my poems are so good that they're bad. they are infinitely deep and meaningful and therefore don't mean anything at all.

The strange occurrence of love,
is one to not indulge,
in a vision with no light,
the black is a loving home,
with broken souls that become a gentle touch,
what once was blue from blurs of youth,
is grey with undignified truth,
do I ditch the spoken or the seen,
the felt or the unreality,
the body or the soul,
the heart or my cold bones,
echoes of conscious and the unwilled,
fireflies and deaths of stillness,
a mix of nothing and the scrape of something,
the lack of knowledge about my understanding,
mix of thoughts and lack of action,
seems my mind has turned into
a poisoned slushi of carnage
and
dying passion.

There's a spider in the corner
Spinning silk into structure
I'm repulsed by this intruder
Just the same I want to touch her

I watch her distrustingly
I must admit she frightens me
Weaving an intricate canopy
Above my ficus tree

She thinks she's safe there but instead
For fear she may drop on my head
I am going to have to **** her
Creepy, calculating, dead

I have a crush on death
cuz everyone loves to say they have a mentally ill friend
until we actually have symptoms they don't understand
its like
ohh you're sad all the time you poor thing
wow you're so paranoid and believe irrational things
well now you're just being difficult

Learning to fly is irrational.
Logic is trying to be something your not.

We spread lies everyday.
Just to be a shroud the illusion is gay.

How can we act?
On what is at fault, that is fact.

Can we all just use the right time.
To bring forth our sharing; our love so divine.

Can we act without prejudice?
Someone hooked on hot bliss.

Help me survive.
I call out, because the shadow has no name.

To divide and conquer.
To sacrifice blame.

Where are the answers.
As we as people keep spreading the cancer.

I want you to know that
no matter how
                irrational
                                  ­illogical
             dissociated
                                 disconnected
                 sporadic
                                 scattered
                    erratic
                           ­      brusque
          anticlimatic
                                 abrupt
        idiosyncratic
                                 volatile
   temperamental
                            and
                   ­               fickle
are your emotions.
To me,
they are valid;
they are whole;
they suffice.
Because,
you are only as absurd as you believe you are.

And absurdity's boundaries stretches linearly,
into immemorial time.