Do not weep for me,
For I no longer weep
In anticipation of you.

Long gone are the days that
I stooped to conquer, or
Be conquered by you.

I would come.
We would see.
You would conquer.

So do not weep for me,
As I won't weep for you.
You've never weeped for me,
So I will stop so for you.

That
Self-Made
Noose
Is
Living proof
Of our
Existence.

Old and frayed are those sleeves.
From the many tricks
that have been worn upon,
and then
washed from them.

They have seen better days,
And have lost their vibrance
From careless machine washes.
But there could be a few more
Hearts left up those sleeves.

Still listening to the same music.

Still writing the same poems with different words.

Still drinking the same drinks,
eating the same foods.

Still wanting to be healthier.

Still wanting to be smarter.

Still wanting to be better.

Still hating the things I hated before;
The things that won't change.

Still not moving,
If so, just barely.

Still here.

I bore you,
And I bore into you.
Leaving you with nothing to say;
Leaving me clutching at straws.

If sweet silver
poured from my
languid lips,
laying out the lies you so long to hear,
would you keep me near?
No, probably not.

It is the most creative of those,
who can find enrapturing prose,
from deep, deep within his clothes.

Idle talk
and groping glances
are thrown and strewn
at the idle dances.

Your sickeningly sweet smile
given refuge in the eye of the storm;
abetted by the valour of your current tipple.

Hand on hand,
eye on eye
then quickly turn to pass on by.

The constant ebb and flow of your
in-out,
here-gone,
love-doubt,
ignore-fawn,
contradictory chaos is enough to drive the
dead to drink.

I drown the dead within me
with the dregs of the Host.
Living tonight to the
detriment of tomorrow.

T'is unfair for those
Who have never felt morose or
Uncomposed
To blame or shame the lives
that have been.
For it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

For a few choose to leave this earth,
But most of us are dead from birth.
For either way it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

We should salute those who do it,
For they have gone through with it.
Us here waiting, waiting.
Waiting still, waiting to get ill.
For it was their choice,
Leave them be.
I hope you would not be the same
About me.

If I were to make that choice,
Do not proclaim what I could have been,
Or that you never could have seen
The pain.
'Cause you could, and you did.
For it's anyone's choice,
Leave them be.
I wonder would you be the same
If it were me?

The endless throes
of the insatiable soul
grips and grows
like the rip and the hole
at the end of the
poor man's sole.

She sat in the old armchair,
In the winter of her life.
The last of her sisters;
A once comfortable wife.

With bony white finger
She traced the pattern of her chair;
Withered from age
Like the strands of her hair.

For her kids had come and gone.
Her fears, she passed them on.
An ok husband she had;
A time long ago, a time not so bad.

'Love' and spouse,
Kids and house
Were the choices she made.
Unbeknownst to her,
The passion she had
Was bound to fade.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That man in the corner,
At the end of his days.
A bottle of whiskey;
A familiar haze.

His cold empty house
Devoid of all life.
Followed his heart;
Never took he a wife.

Passion and success
(which he had to confess)
Were great (for awhile).
These were the choices that he made.
Unbeknownst to him,
His desire for love would never fade.

At the end of the night
All wrapped up in warm covers and plight,
He contemplated the answers to his
Internal fight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tell unto me
Which one was right?

The sea is
to me
As to Yeats Inisfree.

I only write from
one heart,
one hand,
and two minds.

Je vois la vie
en parapluie.

Wrap your ring of
words round;
Cushion the fall.
It shouldn't make much difference,
as your words mean
Nothing at all.

It's a wonder that those
who are so well fed
and so well read
are so full of dread.

Your disinterest is key,
for when my brain bleeds blue.
My mood is ****,
and so are you.

Inside the universal set:
Circle A and circle B;
Circle you and circle me.

To keep things easy,
we started with the numbers on the outside,
but soon grew to the small part in the middle.

That small slither
of similarity.
But the numbers are just there for
Clarity.

Not to mention circles
C,D,E & G.

But circles are circles,
and people are people.
You are you.
I am I.
And that was that.

Jigsaw-
Noun
1. A lively handtool dance for cutting wood or other hard materials with leaping movements, typically with a long, thin serrated blade.

Rhythm denoted with the phrase 'Rashers and Sawsages'

What did I do
To end up
Liking you?