Leave your treasures,
Forget to listen,
To all of your peers and their sayings,
Your cash can’t help you here,

Killing lies,
Till death do us apart,
Killing lies,
No care can be too much,

A field of lies,
Truth mines,
A tragedy,
Serine oblivion,
Pure bubbles of treachery,

Killing lies,
Tonight won’t end ever,
Killing lies,
Get “A”s you’ll do well in life,

Death in jubilation
Of truth’s explanation

Marvelous mysterious moments,
When your Mad Max brain,
Can’t open the intake valves of your nostrils,
Far enough to **** up enough oxygen,
To fuel your head fast enough
To process your thoughts,
Well enough to reach
Your, “Eek’ah!”

I don’t take philosophy courses,
Not because I’m smarter and always right,
But because I’m jaded.
I know each person in our
Lewis & Clark exploration through what we think is ours,
Comes to moments of great clearing clarity,
Of unlocking more parts of our mind,
New abilities like a videogame,
For which I cannot hate,
Or love,
More or less,
For to find myself,
The greatest of mysteries solved, what joy!
I cannot know myself,
The worst of betrayals, what sorrow!
But seeing as I’m the most central force,
In only this galaxy and the next,
I cannot afford the time for you,
To go through this too.

Nothing quite captures the, “college feel”
As running,
Almost but not quite,
Late to class,
Several photocopied book pages,
Packets,
Handed out by the professor yesterday,
Tucked in a w shape,
Around your, my, middle ring and pointed pointer finger,
The dark crevasse made by spine height,
Etches a deep rift in the center of a work,
Or a piece,
Or a section,
Making readers take running jumps,
Hands and feet forward,
In order to reach the other side,
With some,
Falling ****** Tunes,
Into the dark lofty abyss.

Fills you up with carrion,
And leaves you to marinate,
Merely Marionetting movements,
Jerky and unfamiliar with the phlegm thick,
Cement heavy,
Consistency of your limbs.
Tires you out,
Until you sit a screen zombie,
Nonplussed,
Having your scalp pulled back and skull
Cracked,
Like a jaw breaker

I resent many of my own works,
And I resent who wrote them.

But It’s what I feel and my hand writes,
As a suicidal turtle,
Though may place his head underneath an elephant’s foot,
Cannot stop himself from pulling back under his shell.

I’m ready to have my heart broken today,
Though perhaps this is simply the impact,
Of the slow-mo hammer that’s been coming
Since the Rube Goldberg machine of life started,

Not so long ago

The sun bolstered my confidence by,
Hiding behind morose bloated clouds,
Only giving half light support,
And then leaving completely.
Yellow bellied good for nothin’…

I’m ready to have my heart broken today,
My flippant flying exterior trying to calm
My Red October sinking sub soul.
But this isn't all her fault,
Granted she’s breaking my heart.