Words flowing
Through the
Endless circle
Of birth and rebirth
Of betrayal and death
Hurt and be hurt
The burning house
Holds no mercy
Holds only
Secrets turned ash

My words
are not yelled
into any sort of
vast existence.

No
they are mumbled
forgotten
cast into a very small
and very personal
oblivion.

My voice
can be confident
collected
but I feel that more often I falter and I can sometimes ramble beyond
the extent of
anyone's interest.
When it's not self-destructive
my words are roadkill
letters splattering
as a new voice rams them over
thieving attention
leaving my words behind
battered and squashed.

They won't cross the road again.

My relationships
are fleeting
a nod
a hello jake whats new
not much
not much depth of friendship.

My poetry
isn't.
It's graffiti
an invalid dash of pixels
upon the sterile, inhuman surgery room
background of this website
from the moment it exists it will be painted and paved over by quick and emotionless
brush strokes of new words.
My tumor
created by my own cells
recklessly and harmfully multiplying
until removed.

I am not sad
I am not any flimsy definition of feeling that places a fragile blanket over the subtle and markets them as obvious.
I'm not much right now
numb
but I associated that with jarring, tumultuous
static from a television set
but I am oddly
but not so oddly calm.

Voices sound from downstairs.
I type here
knowing that my thoughts
my voice
my words
my fleeting emotion that is so strong at times that I am calloused
will never escape
my very small
and very personal
oblivion.

Words glob like honey
Stuck to the roof of my mouth
Sickeningly unspoken

Can't you all just
give me your money
and leave?

Flowers crawl under their jagged fingernails
Addicts rushing to the next fix
Ignoring the death that surrounds them
Ignoring the hurt and the pain
Ignoring that most of the time they **** instead of save
Within themselves they dismiss the decay that rests in wrinkles and eyes as fifteen becomes fifty becomes an obsession with an known end point
Something completely fixed but strangely floating in flux between what they feel and what they don't want to feel

You sit in front
Staring at once was
Contemplating your place
Among the swarming crowds
And the unfathomable abyss
Reminiscing about
The hurried sweat of summer
And the cold tang of winter
And the Jazz that seamlessly rolled
Days into years  
And decades into history books

I've let madness pour out of my soul to swirl among the vastness of the stars

When I am done with my poem today
You might see it.
Well, if you're reading this
then you did see it.

I'm sorry.
As the fingers strike the keys
my mind is sodden.
Vacancies available, as they say.

Anyway, cast your thoughts
to those who will not see this.
Either occasional lookers
or Hello Poetry zealots
may let these pixelated words slip by.
They won't be affected.

But you are.
Now, I'm not expecting to change your life
but maybe I've got you thinking
at this moment,
when already in the past I've finished this
and sat back silently,
wishing the dull pain
of the past's barbs in my mind
away.

You are potentially similar.
Or maybe you already switched away.
****.
I forgot again.

I got up to talk to my dad.
I took out the garbage.
Did you stop, leave in the middle of this poem?
It's okay because me too.

You have read this poem,
maybe considered it.
I am almost done.

I'm not sure how this is going to end.

I guess I'll just put out my poem now
for people to find and to not find.
But remember
that the small stuff
from insignificant sources
feels for you.