There were two little cats
whose job was to chase bugs and rats.
Sue was frisky. Lou was was lazy.
Sue would chase things with glee
while Lou would rather sleep softly.

They'd sit on the porch.
Sue would light up like a torch
waiting for prey to arrive.
Lou found sleep as a way to survive.

Their owner was an older woman
who would pet them with her soft, wrinkled hand.
She was proud of Sue and Lou
for all what they could do.

Now the old woman didn't know about Lou.
That sleep was all she would do.
Sue thought Lou was no good.
That she shouldn't get what she should.

They were fed the same
and attention that came.
Sue didn't understand
why they received the same love from this woman.

The old woman sat on the porch swing.
She would pet Lou as she'd sing.
Sue came in.
She was determined to win.

The old woman picked up Sue
and continued to pet Lou.
She petted the two
and told them she loved them for what they could do.

She said to Lou, "I love you when you sleep."
She said to Sue, "I love you even with the rats you keep."

"I love you for who you are
even as I am an old char."
The cats cuddled with her
despite how different they were.

Brew tragedy tea
and drink without
tasting it.
Keep checking the meaning of
'forever',
in case it's been redefined
in less absolute terms.
Shiver through the heatwave and watch
the colour bleed out of the summer.
Dig a hole that won't be deep enough.
Shower off the crazy sweat and grave dirt
and pretend like maybe
you'll do the dishes.
Rupture your inner workings
as you scream at the universe
for ******* up so badly.
Lapse into the cold, sterile embrace
of catatonia, grateful
to feel nothing for a while.
Cry so long and so hard you forget
why you're crying,
then remember and cry
longer and harder.
Try brokering a deal with fate's
Appeals Department: offer
your organs, your eyesight,
however many years off your life,
to get him back.
Search for meaning and find none.
Rage against the perversity of it all.
Howl that death shouldn't feel derivative.
Remind yourself that this
isn't just a sick joke.
Hate Elisabeth Kübler-Ross for being right
and yourself for being so generically human.
Realise how little
knowing helps.
Reacquaint yourself with anhedonia.
Try not to hate the blue sky
or the birds who have returned
to sing in his back garden.

It is time to change the way things are, scratch that smell from our noses, like **** in a bottle chucked out the window while going 90,

The free fall fogs up the glasses on a blushed face, 40oz till we down the sound of crying,

Lie across the ocean
Lie across the land
Send truth over and watch it slip through the cracks,

Breached news of frustration calls "Canada is coming, what the **** is America doing,"
We do our best to travel against all odds, piloting a spoon made of silver into a greedy pocket originally meant to feed those eating mud pie, baking in an ever dying sun as fish float up to the surface,

Choking down the salt water to avoid drill, give them a gun instead, it will protect our false memories and concocted purpose,

This was paid for by ink soaked bones working in minimum oxygen to the brain, featured on rolls of film stripping off clothes covered in lust,

Taking hold of a crowd with merely this voice, conducting an audience with bed knobs and broomsticks, rhythmically grinding the **** awry, taste this sun from the lips of a fairy, mystical or not we were there to receive,

Open our hearts via chaos trained messages, massaging back pains to the point of tears, electromagnetism therapy causing the lights around the dance floor to flicker, moving at incomprehensible speeds relating colors between points B to Z,

On numbered grids the scale is curved to fit the description of another one biting the dust,
And as we finally rest on cold stones the Panic sets in.

Why can't my liver filter thoughts like it does with alcohol?

It would save me the trouble of all the money I've spent to free myself of bad decisions,

There is so much formality within a sober moment, while my drunkenness speaks freely,

My brain doesn't erase moments like alcohol does, yet my liver puts up a fight reminding me to think,

Fantasizing over an image created by theses slurred and blurred overzealous eyes,

I am attracted to bars like teachers are to mls style, and to this day I'm still not sure which one has been more beneficial.

Looking down the road of allowing glass, I measured my state of mind to pick my poison,

Tequila adds a flower to a withering soul, ***** snuffs out the light where it gets to bold, whiskey fakes the fight with its bros, while gin loosens the bones and wine your emotions, at last we have beer a truth serum more powerful than love,

What they all take is feeling, a small price to learning what we see in the refection is really something we refuse to collude with.

My liver is always amazed, the amount of control I give to it, whilst the hand with a drink in it stays steady,

The other acquires shame, controlled by a freedom of released inhibitions,

If I could escape the safety of the dinner lights for the missing love that I thought drive me here,

My liver is alone, in the battle, like one soldier who's realized that their command center threw them into a death trap and their enemies are mindless zombies of fallen memories,

My toast is not alone, followed by smiles and condolences, significant enough to convince everyone, maybe one more.