As I breathe in The city exhales As I breathe out The city inhales My heart beats To the ticking of Pedestrian signals Which none of us obey To parking meters I dedicate time unpaid From the saintly hobos Who avoid my stench To the college girl *** I dare not to pinch The bar drains my pocket Traffic signals my soul Just like the woman Who left me so long ago To the city, my **** To the city, my soul
this mere mortal frequently feels: a. like joost another brick in the wall or b. feels comfortably numb while alienated in this condemn nation with the sounds of silence
written on the virtual subway hall n wishes he could escape (like that eponymous spoon running away with the tine e fork) 2 the dark n far side of the moon jumping without Humpty Dumpty fear 2 fall.
joost as an *** side (wit me only intent 2 *** till late) let me playfully close this email by readily admitting that voluptuous women with plenty of junk in the trunk (or 2 employ more outdated term zoftig) does readily prompt a top notch rating of google times ten
for those queen of denial big a$$ bot tum gals who possess buxom build plus smart n able 2 understand how 2 cosign via trig anyway, for your edification, i wish for nada qua non one snarling day vid growl joining me in monogamous ****** gig which latter mental ability
might not in the least matter 2 moost men unsure if my poetic reply you will find *** abominable bore or be prompt an oh bomb in a bull barrack 2 dig this common joe just biden his time but in a nutshell with no intent to be impolite,
mine eyes (no surprise nor insult meant) favor gals whose ***** happens 2 be outlandishly big in tandem to the searing roe bust english language, which this simian i.e. **** sapiens doth adore.
from::the fool on the hill, who lives along abbey road near penny lane across the street. Eleanor rigby, Mister Kite, the virtual nay burrs o this human grain plus Norwegian wood, the latter actually a great dane.
postscript: words my (ahem) pen ultimate live aim while trying 2 steer clear of reese sieving a wagging virtual finger in blame neither at some fellow nor destitute dame
since chance circumstances of existence akin to being frozen in some space/time paradigms frame attempting to extricate our selves playing lifelong game which message offer in this poem rather lame.
email moi, which means applying cerebral muscles to flex fire off a brief bull a tin i.e. preferably a brief text to TRACFONE NUMBER = 215---370--8929
I. the day she died, i remember my father telling me there are millions of good girls out there then i realized, she was the one in that million and for her, i'll stay alive for another trillion
II. my hope that one day, this pursuit of happiness will eventually peruse me to joy and success but i wear anxiety like a dress to the point i've made this whole 'killing myself thing' a mess
III. for all the heartbreaks i've endured there will be one girl that invents the cure but i reject love to the point it's lost its allure and death is the only thing that has become sure
IV. why i haven't killed myself? i am already dead. we said we'd grow up and meet in a coffee shop one day now you're gone and to see you again, my life would be the price to pay but you have reserved your soul in me, embedded like espresso in a latte push these pills away, and hear you whisper "there are other ways"
V. i outright refuse to hear my grandmother's religion talk about suicide in an ignorant manner. i rather not be the talk of Christmas dinner and rather endure my aunt's repulsive dessert than become the devil's bread-winner.
VI. why i haven't killed myself? i am already dead. i am finally starting to find love again and i'd rather the ink of this pen die before i enter Heaven's den.
VII. i can't handle seeing my brothers at my funeral hear them whisper of all my "wasted" potential then see them leave to use drugs as their coping utensil
VIII. i would get to see her again in heaven but she would bring my heart into a deep descend as she says "to me, you are forever dead."
IX. everyone would speak about my sacrifice but i wear pride and it shreds my skin like knives and god forbid, i disappoint my loved ones before i end my life.
X. why i haven't killed myself? can't you see it? i am already dead. i died the day she left and i'd rather my final words to her be the last thing i've ever said than a stupid poem about how i kept wishing i was dead.
The greatest of distances separated us, but being abrasive at best, our two rougher edges always sparked. Even when friendly, a side conversing of judgement and not-quite-resentment kept the parameters of conversation shallow and narrow minded.
Deeper inference caused interference like static in my mind, and short circuits were common even in the most civil of discussions common to other circles.
Round and round, wishes to connect and a secret bid for volatile collision kept us chasing, while a wary voice forced us to stay separated like magnets pushing and pulling.
Never did two people hate so many common things and yet repulse each other so completely.