quickly through your head
and out of your mouth
before you know what's said
it's that punk rock n' roll
rotting your soul.

again it's blasting sounds
that scream my name
and my anguish
it's that punk rock n' roll
rotting my soul.

gaining ground inside
where no ground's held
holding onto something
it's that punk rock n' roll
rotting the soul.

from the inside, outside
its making its way
through the holes
that punk rock n' roll
rotted in the soul.

you began a man in your uniform
uniformly lined in manhood
but unmanned in your last line of defense
the soldier, bleeding in his solidarity.

his head held down by the weight of his thoughts
and his heart held high by his idealism
in this century, he bleeds for your sins
and you, bleeding for the sinners.

bleeding for the sinners.

bleeding from the cinders; burning holes in your flesh from the fire you'd put out in a last-ditch effort to save the "smokey the bear" imagery from your childhood.

didn't you know it'd burn down too
as you dreamt of being an adult
in this distant, futuristic adulthood
where you'd be bleeding out again.

not forming in singular lines
not forming anything but time
in the singular exsanguination of a generation;
they're bleeding for your singing.

bled out and torn about, they die.

dreaded and thrown about in the last ditch efforts of life, they cry out again to the demi-gods and goddesses they believed in for your sins.

they bleed.

Purely.

welcomed to the idea, once again
by the cool calling that lead me,
barely heard, and hardly felt,
yet, still coercing enough for this.
so i decided to attempt it,
again.
an attempt made at nothing,
when reality says it was something,
as i digress, it was nothing,
and again, it was something
though i'll never name it
what it should be called
because it has a
name.
aspirations brought about
by perspiration and an inclination
that, again, it would be okay
to try and make sense of something
that i've wanted before
and want again.

feed yourself the beautiful dream
one brain wave at a time
so as not to choke on its entirety
or have to suffer anymore.

the entire vibrato you've used
is getting you nowhere, you see.
but soon, you'll be able
to say you're not on the streets to score
another fix
another mix
of chemical endurance
and obliteration

step on up, and read the sign
there's nothing left here
just as it was when your father walked
from one end to the other, feverishly.

we're dying out left and right,
but you're sure to make it,
i swear it, i've seen it,
and i'll make it all a reality
*based on dreaming
shaped from cleaning
of the mind
and its impurities.

my goddess dies each dawn
with the rising of the sun
and is reborn; renewed
in the sick, slighted
mannerism she awakens.

even with noticeable differences
the sky projects her face
as she lightens my burdens
and burdens my nights
with her glowing.

this shining has come for time
that it's been needed
where i've stood; judged
for the sinful mannerism
of my paganism.

but you're lost in the twilight;
daydreaming
in the middle of the night
that day will break the dark
and again, you'll see.

i've never needed any light
for my goddess is here;
she's been for ages
and she will be
once i'm gone.

dragged out of bed by the beating of my blood through my eardrums,
then pushed back into the deep corner of my mind by the drumming in my head,
this idea's progressing to a level higher than the mountaintop it was conceived on.

as it draws itself out in the stars; by my fingertips pointed heavenward,
the picture completes itself with the slightest adjustments of my mind,
and produces somewhat of an opus to be driven and dragged out upon.

killed in its final instances, it's death brings renewed life;
rebirth only gets to those who really ever let it mean something important,
and as we give purpose to our purposeless lives, i see what you're awakening to as a con;
a deception not of the hands that were supposed to belong to somebody else, but of my own.

i'm sorry if i was never subtle enough
          in letting you know you
       you don't cross my mind anymore.
     you're stuck on one side,
       and i've moved up the other,
     never looking back to see if you saw.

the road stretches on, and you've got a choice:
either you sit on the side you're on, waiting,
or move on down, with the occasional thumb
stuck for the traffic to see you're going
the way they're headed.  it's nice to get a ride.

you can't possibly think i've been that mislead
by the simple words and excuses you've used.
for one reason or another, you continue,
and i'm feeling my kindness is abused.
i'm not one to really speak up much,
and really say how it is i feel.
but you need a reality check,
because nothing you say is real.

you keep pushing what's the truth as false
and the falsehoods i find to be quite real,
and it's beginning to make me really question,
whether or not you have the sensation to feel.
and if you do, i'm sure it's not prevalent,
for i've known the way you've said you've felt.
and as you pass through life in line,
how's that ride on the conveyor belt?

you're bound for an end, similar to all else's,
and you're bound to be quietly disappointed
in the mass amount of disappointment
you're only bound to find that's been anointed
into the fabrics, frayed and torn of your being.
but i know there's not much hope left,
that what you're really feeling at all
is nothing but a spacious cleft


