Every once in awhile
I can’t help
But feeling
Completely clueless

How do people see me
When I’m alone
What do I look like
Being asked to move
Knowing no one
Dosen’t help
As they all assume
I’m all alone

I feel clueless
When I don’t know what they’re saying
But I don’t ask for clarification
In fear of those patronizing looks and smiles

I am clueless
When it comes to the real world
I haven’t had enough experience
Perhaps I didn’t pay attention
When I really should have

I don’t understand
What people are going through
I don’t see the signs
That show
The fears and troubles
They are trying to fix
I just stand there
Blind
Thinking all is right
When all is wrong

I stand there
Thinking how great my life is
I don’t have big troubles
School, grades
Thats it

Still clueless
Still oblivious
I doubt I’ll learn.

In pressing times truth oft' lies so oppressed
And falsehoods rouse to speak in joyed debate
That burdens brought to bear upon the breast
Might anchor nought but will of one testate

What courage leant upon a graven guest
Not thrift of fear in bearing of his fate
But silent as all untruths so expressed,
Except to cry with cursed tongue, "More weight!"

when your head throbs from repeated blows to the wall I will be the pillow you lie on
in the quiet of the night when you can hear your thoughts
and the absence of light makes it sound like they are screaming.
I will be the wind that whispers you to sleep.
when the world shakes beneath you and you find it hard to stand I will be the bed where you find solace.
if the dark seems to paint faces you tried to forget
I will be the light you turn on

There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block

From the time I first recognized
The presence of a painful hold
Upon my heart, I realized
That sadness can sometimes feel cold.

Chills can spread throughout your body,
You can't utter a single word.
This torment almost seems ungodly,
Your mind and soul soon start to blur.

Why I have to acquaint myself
With such woeful misery
Just seems so unnecessary,
A bleak and pious mystery.

It's not like anybody else
Would consider it as fair,
But still, I know somebody's there
To help me flee this ****** despair.

The love of your life, beloved friend,
Endearing, caring counterpart,
The one who always will depend
On the unity of your hearts

Will nurture you the best they can
Until you're ready to return
To the life both of you began,
Free of the shackles you once spurned.

Wherever we decide to go,
There's something I'll forever know:
Inside my heart, you have a place
No foulness could hope to erase!

To be classifiable, she nervously applies the cake to her nostrils
While splinters stick in her fingertips. 30. To be a woman she
Harvests necrotic insects and dances in Warhol underpants.

I explain how gravity loves the catalogue of your unique hollywood
Romances. Each train takes a new storyline through the ****** treetops
And counterfeit addictions she poises herself in to seem attractive to
Each magazine under her daddy's workbench.

Being a woman is more than big ***** and paint for brains. Some skins Cling to the reels of the love language sprinting through historical Venetian street settings. I smoke ***** with wizards.

For the first time I witness the acatalepsy of the Irish, but narrowly
Passing the beguiling succor that renders the whim of persons
In the acronychal hours.

I'm telling you your hands are my new exoskeleton. I take to you
With the excitement of gravity. New denude photographs of pallor
Fleshes upstay the human trials we are blessed to share in this open sky,
Where I warn the blues of the sky to be jealous of these sciophilous Women who experience the unyielding pressure to feel the pleasures
Our confabulations offer acushla.

The times are young
And the times are tough
The mountain man sews his cloth
The winter is gonna be rough.
He palms the sweat from his brow
Out the window he surveys his plow
Jagged rust
Scratched iron's reaction to snow
By the pond lies his cow
His beloved bovine Big Brown
And he recalls the calf, after birth, lying on the ground
The mountain man sighs in desperation
His wife and daughter with gaunt faces warm their skinny bones by the fire
The cast shadow paints them like death
Flies swirling in their breath
And the mountain man grabs his gun.
With heavy heart, and heavy boot he trods the winter mix,
Jagged soles so as not to slip.
A single tear steams as it strolls his face.
Two shells in their homes
Aims the barrel to the brown beast's nose.
Past the eyes, antlers reveal with grace.
He pulls the trigger and the snow is painted red.
The animal falls dead.
He turns to the house and sees his daughter through the window peer,
Notices the anticipation on her face
And gives God grace for the deer that took Big Brown's place.