your body.
We demand pleasure as primal
embrace fulfills, convulsing tight,
uncontrolled. Our desires are sated
                 as I take you.

Substantial enough to fill,
sweet enough to attract,
available enough to
keep coming back.

I tire of being God. Deafening droves demand the universe after declaring I do not exist. Hypocrites destroy themselves, only caring that they hurt those different, forgetting, or ignoring, that they are one. They put such little value on their lives, it should be obvious that I would not intervene. Let them die in my man made disgust. Extending their existence would be too cruel.

Take sickly scheme and rusted rhyme,
and put them back in their own time.
Archaic systems all lose sight,
we don't need structure when we write!

****...

Conditions are perfect for a mid-morning
flurry, but the clouds wait. Words should
be falling two feet deep, but florid we wait
in the frigid air for the sky to fall on the
page and sort itself out into something
coherent. Sometimes writing isn’t as simple
as waiting for snow to fall. We have to dig,
poke, and ****. Pick out a word, then another,
and pray the next comes along quietly instead
of kicking and screaming all the way to the
car, not wanting to take the long trip to prose.

I would sooner stand forsaking the sun,
than for a moment lose your purest light.
To be near to you, the things I have done.
For your presence nothing I would not fight.
I have held the cross high in foreign lands,
smiting the evil, young and old alike.
Delivering man from the devil's hands,
rending nonbelievers with holy strike.
Each night before I lay my head to sleep,
I kneel and look to you for guiding voice.
Though I hear no words, your fight I will keep,
the pope has made heaven an easy choice.
But suddenly heat replaces all grace.
I do not understand why hell I face.

I once had a hand-basket filled with red
roses, and gave it as a springtime gift
to my love. She called them beautiful, but
an unvoiced disappointment seemed to reach
out more clearly. I did not understand
what more the basket should have contained, so
I asked her if she liked better yellow
or pink roses. She told me that color
was not the source of discomfort, rather
that I had called her my love when she had
yet to know who I was. I began to
stammer, shocked by her sudden ignorance,
but I didn't have a chance to explain
before a store clerk ran up to us. He
grabbed the roses and called an officer
over because they were not payed for. The
officer grabbed my arm and asked how I
had gotten out again. I inquired
as to what I had gotten out of, but
we were already inside the car. He
mumbled numbers into his radio
and we came to a wide white building that
I seemed to remember from a dream, but
the large blue words over the doorway were
both foreign to me. PSYCHIATRIC WARD.

In the night when
the full moon lights
your bed clearly,
you call to me.
Your eyes guide me
close to your ***.
I smell your need
matching my own.
I taste your pulse
as it quickens,
drawing me in
deeper. Deeper
into your soul
and your body.
Convulsing, tight
and uncontrolled.
Primal embrace
fulfills as we
demand pleasure.
Desires sated,
as I take you.

now exposed to you

no secrets left to explore

will you still love me?

vibrato fading

tired face looking back to yours

will you still love me?

fine colors dimming

simple blacks and grays remain

will you still love me?

plain as man can be

outside of scattered triumphs

will you still love me?

inside your pale eyes

is only my silhouette

you see nothing else

Today, my eyes are drawn to trees whose
leaves are now scouring their knotted roots,
just as podiatrist's fingers search for corns.
Forbidding skeleton branches glance back with knowing,
and our lives’ meaning it seems
are the lives’ meaning of leaves, growing strong and colorful,
getting this and that from the earth, but
impossible to stay for long.

Today, my fists clench. Waves of anxiety as blowing
leaves are gathering, compounding against my person,
just as pedestrians waiting to cross,
forbidding contact but crowding, shoving the curb.
And our ligaments that fail
are the limiters we feel,
getting thinner and thinner, seeing its
impossible to stay for long.

Today, my thoughts continue to dim while
leaves are loosed and blow in the wind,
just as peddlers flee the scene of the scam.
Forbidding dotage, autumn knocks at our door,
and our livid little cries
are the lights we use to cut the shade that’s
getting thicker and thicker, making it
impossible to stay for long.