**in your heart.

in the morning, i remember her face
as she slept on my arm that had slept
all through the night with her
while i lay awake wondering;
where i was taking my life
where i was going to end up
where i was, belonging to the night.

the sun spanned her shoulder
through the cracked window pane
and split a beautiful ray on her tattoo
the bird, so colorful;
where i kissed her last night
where i missed her subtleties
where i knew i wanted to rest
where she was in her dreams, i couldn't contest.
she said love again
except this time i felt it go through me.
she said she meant it
and i felt her soul touch mine; exquisitely.
she said she wouldn't leave
and in the morning, stayed on my arm.
she said it was meant to be
and i knew she was telling not just me;
she meant this more than my cigarettes, coffee, and crullers meant to give me cancer.

shirtless
raining
cold.

ambitious
amplified
cozy.

the rain felt so clear as it streaked down my back, and i felt so clairvoyant in that moment walking down the alley; waiting for the rain to really pick up, i walked slower

traditional
noted
calm.

personal
known
clear.

knowing the simple implementation
of all this ****** frustration
into some kind of mechanization
into the institutionalization
of something you'd call psychoanalysis.
i've analyzed
i've criticized
i've materialized
i've realized
that we're all waiting for our final grade.

unwarranted threatening,
irrational processes of elimination,
and purposeless annihilation
of every last ******* morsel;
every last ******* bit and piece
you ever had to say
stings as it hits me
through the skeleton.  
you're a skeleton too, i hope you know.

another brittle mind
shed in light;
enlightened after such severity,
and stable enough to think
through the idea that i'm lost.

there's enough here
that we all can find enough ways;
that there's a reason to think
still, although we're conditioned
by ourselves; myself.

projection, direction, interjection.

it's been eating away at me for days
and days and days on end
until it's come down to this,
and it's made its way to spend
                                            time.
burning through my head in seconds,
in minutes, hours, and in space
i feel i could've used more wisely
than the space left for me to face
                where to put my books.


                                                             everything has its place,
                                                          and everything has a home.
                                                       everything lives, dies, is reborn,
                                                        so how're we ever truly alone?

you're all gone
or dead
one of the two
maybe caught
in limbo.

it bothered me
for a while
but days passed
and i've found
it hasn't phased

*every emotional problem i'd had with your lingering somewhere in my head.
i just hope you're doing well in whatever it is you're doing anymore.
i don't want any calls, texts, or salutations.  i just want you to know now you're gone,
and that i was there the whole time you were leaving, trying to pull you back in.

gas in the motorhome
just about ready to roam
where ever the catalogue says
and we fly around all the bends
                                                      heading to some sanctity
                                                       while the craziness takes over for a while.
comfort the pedal
as we meddle
with the ideas of prosperity
in another definition of integrity
                                                      *lost souls searching
                                                      for another reason to not drive us all off the road

that dissident, bitter taste,
left in perfect circles,
circling keyboard and mouse,
cooking themselves down
to partisanship; put into words,
burnt bottom coasting,
blackened death enticing
as each sip brings on
another cigarette,
more anxiety,
and less objection
to the jazz spewing from my fingers.

it amazes me how you're so contained
in the little box; ******* where you reign
over the kingdom within your head
never realizing you're bound to be dead
one day sooner than later; we all have to
but these are all thing i thought you knew.

so i guess i'll spoon feed you this abstract thought
because of the lackadaisical ideas, you rot
in the putrid ways of pointing out my faults
when yours are the one that've brought you to halt
before the gates where you must truly invade
and these are no places for you to persuade
me
of my own flaws.

i've made a list
and i know them well.

integrity must've been a four-letter word
seeing how you can only see syllables
as you stole every last bit of sense
that anyone around you ever heard of
just to make some sense of your own
honing the skill set for nothing in life
but the simplicity of generalities
overcompensation for the lack of love
and loving the compensation all give
unknowingly, robbed blind; now blinded
shouting every four letter word
they count for the actual lettering.

twisted words turn into twisted people
as they run around trying to seem well
and when they're twisting themselves more and more;
and when they unwind, slowly and vapidly,
they all start to hit the floor.

the bottle slid down to the floor so long ago,
but you were the only one who were to ever know
the reason i'd twisted the truth so much into a lie;
the reason i'd twisted what you saw, languidly,
through your twisted eyes.

as we all fell out in our fallout shelters
our twisted lives all, in an instant, began to welter
to the corkscrew sound waves coming out now;
to the corkscrews and corks lying about, sadly,
because we were all gonna die here, someway, somehow.

