I am not a person.
Not enough space
is filled by my presence.
To be considered
There.
Nobody bothers to say hello,
Or even
glance in my direction.
I am simply too little of nothing.
To be anything.
Important,
Or unique.
I was a madman's invention.
Built obsolete.
Prepared to sit on shelves
For years to come.
Society has made themselves clear.
Even if I tried my best.
It would never be enough.
I
would.
never.
be.
Enough.

You put me
“In my place.”
But really.
You misplaced me.
You seem to forget who I am
And where on your shelf I should go.

I used to belong to your collection of important things.
But you put me on the bottom in a box titled “Miscellaneous”
I’m not used to being down here.
It’s a little degrading.
Not as bright.

You never take these things out.
I’m not sure why you keep them, really.
But you know I don’t complain.
I don’t tell you to fix me every time you’ve dropped me.
And let me tell you.
It was a pretty high shelf to fall from.
I don’t have to tell you not to worry.
You don’t care enough to anyway.

I wonder if you got tired of me.
Maybe you grew bored.
Couldn’t teach me new tricks.
I didn’t have anything more to give.
My battery died.
My lights went out.
My voice button doesn’t work anymore.
Not that you listened when it did.
But you kind of just let me die.

And then told me it wasn’t your fault.

Except…

You never replaced my batteries.

dear mockingbird,
what made you swear silence?
it’s unlike your species to become selective mutes,
or, perhaps,
is it because you’ve tired of your sole performance?
you’ve become a broken record,
stuck on repeat:
the same song and dance.
you didn’t know what else to sing,
didn’t know any other tune.
this will become your swan song.

Growing up...
Thinking life's gonna be easy
Fun, friendships're forever,
So what's they said

We got problems of our own
Trapped in our little bubbles
Stopped looking left or right
For help, realising we are all alone in the end

Nothin's wrong,
No need to be down own your knees
Some days when you're out of my orbit,
Meaning the funny white rabbit's chasing you to eternity
I got that, and that's okay
Just return to my side when everything's back alright
You're me friend, and my book won't let me change that

i’m haunted by her beauty.
i suppose it’s not natural to write about the ghosts
that reside in your home,
but that’s why they call it the supernatural, right?
or, perhaps it’s superficial;
i don’t even know her name.

i rent a modest cabin deep in the woods,
surrounded by only the wildlife.
i have no neighbors,
but that’s fine,
as the residence is rumored to be haunted;
i’ll have plenty of company.

the house-warming party toasted to good spirits,
however, none of those are here;
i appreciated the gesture anyway.
there’s a scream when a light bulb bursts in the kitchen.
at least i found humor in the play on words.

Let’s start to make impure this fine linen, tainted
by both our body’s heat— our feet wrapped into
each other; open yourself to me, wide as these
clouds part away from the sky, to paint out such
an astounding spectacle

Along the pairs of flowers on your cheeks, right
here on this rosy bed, while words are floating at early
morn pillow talk; as that after pleasure still chases
after us both until the noon

Could we not have at another go, if it’s not too soon?

Soon as the wheels start to turn, upon these grinding
mills; my thoughts feel placed on that aware grinding stone
— that after most of my corny remarks, they somehow get
from you a serial response, to this series of our love making

As my summer to my eventual fall; the rev of my rocket engine
that yearns to break through the atmosphere of such fleshly walls-
a world that men look so forward to get lost while they explore

Could I implore you to let our horizons light up abroad; brushing
our warmth against one another of rays like a blanketing sun—
we still could mix a bit of fun with teasing harm. And capture the
savouring flavour of this love as it is found

As how I found you, isn’t how I’ll leave you- as
my left behinds- besides your behind’s juicy fruit
there’s still a bowl of the tree that I must sample
of its sweetened vines

This honey of the moment, has made jealous bees
crash land into that closed window- their sting of
which makes them so short lived. Yet the sting of your
lips, proves the revival of my stinger’s gift, to pull
the nectar that waits for me from the flower’s honest
form

Tables are set in place; the appetizers have run their
course of these sweet nothing’s words; as the di-vine
air becomes so thick- trying to challenge your cheeks
as my eyes appear as a lost lion in need— a lioness
burning away in her heat. Come to me oh darling, to find
such a sweet release

i ****** handfuls of sand
and envisage i am an hourglass.
i enumerate the seconds in my head,
but my fingers leak more grains
than i can keep pace with,
far too fleeting to be unerring.
this nonsuccess only induces me
to think of time and its relativity;
of a man who complains that it’s only tuesday,
of a man who complains that it’s already tuesday.
i dub my left hand frank,
and my right jacob,
then wonder why it’s still monday.