I fix your breakfast every morning before I go to work
I set your favorite channel on the T.V.
Last thing I butter the toast before I go
Cause I know you don't like your bread soggy

I think of calling you but I know better
You never would pick up the phone
What could I say besides I miss you anyways
And is this the sadness that makes us alone

I make it home just in time for dinner
And again set out those two empty plates
The conversation is light, guess you know why
I watch the news then go to bed because it's late

In the morning I get up and do it all again
I make sure your eggs are warm and your juice is cold
I've followed this routine for several years going
A routine that is as young as it is old

I pick up my satchel, head back to work
Ready for another long grueling day
It's you I think about more often than not
Which helps to pass the time away

Back home again in time for dinner
As I wonder what it is you would eat
I try to fix what you would like most every night
Since I'm not to concerned about me

Because it's been five years now that you've been gone
Seems only yesterday we placed you in the grave
How fast the time has gone, wish your were still here at home
Then and only then would I know what to say

I can't play this charade any longer
It's the cherub sitting on my shoulder
That's been feeding me the rhymes
This whole time

Whispering line by line in my ear
All the poems you see written here
I know now you must think of me less
Who would have ever guessed

It's been going on for quite awhile
From the beginning to the present now
There's never been an original idea
That's come from this thickened head

It's been the cherubs rhymes and poems
In which you have grown so fond
I just needed to get this off my chest
To this charade I now confess

You're so dangerous with your profane paraphernalia
Your pelvis postures pandering favor
The line of your stomach embossed by the fire is like a pasture for me
So paranoid with your pacifistic lust
As you proceed to please me with your posture so slightly
And I attempt to pursue oh so politely
You make me perk up like a peacock just with one peak
You're aware of every petty palpitation you can feel just under my sleeve
You play me like a piano, so plush with your lust politics
Pandering for a pardon of my ***** talk poignancy
I part you like Pluto from your orbits serene hum
I'll pleasure you, pleasure you until you're purple like a plum
A pastimes poetises to be written with pleasing lead
You plan every move like a predator in my bed
You're polarizing, plump, and pampered like a pageant doll
Pilfering every plausible pause with a pose of voice, your moan
Seizing the post with your post - modern pompous pouncing
Prompted like Pisces to postulate your prognosis
Lifting your posterior like the pun of a phaliccy
Pillaging me like a pandemic, a plague
Something to be paraded by paganistic plauds
Your pale skin is like playwear for sins
You're pinning me plastered with the play of your grin
Such a pretty motion picture to paint in the prison of your promise

Carcinogenic gasps
between photogenic thighs
create esoteric muscle movement
that moves me inside.
Your parents are therapists,
and mine choose not to be alive;
the words they say
don't work for moments we hide.

Jesus Christ before the sunset rust,
if I'm so alive
then why do I lust
absence.

There's a place
where I'd like to drown
every Saturday.
The water's warm
and thick in my lungs
and I'm no longer afraid.

Colliding with epinephrine,
your neck thrusts forward;
you kiss the steering wheel.
"Do you know
how much
you mean to me?"
Your eyes meet mine  
before disappearing in the glass mist.
I love you.

Drinking summer skin,
I hear the voices in the night sky
I'm a slave to the darkness around the stars,
and I can't remember why

One, two, twenty-three percocet in my soul.
Ambulance lights breathing throughout the mist.
Pump my stomach like the sawed-off shotgun
that I was too afraid to use,
because what if I 'miss'?
What spectrum of desolation to be traced with lips;
to kiss away the desire to exist.

Mirrored reflection injection causes the resurrection of my imperfection.
I see me for who I am, who I was, and who I won't be.
It's the collection of
my eyes dilating and my knees speculating their arrival
to the blue and white tiling disguised as neo-survival.
My mind is evaporating. My body begins to convulse.
I am a ghost in a machine. I am without a pulse