saints and secrets
created over the span of a life
written down and read aloud
to make it valid; it's crowded
in here, where we're living
day in and day out, in our heads.
we seek escape; there's enough here
to feed the whole brain.
i think i'd rather let it starve
after the last time i watched it fill up
on the ideas they'd lead me into believing
and how they ate what was left
when i was just trying to prove i was right.

there's nothing left to prove here
they've made their points,
and they're making it poignant
that there's nothing left in their points.
once i begin pointing any of it out,
i'm the one who's a heretic
and i'm the one who's corrupting
the true imagery they're trying to paint
in the canvas of everyone's minds.

blank, white, and pure at birth,
filled in over age with the brush strokes
and the colorization that's found
in nature as naturally we create
the world we see, how we see it, and why.
tell anyone what's right and what's wrong
and you're telling just another lie.
you're the artist, and your interpretation's lingering
as you tell me about the way you've painted the sky,
they way you've painted your life,
and the picture you're painting,
well, it's getting darker and cracking with age.

as you wander about the museum,
you'll find them; saints and secrets.
hidden in each piece of art, you're painting
the pictures you're seeing in your own mind
and as they fade into memory,
they're pointing themselves towards you;
introvert and reveal you're findings.
nothing but secrets you'd kept from yourself,
as well as the sainthood you'd been seeking,
redemption for the belief you let yourself believe.
and here i am, the heretic.

frustrated
sedated
created
complicated
syncopated
underrated
and decimated.

though shadowed and followed
through the darkness there's ambience
that follows my shadows.
it tastes of regret, simplicity, and ignorance;
feels like shame, denial, and *****.
shaken from my dreams, i'm alive.
shook to the depths of my soul;
my dreams resonate as they vibrate,
violently across your frequency
and violating my sanctity.

*i heard your voice,
i spoke through your lips.
i saw your hair,
i tasted your hips,
and before i knew it,
i'd smelt my death.

the rains trinkets
leaving the world unheard
leaving the word unsaid
yet leaving nothing but puddles

filling the empty lots
where you'd had filled
where there you'd been thrilled
from the rain; nothing but puddles

falling into drains
down the streets gutters
up the gorges, flooding
and ringing in the puddles

as the fall falls down on me
the rain falls as well
the rain falls to swell
the woodwork you've bored me out of.

When you're roaming down that old dirt road of ambition,
remember all that ambition you're leaving there in the dirt.
While that road carries you down another hill towards some hiatus,
that space where you'll think you feel safe with what you've got
left inside of you.

And as you pass the different paths you could've taken,
rather than turning off this old dirt road you've ambitiously wandered,
think of all the times you'd just had that one decision to make.
How, now, as you walk on past yet another, all those paths you eyed
and left behind you.

After you've thought about the time of this exploration of ambition
that you've nearly given all but up on, keeping that goal in mind,
just think about the chances you really have taken on your own happiness,
your own levity of your ambition, and those hoarse decisions you made
to get outside yourself.

outside ourselves:**

in the few, brief moments,
staying inside the outer edge
of this webbing we've woven
for the the sake of this game
that's created in itself.

for the spider,
as he calms the tension
across his line
as the wind blows,
swaying him sideways.
driven practically by survival
hopeless in a world made by others
he's getting caught-up in his own web;
he's never seen,
but not seeing through just his lenses
that cover the top of his head.

over, calmed now,
the tension's applied tenderly.
the treacherous passing of past
passer-bys past his masterwork,
the unluck ones
only eaten, digested,
and then forgotten.
horrifically in complete sync
with the idealism
that had dulled
every subjective idea he'd had,
the spider found what he'd needed;
some calming peace and serenity.

you'd had me at hello,
and i knew it was a show
from the opening number
to the closing curtains;
you weren't acting though.

you were harboring something
and you couldn't really tell me
what the plot finalized in
as it came out in your expressions;
it all made sense in time.

you couldn't stand being dealt the truth
so you needed somebody else to handle it
with kid gloves, brutally *displayed
over various acts of violence; violently
handled like it was a child, misbehaving
and now it's flown off the handle.
and you're standing empty-handed.

completely chaotic in its beauty
and completed only by its sanity
there's got to be a reason we're looking for something here.

we're drawing our own portraits
and painting over our mistakes
with everything we've practiced at any easel.

as it starts back at the last tempo
we contemplate the time signature
and whether or not the time's showing anything at all.

there's too much going on now
and we're getting it all mixed up
with something we're all trying to feel in one form or another.

