Waking to feel the weight of the void
you left when you left me behind.
Searching restlessly for any remaining
sense of you in these god forsaken sheets.
Plowing mindlessly through the memories
scorched into my mind - branded forever yours.
Will there be an ever after?

Shoals of salmon on an upstream rush,
a frenzy propelled by an instinctual wish,
the milling evening crowd does siege the street,
one'd think it is a riot, all hopes to be sane is already lost.

Not soldiers on march, they are,  but within each
rages a war, not exactly knowing what they want to search,
this street has it all, hence all blindly flow along the stream
greedy green eyes hunt, splurge, conquer,vent steam.

Look for the labels, brand is sacrosanct,the only pointer
once the libels are spotted, in to the brain enter, the deal is done
smile, be contended, evade every other thought,
why waste time on value judgement,pointers assure delight.

Salmon on the stream never look for happiness,
a clock work motion that culminates in nature's prompt.
nowhere in this broad street you'd find a shop that sells-
happiness; but all search for it, without even aware.Fail.

It wasn't until I caught myself writing poetry about you that I realized it.
You are intoxicating.
You make every hair on the back of my neck stand up.
The thought of you alone gives me goose bumps.

I want to feel you on my lips.
On my neck.
On my thighs.
Every bone in my body aches for your touch.

Maybe it's a warning.
The alarm sounding.
No longer out of order from the last storm.
Trying to tell me that if I let you into every part of me,
Nothing will be left of me when you leave.

Everyone leaves.
They imprint their perfect fingers on every inch of me.
They trace my body with their touch,
And they let their scent give me a high.
Then they walk out that door and never come back.

I don't ever want you to leave.
I need you to hold me together when all I want to do is fall apart.
Keep me afloat when all I want to do is drown.
Kiss me when all I want is to feel alive.
Keep my hands tight around the promises you make when I think there's nothing left to hold on to.

I stopped commenting on airy internet objects long ago
lest it be a needed praise of some starving artists’ work
or in response to a worded response of my own work

It’s just such a waste of time to tell a million view band
they “rock” or they “****”
All I will incite is defenders or refuters of my claim
who are just as petty as me

As an immature high schooler, that’s just what I wanted
The modern version of my dead grandfathers
with their white shirts, blue jeans, and duck *** hair
Driving from the city to hick school dances
just to pick fights

I once typed lines of **** talk on Elvis videos from the 1970s
just to see what would happen
- Nothing much
My grandfathers are dead and no one’s left to defend The King
I’m not so tough, but I felt scrappy then just the same

Now, with my lowly little job
my first world laptop and my glasses
Sipping coffee and mellowed out
I read some comments to see what people feel
about an article on my generation
How we’re more corporate than ever
bamboozled by a guise of fake uniqueness

Sure, I agree with the critique in the article
if you can even call it an article
People get paid for three lines of an opinion,
sometimes a link, and then the real entertainment's in the comments
Where can I get in line for this ******* job?
Not the commentors, their labor’s free
I mean the three lines guy, it sounds too easy

“Don’t ya get it yet, son”
My grandad chuckles
“His job’s just corralling all those comments,
inciting easy debate,
and getting advertising clicks”

He shook his head
went up through the roof
and his twenty-year-old jeans
ended in a wispy swirl
But I couldn't help noticing
they were name brand

I used to make my parents proud,
I used to be the glue that keep my friends together,
now I don't even know
who I am.

(m.v.a)

I will brand you like a farmer brands his cattle.
My lips will burn marks on your flesh, claiming you as mine.