passports, abstracts, and cigarettes
i swear it was all just for the aesthetics
thin walls, smoke screens, and window tints
we crawled through one just for the hell of it

it's nineteen and nose rings, i got asked for an id
we're twenty-one in jersey, you like my con artistry
i borrowed a street sign and failed to book an uber ride
everything is so much messier than i would've liked

i tired of people pleasing, and you never reply
we don't really need to talk about it
i try my best to not really think about it
said that i'm conceited, hedonistic, manipulative

but some nights i just want to drink until i start to lie
see, if coping was a job and paid an hourly wage
i'd be working overtime, id have a career drive
and i'd be a millionaire after six shots, or maybe five

My heart beats fast
There’s another email blast
Did not even break my fast
Until when this will last?
I want to sleep so badly
But even in my dreams it’s deadline I see
Until when I’m gonna be
As busy as a bee

Reusing old graves

Some of your own blood

Nectar of your soul

To build this nest

This stinging canister

An assembly line of skeletal remains and burning wings

Pushing little armies on the left

Pulling little armies on the right

To march themselves out of existence

Life is a pesticide

Kills the flowers

Kills the connections

Keeps you working overtime

Just to hold on to a place where you can shuffle off this mortal coil

So.
Love on a piece of crumpled paper, sitting on the couch.
Bare and Obvious.


Dirt on faces and calves.
Dust on clothes made of rags, rage, sorrow, disease and fear.
We refused to give this paper away.
Afraid we would get *****.
afraid we would get humiliated because no one else would give it.

.This paper, still crumpled in our hands.
We refuse to give it to those who didn't deserve it.
we refuse to give it to those who need it.
we all need it.

So this love sits on the couch of our hands.
waiting.
obvious.
waiting to dip it's way into hearts...

I wrote a lot today it seems
In just my mind through working mayhem
Without a pause to jot the thoughts i thought
I didn't have a pad to pen,
so when I had a chance to write them, sadly, I forgot.
Most days, I'd say, I have a lot on my chest
If I don't wash them off, they slowly infect
The inner rind of my brain, I rewind and replay
But when Ryan writes it out, no dismay just joy
Making me not such a dull boy, leave the work
And go play.
That's the opposite of Jack, I'd say.

They say not to judge a book by its cover,
Others say trust instincts overall
Yet I say that instincts are synonymous to covers
Either way I'll shake your hand and say "Good day" .
But speaking of covers i cut the front page of books
And glued one to each the other in order to make all agree,
Then I went with my gut and started to read.
Don't bother making sense and forget being tense
For in the future perfect, i will have still been correct.

I'd often agree to take time to see through eyes
Other than my own,
Imagine the times so concentrated, now as an adult grown.
Still I lose, in the most humble defeat,
No sir, I cannot walk a single block in your shoes,
For i have such small feet.

My mother likes to hang bells
On the front door,
And I always wondered
What they were for.

They would jingle
Whenever someone
made entry,
and glitter
With the light
from the lamppost
On the street.

But they became dull
Hanging all day,
And the giggling clatter
Mulled and dulled
to a brassy bray.

Mom has a small wedding bell
Of a silver boy
Holding flowers
With a smiling grin.
He’s asking her to ring him
And bring back memories.

But father’s guitar glistens
Whilst the sun lays low.
With one pluck
The vibration hums
Smooth and mellow.

But can you hear it
Sitting on the steps?
This house is so large
But there still lays unrest.

And through The corridor
Clacks the patter
Of greyed canine feet.
But some of us
Lay silent
And reap the past
From the sounds
That do dare speak.

the living room clock
Drones with That of a distant chime,
Because the living arrangements
Have changed overtime.