I sat and visited for a long hour today.
I sat and talked for a while.
I was all alone save for you,
My dearest of dear friends.

I haven’t seen another soul,
Save for you,
In, well, I can’t recall how long.

And I can’t say I’m too saddened.

There’s blood stains on the walls
Simply because you asked for it.
Though they've longed turned brown.

You've been walking through the halls,
Now.
I do hope you're happy.

Business formal
With Ticks in the collar

The people that came here,
I still hear the hollers.

The house is empty,
Save for you.
The house is empty.
The house is empty.
Save for you.

You're my inheritance,
From my long dead father,
My dearest of dear friends.
The deer head and the
body of a businessman.

I want to write poetry
All I get is words.

Welcome to a reading of my innermost thoughts.
I call it poetry on most days.
It stings sometimes.

There was a small strand of sympathy
when he let go; however,
in order to do so, he knew what had to be done.

He cut all ties,
for himself, for preservation.

He's better, one could suppose,
but one dealt-with situation opens
the door to so many more.
You'd think he'd learn that by now,
wouldn't you?

There was a time that I swore more in written word
than in spoken.
I think the turn has tabled.

There's an alarm going off;
it's not a siren, mind you,
but an alarm.

The very same buzzing and
beeping that oft
assaults our dreams
and sleep-havens;
bringing us back to the
dreary sunlight of day,
or the last few moments of night
clinging to what life it has left.

This alarm, of which I speak to
you now, is continuing.
The continuous assault on my
eardrums throughout everything
I do.
I walk through the leaves that begin
to grace the ground, saying "hello" to
the dirt that it's been so far from for so
long.
Within the sanctity of the classroom,
where professors grace students
with life lessons and years of experience
or lack thereof.
Within my own home where I continue
to make a meal for the evening, desiring
not to go hungry.

Continuous.

I hear it everywhere, and
as I reach for the button, to stop
this incessant noise
barraging my thoughts
and ears, I realize, I'm awake,
and I've been awake all this time.
There is no off button for this alarm.

What is it reminding me of?
What do I need to awake from?

If I could write a word for every thought
left unfinished, unsaid, I'd almost write a full

eight, nine
nine, eight, nine
Hello, father, spare me a dime,
and pay the mime with
five landmines;
******* the bridge if
we've got time.

Appalachian Yeti-man:
set fire to the trashcan.
Call me hobo-stan,
and if the beard fits
grow it.

Show it;
show me the D.
Dentistry,
stay with me;
Explain for free:
"Dichotomy
of the mind"
thoughtfully,
for a time.

Robot-o me,
Mr. Oregato.
Set phasers to ****
stunningly.
Make fun of he
for bad grammar
and intellectuality.
He dumber;
me smarter.
She's aderall;
I'm martyr.

Destroy my innards,
Captain.
I need them not.
She leaves me rot,
and he feeds me Scott.

Scottie doesn't know
that Fiona and me
eat him in a van while
he's sleeping.
Cannibal,
call me Hannibal,
and she's the Jane to my
Tarzan,
pulling the fruits of
my loom.

It's been 5 days since I've written anything
And the scraggles of hair that line my jaw
Show that it's been 5 days since I've done anything
Rhyme anything with anything
And hope to bring some silence
To the demons in my mind
And the silence surrounding

Never have I thought of this
As being the life that I would live
But now that it is what it is
I'll always remember the kids

And watching your avoiding eyes
As I say "Hi"
You say "Goodbye"
And that's the end of history
That's the end of herstory

And now I'm wondering
Where the hell I'm left at
And what the hell I'm left with
On the corner of confused and confidence

We once spoke of a King
who never gave up reign
                                         He still hasn't
                                         Though we oft make believe He
                                         Exists not
He doth still reign
Now and forever, shall He

There was ne'er a time
where my pen weighed heavier than now

But who am I kidding?
I'm typing all of this, anyhow.

My father always had a picture
hanging up over the mantle.

It was an oil,
possibly acrylic, painting.

I've always been terrible with art,
and the definitions and distinctions
therein.

It had a gold-leaf frame, and I recall,
as a child, staring at the shine
that the sun reflected off of the
beautiful gold that surrounded the
picture.

The picture itself, however, was
far more extraneous:
a deer head and the body of a businessman.

The suited businessman's body sat in a chair,
within the painting, but instead of a man's head
poking out of the collar, there was a deer's head.
It was adorned with antlers, two to be exact, and
it sat above that mantle, staring emotionless into you
or the distance.

I was never sure which it was.

And after my father passed, I inherited the deer head
and the body of a businessman.

Then there was nothingness
And as she looked between branches
and tree trunks
She saw little
For the interwoven tapestry of wood and leaf was too dense to peer through

She took her first few steps
Hearing the crunching of leaves and brush beneath her feet
Breathed in a deep, cool breath of fresh, mountain-air
And she passed
With one, silent breath

She became one with the brush

Hello my Demons,
It's been a while,
Or so I believed.

                             Here's the truth:
                             You've been here all along,
                             Just a different guise.  

I really wish you'd leave;
I'm pretty tired of you,
And I'm tired of the me
That exists when you are
Around.
                            
                                I'm really hoping this
                                Is the final time I reference you,
                               Because I've got better places
                               To be than
                               In your clutches.

There was a listless poison that lingered in the air
And it softly rested its laurels on my shoulders
And as the day passed on, its hand reached for my lungs
And as the night reached its end, the poison dipped its foot in my everything

As my flesh started to wilt
And my body attempted to end
I asked a simple question, "Why?"

But should it have been a statement?
A thank you?

I could be on Ecstasy
But I’m not.
I’m a pill.

I could be on Crack or ****,
But I’m not
I’m white, and rock solid

I could be on Marijuana,
But I’m not
I don’t even have enough green to buy groceries.

I could be on poetry,
But I’m not
I’m just formal and wordy.