as we come back down
we see the sun glaring off the window pane
and realize this is where it's meant to have shone; upon our lives.

if you've got the interest
well then i've got the investment,
granted, it's only time
but that's enough, isn't it?

we place so much value in seconds
as minutes pass us by hourly,
but we never find value where it belongs;
throughout life it's moments,
for you it's momentary, but endless for the rest.

if you've got the right idea
i've got the right way to shape it,
as it's got to be something more,
something material and meaningful.

otherwise, they'll never see it
in the light it deserves,
darkened due to size, it's variance
cannot go unnoticed for too much longer;
we know where it should shine.

just like you
allowing nothing through
the shallow skin
that begins
crawling all over
with what was clover
but now is just weeds
as the thought feeds
on the bubbles in my brain.

is this an aneurysm or just thought processing?

undeniably vast and gracious
the life ahead is better than that behind;
filled with moments of variety,
various times make various memories.
we're left with the best to remind us of the worst.

we'd worked it all out in our heads
but when we'd made it to our beds
our dreams ruined everything
and we pulled apart anything
to make some sense of something.

we'd worked it all out on paper
but it slowly reached the shredder
for the sake of it never working out
because what this was all about
was deeper than the tile; it was in the grout.

so we had to start at the base
and gave ourselves the space
to make it all work in one way
and that's when i began to say,
"you're dead, as the horse is to his hay."

you'd based this off a time
when you had the life
that you'd always imagined
but never let really happen
any breaking of what it was
and you know it's all because
of the way you'd carried yourself,
acting as if you'd never needed help
just being.
never living what you were meant to live as; the fates have been quite angered.

the coldness left in my room,
after you'd left,
leaves me wanting your warmth,
your beauty,
your breath on my neck.
the coldness left in my heart,
before you,
warms itself from your words,
your soul,
your eyes on my lips.
the coldness left throughout my house,
constantly dreary,
warms itself from your presence,
your laughter,
your hair, tangled in my fingers.

and you'd done it all with nothing,
but the simplicity of kindness and the complexity of love.
there's so much here, i feel it, but i still don't know what.
words haven't described such things;
shakespeare's sonnets won't even make sense of it.

and you'd made me almost speechless,
but the words always have found their ways through.
there's so much i want to say; still figuring it out.
give me time, my darling, i plead;
there's so much more that i'll be sure to soon admit.
                                                                                      mostly of the true beauty within you

the warmth i feel now,
after you came,
leaves me wanting your touch,
your kiss,
your love to be all mine.

she laughs and my stress dissipates.
her love's taken my hate away
and replaced it with another feeling to anticipate;
the warmth in my heart heats me
even after she's left me here in bed,
dreaming of her more and more.
awaiting my awakening to her
in the cold darkness of my room
just one day sooner than anticipated.

this anticipation's leading to frustration,
although it's creating a deeper longing,
and this is where i know i've been belonging;
her love's my home, and i'm her house.
only built on the sands of shifting time,
sturdy and stronger daily as the shift comes closer
to sliding us deeper and deeper in love.
i anticipate the deepness of love; it's where i belong.

sooner or later you'll find out your thoughts are a sin:

                        drugged and lugged through the halls you're living in
                        until you've accepted their embracing concepts
                        and their defacing analysis of your character; you're dead.
                        their pale, fluorescent lights hum in your head
                        and clean out the cobwebs that you've let build up
                        until you've been completely cleansed of your transgressions
                        and until you've figured out life's not about progression.

sooner or later you'll find out you're life's been overanalyzed:

                        created for the sake of boredom and then criticized
                        by yourself, your peers, and the people who you never knew;
                        they'd never known, not even yourself, but you guessed.
                        there was no reason to make an estimate, you're blessed
                        through your admission of self, sanctity, and painful denial
                        of the truths they'd tried to make you disbelieve;
                        now you're ready, you're certain, and soon, you'll be freed.

the whole idea
that you'd had
in three lines
or less
is much less
than a whole
thought.

so don't waste my time
don't waste my space
don't waste my life
waste your own
in lesser thought
and in lesser
idealism
than what's real poetry.

i've never thought
i'd read more ****
posted about some idea
than what i've read
on here
in there
just to pump some ******
deeper into my veins
to calm my nerves
and calm this pain.

this idea's haunted me long enough
and this house is creaking louder and louder.
there's enough spirits left in here
that there's never enough silence.
the death's filled our heads with love
and the life's drained us of emotion.
we're turning lifeless and senseless before the masquarades unveiling.