There's a weird pain in my chest
I say it's weird because of the circumstances surrounding

We're done
I don't miss us
And I'm happy to be your friend

I don't even miss having that person in my life
You know, the foil
The other
The one that completes you
And maybe that's because
I've never truly experienced that

What I miss is love
What I miss is gratitude
What I miss is recognition
I want to be there for someone
Not really for my sake, but for theirs
I want to be of assistance

But at the same time, greedily,
I want to be noticed for it.

There's an eye in my mouth
All-seeing speech

There's a noise in my throat
A voiceless breach

There's galaxies in my fingertips
And something outside the window

I used to kick the sickest spit
Now I just sit and stare, though.

I guess this is more procrastination than anything else,
But writing is writing, amiright?

it's funny, starting a line with no capitalization,
you know what else is funny? Misspellings.
But that's not really what I was going to say.

There's something about pieces of my past that drum up passionate writings.
Congrats to you, if you're reading, you're a muse of somesort.

I was reading 1 Corinthians today.
Workin' on dat daily struggle, that getting closer to Christ grind.
Grinding on the cross.
hashtag: blasphemy
Conjures up images of Jesus at a dance

Back to the point: Paul urged us to stay single.
I find that so weird, but in reality,
It's no weirder than desiring others to fill our hole(s)

There's a **** joke there somewhere...

I'm being crass for the sake of it
An ***, because that's what I make of it.
I write, I writ, I wrote
Am I right? This rite? Is it rote?
Wordplay

Really though, stay single, for the sake of your relationship.
That's what Paul said.
A married man or woman is tied down to this earth ever more than those unmarried.

Is that why I'm single?
I ain't even mad.
Even if I do miss the touches,
The hugs
The intimacy

I know that in it,
When I'm in the thick,
I miss my relationship with Christ more.

Where's the blood
Where's the body when I need it most?

I am the one locking myself away.

Eucharistic struggle
The Communion struggle.
That last line is a good summation of this piece
If this is a poem, indeed.

Maybe I need to make some lines that rhyme for the sake of the time you've spent reading this journalistic entry for the sake of my last century and maybe this one coming.
I'm bumming around for cigarettes that I don't smoke, for **** that I won't ****, for a joke that won't end in any punchline you find funny.
Baby, honey, I need to leave; you need to see the light of day, and I need some time to pray, because everytime I'm with you I'm suffocating. You're pulling, and there's no more rope; you're the trickery, and I'm the dope. And every time  my flesh was in yours and you were on me, I knew what we were doing couldn't be, and that what we were doing wasn't for me, but all for you. I'm all for you. I'm never not.

Except when I'm not.

If I secretly wanted to explode
Would you tell somebody?

Pass center-left
We're strangers now
Happiness?
Not really
Contentment?
Maybe.
I can't help but feel we're better off
No we...
You
Me
Separate entities

Backside volley
To the side of the valley
Favorite my tweet
And I'll flip-flop my meat
Meet me at the grocer's
Five-dollar Tuesdays
Make sure it's ******.
Unapparent Appalachians
I spelled it wrong initially

Thought-o-sphere
To drivel near.
I got stuff to do.
I got stuff to do.
I got stuff to do.

Just touch me,
Somebody.

Un-motivation,
I have a way about me.

Are you enjoying me, anonymous reader?
Because my self-indulgence is wearing on I.

Let's **** the flame together.
There's a mess on the table.

If I ignore her, will she eventually leave me be?

Thoughts, thoughts, and scatter-plot dots
I've got intelligence down to a science.

Do I write for you?
Do I write for me?
Do I write for Him?
Do I write for she?

Who's the head?
And who's the heading?
Who's the body?
We're just beginning.

Musical significance on the back-note taste bud of my lower sound registry.
That was a long line.

I like the 4th wall, if only because it breaks for me.

Alligator tears have no place here,
and nor does this lackadaisical approach.

I hope you all ride first class,
and I ride coach.

[Title]

The question I get once upon a never:
From where does your writing stem?

The answer is inside, with a clever, witty reply, and an honest tinge in the vocal happenings.

So another never ever asks:
Where are you, friend? How are the days? What has happened to your writings?

The answers are: somewhere. Not great.

And lastly,
I oft perceive my writings as weakness
And outer showings of a deeper flaw, so forgive me if I seem aloof.
I have not yet managed to find the proper skin to settle.

Caught up in emotion, lack of thought,
or what else?

There's little worse
than looking back
toward your past,
seeing the good out of your missteps,
but still regretting them
all the same.

I almost believed I saw you
Today, on Normal Street,
But your hair was different

And I was different
And you were different

And as I believed I passed you by
Today, on Normal Street,
I realized
Our ghosts merely passed
And nothing more.