with no more words to say,
nothing left to do,
i shall die in a whimper

the blue sky covers the world
bespeckled with white clouds,
it meets the water and transforms,
far and near it travels
calmly but surely
shallow yet deep,
soon the sky becomes
pink
and orange
and yellow
and many other hues,
the water reflects the sky
as its companion,
as the sky turns black
and fills with stars
the water does as well
in a harmonious slumber.

There is a kind
Of love
That walks to you
Slowly
Passes by unseen
Unnoticed
You will discover years
Later
How much it helped you
Believe in yourself

I feel my thoughts,
of feelings felt,
cannot let go, its still
there, poetry isn't helping

in that stillness moment i, questioning
why people stare through (and stare within, staring through)
that fuzz or mush like their covered window panes (staring within, staring through)
that shy window pane that turns

eeyoyvrbd   e r o e b y v y d   e  e  y  y  o  d  b  r  v

so that i (staring in, staring at) may roam in

eybdoryoyebordyoevydebdbeyodebedyobyobye

turning my mind to that fuzz and static, becoming fogged window pane
to look out (and stare) like rain droplets caressing
so rough they fall to pound that pavement
pavement so coarse and electric like the peppered mountain range
where i stand
my shoes fill like leaking boats
to roam, to wander, in that desolate diorite range (staring within)
questioning (staring through) as time joining
disappearing
as headache turns everybody to everything turns

eybd   oryoy        ebordyoev  ydeb       dbeyodebe           dyobyobye
ebdoybeod       ebdoeboy debot     vverbdyodv   verdbey    odbver  vebsrobe      ybddoeb

Bukowski had it
the writing shoots from my soul
I don't care about babies or puppies
or rhyming anymore

Give me a fat cigar
and a deep whiskey
and I can write you a sonnet
of ******* and
write you a love poem
I do not mean

I smoke
I drink
I type what comes out
and I'm tired of hearing about tulips and butterflies

If you think you've got it all figured out
but you're working a job you hate
then the only thing you've figured out
is that you don't know what to do

You don't know that life is about living
that money is necessary, but awful
and that truly living is actually about living

Do you thing the trees give half a ****?
do you think that the flowing rivers care about internet speed?
do you think that your facebook friends would show up at your funeral

If only the world would shut down
if the digital, virtual world would stop
I'd grab a number 2 pencil and write
and jab a hole in the brain of modern society

and it would bleed money
it would bleed greed
it would bleed capitalism and success

and it would die
instead of my worn out soul

trying to swim in a sea of useless information
and overload
a sea of virtual *****

and then I would truly live

the days may seem long poetry,
but ive lived more in
the words i write, than anywhere else

to poetry,
i want to do more than
catching feelings,
just to write them in poetry

no one cries over spilled milk
i do
well, it must not be over spilled milk, then?
no
that can’t be right
but it is

i cry over spilled milk
how could you not
some cry over spilled brains
spilled milk is my weakness
evoking the deepest sadness
a trying entity
spilled milk is life
a perfect crystal glass
shards everywhere
piercing my heart
watering my eyes
jading my soul
milk is creamy white dreams
like the creamy white cloud fortress
in a creamy white heaven
all over my kitchen counter