Your last name is a river
fluent of falsely words
as old as your years on Earth
you overflow with futile words
that should had never
found their way out of your mouth
they should had stayed in
and not seen the light of day
and saved me of the futility
of having believed in you.

Futile words weary and worn out
coming out of a shaky pen
being held by an unnerved hand
sustained by a shot arm
futile words are infertile words
that produce no seeds
as much as they are worth
they don't mean much
to the eyes they were meant for
when they are more of a mirage
of the futile life we left behind.

Futile words are an afterthought
more like a liquid sword
transparent like the light of day
changing shape like soft clay
the same matter you mistook my heart for
after those long futile letters
that became paper planes
that flew over the shore and onto the sea
of the wasted memories we had become.

Words that waged a war against love
armed with futile hope
and their best friend solitude by their side
taking their best shot at your heart
and now they wave a white flag
when the battle left them rattled and blown
if they can't no longer worship
the way you breathe
the way you talk, the way you walk
oh futile love of me,
the very air in your lungs.

Your gestures and ****** expressions
became a fixture of my lexicon.
Your name was my one word vocabulary
it became futile adding
new letters to the dictionary
you were my breakfast and lunch
the dreams that became nightmares
futile words are the living breathing force
that brought our souls together
and tore them apart without remorse.

And if they ever found their way to your love
they were redeemed ceasing to be futile
and I want you to know one thing
when it rains think of me
and if it pours think of us
and the future we could have had
because these futile words
where more than just words
they where a ray of hope....
and my life flashing before your eyes.

Look at me in the eye
I will slay you, turn you
into human flesh
and much to my dismay
you will be coming back charging
while my eyes are blood-shot red
like the disdain infiltrated in your lungs
nowhere to hide, impossible to run
they say I drink too fast well,
they drink too slow
so let my ****** steel sword
allow me to valiantly retort
time to grab the bull by the horns
like the most gracious Matador
either we make it out alive
or do battle until we are both comatose
like a coward trying to breathe
his way out of a room full of thugs
I am going to see you at the morgue
since I don't fear death
alas, death fears me
I am beyond everything that stands
and I stand above everything that breathes
life has built me a shrine
to illuminate every last day that I live
even if I never die at your hands
for better or much likely for worse
like so many others before
I am taking you with me.

Smells like Gun Powder in the empty room
tainted by the aura of damaged memories
feeling my armor worn out and weary
going down the stairs, the lights are fading
warm blood in my hands like a distant afternoon
I'll ride shotgun with a shotgun like in the old days
and we'll make a right turn on memory lane
just make sure to stop at every corner 
so I can blast your remembrance away.
 
Smells like Gun Powder on my side of the bed
where for the hundred time you ask if I'll be ok
I wish I had some Whisky,
it sure is wishful thinking
in my dreams I am always sober,
somehow never drinking
quite the opposite of the real life I lead
I can always count on my nightmares
to always find you here
in our worn out bed fully clothed
facing the window
and your face clenched in sorrow
is a moving talking picture.
 
It's pouring down again
in the forgotten ghost city
we take a turn towards oblivion,
where you surprised to see me?
under the leaves of an old tree
contrasting the projects brick buildings
incessant rain flows from our eyes
like a fluent turbulent river  
wondering if I should build an ark
or if it would be worth the pain
and take a wild shot in the dark
and save us both from this fast sinking boat
how did we even navigated the sea of love
without lifesavers to keep us afloat?
 
How did we lost what was so hard find?
Smells like gun powder every second of my life
my emotional ammo gets packed on an old Colt 45
a revolver that turns back the hands of time
I'll measure every word, retracing every step, 
without derailing my train of thought
inhaling the gun powder
like the ashes of this love
trying to give my Spotless Mind
Eternal Sunshine at long last
in the basement tied to a chair
I came to find myself...
barely clutching my fate in one hand 
and what's left of my conscience on the shelf.

Bittersweet will be your last few verses
because I wouldn't have them any other way
or in any other shape or type of form
even if I have to reform
the way I always felt about you.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword
but mine was always as soft as a feather
because when it came to you
my heart never knew better
and how you never deserved
the verses I wrote about you.

If my sleeves ever looked
damaged and torn
and the ends deteriorating
and falling apart
don't ever be surprised
because that is were I always wore my heart
perhaps I needed a new shirt
or perhaps I needed a new life
but you can never deny
that all I ever wanted was you.

I refuse to part ways with my dreams
because even if this full house isn't a flush
it doesn't mean that I won't win
it doesn't mean that I will budge
while you built our future

with your own cards and didn't bluff
and drifted away in your ship
while mine started to sink
I finally had a good hand
and got a hold of solid ground
while we both learned how to swim.

So this is my requiem for a dream
the last love letter for this love
and may this poem be in memory of
the person who I used to be.

Written, spoken or in thought
Ottis writes no more,
about you.

I am the catalyst of this cataclysm
the catastrophe that impaled
the atmosphere
of this vagabond heart
that is shaped like a sphere
and an uncertain future
being build out of fear
that gets bypassed product
of my cynicism.
 
Secluded in my lab
concocting a potion for this illness
and when all else fails
call me the alchemist
nothing more than an
angst-ridden antagonist
my apologies to the pessimist,
my excuses to the optimist
I was born to be a *******
with a heart made of silver.
 
Buried in my bunker
trapped in someone else's lore
which in turn makes me the catalyst
of my own downfall
I was baptized a Catholic
without ever being asked
turn me into a Cyclist
and I'll pedal real far
turn me into a Scientist
and my lab coat will leave my side
turn me into a labyrinth
and you won't be able to find
traces of me, of who I was
or who I never came to be.

Solitude helps me find shelter in pain
the inspiration comes as a form of retaliation
against the incertitudes of the heart
interludes of interwinding moments.
Words only write themselves
if there's suffering to be had;
ageless solitude is immortal
like ghosts of loves past.

Love in the time of cholera
love in the time of aids
uncertain loves in the times I live
I roam the Earth without being part of it
only certain of my own existence
in any given moment, time or place
I live where I don't belong
and yet I don't belong where I live.

Solitude has bonded
with what is left of me
scrapping together the remains of my soul
becoming one with my bones.

Like a mortal disease
and yet its bitterness
taste better than any sweets
I wouldn't trade it for anything that breathes,
anything that touches the Earth
anything that sees the Sun.

My notepad becomes
engulfed with it's aroma
and it's aura escapes through my pores
turning this pen into a sword
stained with my revenge
there is nothing I wouldn't dare to say
if my heart is ravaged with pain
painted with disdain
repossessing my very being
that it wouldn't dare to lose;
Solitude feeds my spirit
better than any muse.

Anything that ever needed
to be said or written
has seen the light of day
Solitude finds a way
to re-arrange the alphabet
when words are scarce,
when nothing comes my way
I will take these scribes
when my flesh only knows darkness
not seen by the sun,
but in one with the Earth.