you've cut up your past
into tiny fragments
for the detailing of a future
that's now your assignment.
something you're figuring out
that isn't so predictable,
when your entire life
all your guesses were ridiculed.
as they fit together
to form something new
you're seeing there's still some bits
that feel like they're missing you.
to amend this situation,
you pick up the phone
and make a few calls
and see how things have been at home.
but nobody's answering
and nobody's calling back
i've figured it's better to live life
than to ever want to lack
love.
it's a feeling
and soon it's healing
but the scars exist
and you can't resist
the facts of life you've realized, you're realizing, and have yet to have this grand realization that nothing's perfect.
*perfection was a theory they never perfected.

completely true
yet slightly fabricated
the life you're living
isn't the one you'd imagined
so now you try and try
harder and harder
to change the way you are,
the person you've become, now,
just won't allow it;

you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

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.

out here, on the roads, we're redemption awaiting our realization.
in here, i'm dead, lost out on the highway, bleeding immensely.
there's a life to be had driving these days and nights,
but i'm here, sitting, watching them all pass by and dreaming.
hardly sleeping, hardly breathing, carcinogenic life,
before a carcinogenic death; nobody wants my organs, they're cancerous.
i'm dreaming, again; in here, i create reality, and after all, isn't it a creation of our minds?
out there, there's people passing, clashing, and making their ways.
in here, i'm working, dreading the deadline i've set for myself;
working from home, working alone, all on a dream we're dying to dream again.
wearing down the weary mind i've got to make your dreams another reality.
like i've said, it's a creation we're all working on
so why am i the only one doing the work for the reality you're dreaming of?
*i'm dying, again; out there, i'm nothing but a dot on a map, drawn out to be a lead in some play.

another slip
of the tongue
and it's a world of hell.
tasted purification
elongated salutations
to the people; dead
and walking shells.
burnt out
turnt about
for display purposes only.
and you're not allowed to look.

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.

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.

shine on, you perplexed ruby red light; shined on for your years of ambiance, and now the shine's seemingly dulled.
as the illuminated street signs show you the way out of your own head and into the house where you'd rather sleep all day than clean, read or create; illustriousness never held much of a hold on the mind you've let burn into a pile of carbonated waste.
in the silence you've surrounded yourself in, you've found that there's too much going on in your own head for anything to ever be quiet, so you scream.
as the death of another loved one fills your heart with sorrow and pain, there seems to be a new reason to figure this one out on your own; there was nothing you'd missed over the years, but you've always seemed to ignore the social ques and questions you knew felt needed left unanswered.

in light, there is darkness.  and in darkness there is light.  it's all a matter of perspective.

out of sorts
and sorted out;
in senses of shorts
and shorted for love.

caught in life
as i fell to death
to be caught stealing
your heart and your head
from the skin you'd held them in.
now they're caught up in me
and they're catching on;
i'm hardly thinking,
bleeding, and breathing.
i'm living.  imbalanced.

hours of isolation in quiet company,
                                                       ­    though, they never seem to appear
                                       as much to your eyes
                                                            ­                 as they have to mine.
                                        *the humming of the television,
                                                    ­                                   dully lulling the visions in the mind
                                       into the shapes
                                                                ­         they're made for;
                                                          ­    searching synapses and relapses
                                                         for just another answer to the mystery
                                                         ­                                                                 ­    to what's going on,
                       here in my dreams.
                                                         ­     the company stays after i've left,
                                                           ­   as they find it comfortable there,
                                                          ­            stuck; subconsciously
                                                ­                     segregating themselves.

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.

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.

irrepressible satiated purpose/followed by volcanic mental expansion
littler impression/prose out of poignancy/ambiguity and alterations
         explicative social media outrage/FAKENOOSE
   entitled generations of disenfranchisement and grandiose foresight
placeless outrage and fitful penniless homelessness/losses of hope/dreams deadened by the deafening sounds desire

                                wanting more only gave me less
                                                    for you anyway.

                 i'm sorry there wasn't enough to go around the first time.

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.

dreading the moments here in silence
and spreading this infection further;
sooner than expected, silence becomes
the music i need tonight, up until now.
the day had wrought out from the inside
and now i devise a new escape plan
where i can rely on my debatable qualities
and where i make it out, somehow.
alive.

i can't be racist
if i can't be free
i can't be vicious
if i just can't be
so i choose my sights
and i show my way
i'll take my flight
and hide away
from the darkness
that's calling me
it's dangerous
and it's me who sees
the detrimental life
that's dragging us along
without a price
on any other song
that i've written
and that i've sung
that i've been
and when i've begun
to let this all fall
to the floor at your feet
as you find the call
that's calling defeat
of the soul
of the mind
of the cool
waste of your time
so open your eyes
and see what i do
nothing left to disguise
but what thought you knew.

