Here we go
Another testament of what we already know
Just for show
So that the unbelievers will be put back in the quiet zone.
That's what is right?
That's what's in his write?
And to put people in their place is something that is his right?
And here he is pointing his little fingers at the other man,
The same fingers that pick his boogers on the same pointers on the other hand.
And he wants all those around him to understand?
When he cant stand
While his temper rises and nostrils flare as his eyes expand.
Tell me this, tell me this,
When did the solution to the polluted arguments turn to breaking wrists
Over the back and forth action of battling opposites
Who wait for their friends to chime in and throw them some compliments.
"It's only common sense."
"It's only civil defense."
"I'm trying to prove that everyone's wrong and I'm the one in perfect tense."
Sadly
We all gladly
Trade our thoughts for emotion and want to get rid of truth so badly.
We turn to insanity and sadly we're in love so madly.
I don't throw shade but I stay under my shady tree.
Pass me the plate of fries but don't you dare give salt to me.
You see I'm free,
I don't need some validation from my anger to give me Identity.
So finish up your childish games,
It's time for dessert, but your still stuck on your tiny screen.

You could  blame everyone
Knowing you're the one at fault
You could taste the bitterness
A lifetime supply of salt

don't change your flavour
so that other people can eat you up.

Sometimes, a poem is a letter
and this one is for you.

Living your open life
under Irish woolen skies,
dreaming of having
a candle shop by the sea.

"It's a dream that'll
never come true."
you say,
and that may be so.

Still, I can see it.

Latticed windows, on either side
of a deep blue door, a myriad of
little candles, nestled in thick glass jars,
glimmer purple, and beckon to the passerby.

Outside, a salty wind carries on
all by itself, about where it has been,
and where it is going.

You smile at the sound, looking beyond
your quiet thoughts. The blue door opens.
A new friend has just come to see you.

Too much alone
Too much afraid
Too much unknown
Too much paid

To let us go
By the way
For no show
So they say

Could I tell you a story
Ole storyteller
Like bees buzzing flowers
With some honey on hive's mind

It's a modern tale
That has sat sail
All sewn up
At a rate of knots

That black book
Bought with blood money
Dares to say it holds a name
Spar - with these throat barnacles
(Alternately feeding and fighting With their feet)
bowsprit [bee block]
know your ropes, carried away deep six

It's a thieves cat o nine tales
Captain of chewing the fat
Or combing the cat
I've never seen (one) better

Dunnage topping a tonnage
From that trusty barrage
I'm everything on top and nothing handy
An eye splice on a short rope
Given and giving leeway

Haven't got a clew for true whence such hails from

...
So... She measures faces with her heart and hands
And a camera lens for a few

Hold me
Like I'm the most fragile thing
You have touched
One breath
And I'll shatter
And I'm all
That is keeping you alive


Hold me
As if
The whole world has turned into a dark, cold ball
And I'm the only lamp light
You must save from the breeze


Hold me as if
You are the  hurricane
Leaving a path of wreckage behind
And I'm the only thing
You intended to keep
In one-piece

Hold me as if
Stars are oozing out of me
From where I should be bleeding
And you try to find the exit hole
But you get fascinated by my stars instead
And you stand there
Perplexed and mesmerized equally

He held me,
As if I was the last flower blooming
In his garden
Salty and hence, infertile
From the tears all the other wilting flowers had cried

It's late enough already.
Scrubbing your gamepad, salty at A.I.,
thinking of cleaning metaphorically;
Scrubbing behind your ears.
Scrubbing behind the skull.

Contemporary 80's synth-rock in both ears,
I wish I knew what you were singing about.
I wish I knew who you longed for,
I wish I knew what you did, where you were,
on evenings like this when you can only

think

of the people you wish you were closer to.
Skin and talk out of touch. Imagine;
Conversations imagined aren't enough.
Words you wish were out loud
will eat your sorry *** alive.

16-bit racial stereotypes onscreen
pummel each other to mush faced
ground meat caricatures.

Groove like a shark trapped in a box,
make yourself sharp to the touch,
then make yourself tangible.
Absence lets the shoulder grow colder,
but this?

Things imagined and wished for.
Fantasies a child would seek,
pulling the words off of your tongue
An apology, a love letter, a eulogy
/vulgarities and praise as bedfellow.


Words you wish were spoken
will eat your sorry *** alive.