minding care of sun
i step outside cautiously
finding repulsion

observe the day golds
refolds in time proceeding
i flee ; propulsion

arbor shield timely
stop-rest inner ******
heartbeat, kind pulsion

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   (or 2 employ more outdated term zoftig)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

maybe we are like the opposite
ends of the same magnet
perfectly designed for one another
but never meant to touch.

you ask, "why i haven't killed myself?"

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.