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'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.

and as you forget who i was, i remember who i am
and as i remember, you continue to forget
but i don't blame you for it; i was a horrible person.
at the same time, in the same sense, you were too.

there's a lie through the ages
that we're all doomed to a similar end
but when you've seen the end of it all
and think all your time is spent,
you'll see the time's spending less on you
and more on its own reconstruction,
restitution, and resolution for another second
spent out in the night screaming that it's
midnight.  there's no time left for today.

was he what you'd dreamed?
were you dreaming?
what'd you find when you awoke?
are you still in that lucid state?
how did you not wake up during the thunderstorm?

it rained all night and crashed in all around us, and you just slept right through the whole thing, without the slightest clue about what was true, what i knew, and what you still had to choose.

on the brink of a river, there's plenty to see
on the brink of insanity, there's only me
and as i fall forward, i don't put my hands out
and as i hit the ground, i know what and why this came about.

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.

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.

My dreams are getting better
so I must be as well.
My streets getting cleaner
so the world must be too.
My ‘self’ is getting stronger
so my mind has to.
My ideas still aren’t coherent
so I don’t think I should be.

the slight imperfections
play off the light
as you're enlightened;
i see through these cracks
in the facade you're covered in.

the simplest idea
pulls me in again
towards the destruction;
we're bleeding through, now,
as we're drained of our safety.

the farthest reach
was felt across the span
of time and space again;
through the mind's eye
we still blind ourselves to love.

these masks we wear are cracked and exposing vital spots to the ugliness in our character.

we just can't break our act.

pieced panel ceiling-aloof, unaligned/
broken bottle drunk neck.

loose leaning retribution-painful and stern/
paradise as senial.

enigmatic electric violense-warmer, lonelier/
painted process of elimination.

aromatic angular pilot-slim and simple/
stupid half-witted brain.

faraway friendship-slightly stable/
hopes for the future.

obediently originating psalms-studied and preferred/
crack-*** simplification.

readied and reticulated-never worried/
worn'd through and through.

satiable sanctity-calm, cool/
collecting mindfully.

angular and semiconductive-angles, man/
prospective deafness.

nuisance noose brain-heavier still/
cloud nine.

idiocy-simple/
fragmented head.

trivial temptation-fighting demons again/
old moldy records.

youth in riot-pure and satanic/
enslaved and emboldened.

caught in the burning of somethings you'd owned
in your masochistic daze you're loved by none
and you're loved by the only thing that's ever mattered
the incessant beatings you'd taken by yourself;
for yourself, you let them go on, like you couldn't stop
and now you're just lighting your whole life on fire
and lighting the way to an early grave, enslaved
by the nicotine staining your fingers, draining your lungs
of sweet, succulent oxygen, openly displaced by carbon monoxide
and yet there's only blackening and death on the inside.

this has to be cut-out or you're just going to end up on another page; immortalized for your love of something choking you to death; deadened from the disease you couldn't ****.

you've never told me how you felt
in any form of honesty
when i asked was for you to honestly
explain yourself after it all happened
but you'd just left me in ignorance.
so, i sat down and worked it all out
and i came up with a few things
that i'm beginning i actually know
about what it is you really want
and how to get it all for you.
there's some things i have to ask of you
before i can start fulfilling your wishes
before they've filled you with hope
of the empty desires we've discussed
that you've been complaining about
in your own sublime ways;
and, subliminally, have changed my thought pattern.

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.

you completely lost sight of what was sighted in for you
i know you're thinking of the target; your aim's just still not true
your rifle's steady, ready, but your hands are still too shaky
you let the hammer fall after you squeeze the trigger and i just let it be
but you weren't aiming for what i told you it was seasoned for
and you're still a little loose on gaining any floor
out here in this wild conundrum of life; living
out here dealing what's dealt; giving
out here completely oblivious; obviously
out here naked; grievously

godspeed my friend,

you'll need it as we're nearing this end.

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.

caught up in the anxiousness following me
around the aisles of this store
and here i stand, typing and writing,
finding this all to be just another bore
into the wooden frame i'm supporting my soul with.

i'd go back to sleep
just to dream some more
and wake up in the morning
a little extra sore
from the tossing and turning
that went on the night before
but when i'm dreaming
i'm lost inside my own core
and i feel the sights i've heard of
as if they weren't just folk lore
and i hear the feelings i've seen
exhibited on your front door
and i see the sounds you're emanating
coming through the floor
as you wake up yourself
in the afternoon around quarter til four
you find i'm not here
i'm just dreaming anymore.