So many things that I don't want to do
lend me some cash
and maybe a place to crash
because there's so many things
that I don't want to do.

I don't really want to go to work each day
just to sell myself and my time and my name
to gather up money that I just waste anyway
on getting wasted almost every single day.

I don't want to sleep tonight
it's just another poor way
to spend my time
when I could be smoking
or drinking red wine,
I don't want to sleep tonight.
But if I do fall asleep
I don't want to wake up on time.

I don't even want to stand at all
I'll just sit down in the hall
and stare at the walls,
I don't want to move my neck
or cash my ******* paycheck,  
has the **** sun set yet?
It'd be nice in the cool damp nights
if I didn't have to do a thing
I would be quite alright
to lay in the grass and sing.

The worst feeling
Is needing someone to talk to and
Admitting to yourself
That you've got a problem
Thinking it'll be alright,  you got this
You fight a constant urge
A temptation with no limit
When you feel ready to break
And you're not sure what route to take
Thinking about who you know
And won't judge you
What will you do
When you're alone taking the blame of the world
Isolated and alone
You bid your far Wells
Telling everyone
This is the end

So long and goodnight

How clumsy of me;
to sit straight up with attentive ears
The vulnerably of giving what's missed
Mistaken as misplaced.
I liked this clumsy side of me
Lopsided stumbles, a bit more reckless
This constant fumble
Definitely generous; mistaking kindness as guilt
A sense of being misplaced
How clumsy of you to drop something so precious
When all along did you ever want it
That sudden pain that wraps around your chest; manic
A sudden throb that complicates the slightest of gesture
How clumsy of me to misplace everything where I thought I would find it
Again hoping sufficient in empathy
How clumsy of me

Rendered helpless
Searching for sincere apology
When in reality it was me

 

with unsteady tender

I've never been to grand central station, I've never been to New York In that manner
I feel as though I have
Each and every look in your eye
A waterfall of sight
A sense of holding on to something that I've never quite held on to.
Privileged
I felt invited
Nothing much to do
Sharing a plate of solemn stares
Neat folded napkins morsels of thought
Tasted; retasted
Ordered in haste
Perhaps it's the hope of holding on to something
A present wonder soon to become future past
No longer a reminder of empty hallways
A Lack of empathy now filled with each other's presence
Across a table three shades of red
Varnished in clear coat
Lamented with crumbs and coffee stains
Padded iron wrought seat
Neat tiled floor
The press of nicotine against scented lips
Listening to the way you talk
Winged heels
Exploring a Cathedral of thought beside a pillar of marriage proposals
Lovers running late, lost luggage.
The coming and passing of faces
The unraveling of plastic; the sound of smacking lips
And here we are with nothing better to do;
Watching life through another's eyes

i bent my body into a canvas of pillared secrets, and opened my eyes into a land of streetlights and headlights, but never into stars. now i'm drunk on the light of the moon. literal moon-shine. don't look back, it says. don't look back. but i turn my headache head anyway until i am an owl, accompanied by the vastness of everything i'd forgotten.

Stretched figure strains
working hard to get by,
while staying sore and tired
most of his life.

Lonely man in a home,
family forgotten.
Siblings lost to time.
Skin wrinkled, mostly deaf
eye sight almost gone.
No one knowing
what is going
on inside his mind.

Abused wife
desperately trying to get along
stressed and angry all the time,
always running away.

Housing brat
walks the block.
Neighbors
hear his mother scream,
know that something isn’t right
but they don’t do a ****** thing.

Abandoned brother,
abandoned son,
lonely druggee
judged by everyone
steals this and some of that
just to get something
to distract him from the fact
that his immediate family
doesn’t want him to come back.

I’ll be the keeper of their stories.
Though you might never know their names,
might never know their shame,
I will not let you forget their pain.

I hold your life inside my own
as you hold me
in your sea of seeds and waving reeds
Beach grass on breast of sand

Ripples of wind
Across my dune
drifts...
your hand

Tracing the mark of a high tide
with my wanderings
Will I be the last?
to recall its highest reach upon the land?
I note the smell of dead and ebb
Would change it all on my return
if it were up to me

And once I started running out
“Wait! O, Wait!”

Black breaks
The sand bars
between the tide pool’s
red whispers of you

I now believe
gulls turn time in their wings