I'm in love with the world but not all of it,
Got a new job, and an old news summer *****.
Got a nice place to play all my pretty songs in,
Made some mistakes/changes, we all living in sin.
Want to Tom Ford on runway, jet plane,
Wondering why I'm for it, cuz my dreams ain't far away.
I be working on it, no joke, like all day,
I'd be dying for it but I want to stay healthy.
Smoking cigarettes, blunt wraps, filled with all ****,
Super duper dank, got my syntax off play.
Off broadway, bring a new style of the same old thing.
Wanna make love but she always choosay.

Yu know when you know.
Then you know you can will it not,
In fact knowing is a matter of a 'proactively pursuit'.
The battle is your own laziness.
That's why it's good to be as keen on how they move, in the streets it ain't the same.

I saw you last year,
you performed a set--
all original pieces--
all songs. i couldn't take
my eyes off you.
you were outside of
the restaurant
Isaac's
downtown.
a girl walked up to me, or I to her. AW and I talked with
her--she's a friend, she's got a great voice.
there was a man who proudly
identified himself as a rapper
but couldn't spit a lick of rhyme.
i left in between cigarettes.
a year later I'm enrolled in
the local community college,
entering intro to music theory with PS
and
there you were. i didn't speak to you
because i hadn't remembered you--that's what i told myself i'd tell you if you ever mentioned seeing me before, you didn't mention it--
instantly i thought of every reason
not to talk to you and believed most of them.
weeks passed.
one week in particular you
had been absent. it started to happen again. i trashed myself for not speaking to you.
i was an idiot.
coffee & strawberry was a freaky friday coincidence
until i read the personality parallels.
i swear i just read them sunday.
if you're reading this. it's legitimate.
these things aren't just random.
unless they are

morality propagates.
if crumbs are on your hand, brush them off before someone sees.
tweet how you don't care.
wash your hands.
dry them with your shirt as you tweet how washing is overrated.
you barely touched anything.
crap luck--it's life.
how observant.
how in-attentionally blinding.
how to walk a mile in her shoes.
it's not good for the sole;
but it's good for the soul.
we are in his image.
be more like him.
draft an article with facts supporting his non-existence.
that was pretty heavy.
that pays rent.
prepare for ramifications.
don't have a smoke & a pancake.
the hand is only as deep as the ******* is long.
at which point am I paid?
love can be a box in an evidence room.
she murdered me and I'm still dying.
still love.
at the end does he die trying to get the girl?
no.
he dies clearing his browsing history.
he dies deleting photos.
that doesn't mean we stop.

I'm angry and agitated and pent-up.
ignored and perhaps forgotten—or thought of as if to regret ending something perfectly fine.
people are talking downstairs, saying nothing.
I don't want to live.
I want to die, and die well to make sure I'm dead.
I want to die and not haunt anyone or be a dust-collecting memory in a display case of what once meant something.
I want to die. So. Hard. I'm angry that I took 16 breaths just now.
I want to die and not have a funeral because I don't want people to be in that awkward position.
I want to die and not disappear off the grid but actually lay ca-put in a grave; my soul rejoices or cries; i don't know.
Throwing tantrums because life’s curtain has been reluctant to close is looked down upon in society—apparently.
I'm tired of 'white' 'black' 'hot' ‘unattractive’ 'poor' 'rich'.
I hope everyone has a ****** day tomorrow.
I type this on an imagined-into-existence phone—that has no service—by a guy whose name also means 'occupations'.
I type it on a phone because an ******* is hogging the outdated pc with a new battery pack because that same ******* wore the chord out.
it's not that I don't know what to do with my life; I just want to die.
that's what I want to do.
die.
that's all.
But perhaps be in a focused band that plays pretty good music, first.

pretty high and active, my friend and i, walked around the city neighborhoods with the sole intent to find drunk college girls.

we made a half-assed assesment of the comatose'd streets and walked into the park saying how the college girls missed out; or had already passed out.

on the way to the bench i fumbled around my jean pocket to grab my knife; picked up a long branch under a tree as we passed.

when i sat down i began to shave the branch of its bark. my friend took selfies.

~10 minutes of shaving later, i propped the branch against my shoulder to cut off a few protruding bumps--like baked moles.

he asked, what are you doing?

making a walking stick.

that'll take a long time.

i know.

mid-scrape i looked over at him and remarked, this is what it must feel like to play cello.

a man held a sign that read "homeless vet. anything will help. will work. thank you & god bless."

i told my friend that America has ****** up. he concurred, and added that he supports increased military spending to aid veterans. we drove off.

then he looked at me and said "you know, he didn't even look homeless"

somehow I blame this on the cancer causing chemicals in our food that is banned in every other country.

I still want to punch him. a black eye may help him see.