Light of the lamp
In my eyes
As I hold tight
And stamp my approval

These are nor lies
But a truth that is brutal
Only to me
As no one can see
Blindness of not being me

Preconceived belief
As the proper pupils
Pave a path
They think their own
But they are not alone

They read another passage
On a piece of paper
Lose their independence
And lose their nature

And so we follow the proper path
The papers we read
Written by one who laughs

So shine that lamp
In my eyes again
I cannot read the proper paper
So the pupils I won’t befriend

A killer that has never killed,
Got close but I never did.
A player that don't play the game,
An arrow without bow and aim,
A ****** who can't get laid ,
I'm a *****, but I don't get paid,
A momma's boy that got abused,
A gambler who's got nothing to lose,
A beggar, king most often fool,
I play chess, don't know the rules,
Gotta gun that don't have bullets in,
I'm a sinner but I can't sin,
I play and play but I can't win,
I indulge my every whim,
I done **** and I feel fine,
Didn't have ***** to cross the line,
Kick the head and let him bleed,
Go get ****** and do some ****,
Now I got a job and wife,
It's boring and I hate my life.
I'm a loser with nothing to lose,
I'm a fool  who works for fools.

The unconscious stream of words,
a loquacious man yet he's so insecure.
always has so much time to talk in the day.

he can never be here for you nor can he stay,
he is detached  by nature, but can charm any woman away,
don't be fooled by his confidence.

it's the unconscious stream of words.

I do a lot when I'm bored
None of it good

Chattering birds, not colourful
But friendly in their own grey way.
They make a lot of noise,
Not really saying much
But making a big effort
To be understood.
So willing to help
But not to commit,
Each proposal embraced
By a disclaimer; they mean well,
Of course, they do.
Their motivation can’t be faulted,
But there’s need for a psychic, a mind-reader,
For everything’s insinuated, nothing discussed.
So many points pronounced, declared,
Underlined, exclamated but not communicated,
Feeling no empathy, we all put on our coats
Against the cold draft of confusion.
.

I’ve never loved myself enough
to love another human being.
Love is practice and I’ve
only practiced hate.
I’m a mixture of
fear and boredom.
Never understood what
could make other people
happy.
My favorite hobby
has always been guessing
what could hurt me
the most.
And then do it.
How am I supposed to know
joy and gift it?

Silken sweet is the sycamore's song,
where robins roost and raise their young,
and smooth smells of chrysanthemums run
to see the sordid spring.

The shiny sheen of nature's skein is too delicate
for my Velcro eyes, which tear and wrench
the tranquil strands into a tangle of rough satin;
be my sandpaper soul that skins salamander to
brawny bones and bores raucous cores like
maggots and ****.

Raw sewage seeps, creeps carefully into
the spaces of Her starry quilt
until squelching squishes escape
my hoarse rasping whispers
and see the calloused corpse that casts its rueful shadow
into bright days, silver nights
to a twilight that will not end.

Caustic contaminants cross my veins and cake skin in
corrosive gasps; fumes funneling fingers of pus
pancake pores of porcelain dust to a mortar
of blemished touch.

May I bathe in boredom's ennuinous ***** so that I may emerge
blessed, reborn best as salty caramel springs,
let the day spray sparing tea into me and cleanse
careless cacophony.

Burrow my body,
leave quelled, cool Calvin to play the fool
and be me for the day.

I see the students looking at me as I teach
I see their bored, dull faces
I see anxiety, and the deep, passionate boredom of angsty teens
I hear them behind me as I write on the board for them to learn

About Walt, about list-poems, and life, you see
They are whispering and think I do not hear