It’s just about the same, just about all the time
The same graspy-gropey pulling-tuggery and un-buttonzippiness.
Like two eggs having to hatch all over again again and again. We question our shells.
Sometimes we’ll remember to wear packaging that comes apart easy enough,
so the present can be opened, put on the bed, beat the hell out of, and put back in its wrapper.
It seems so random.
As again again, no maybe not today, again again, so soon to see the sight of such a familiar stranger near. They fall together on sight as if shot, and tear apart the bows and strings again.

Two piles of oxygen cling and conform to one another
writhing and ceasing like a water in the wind
they get lost
and again again beating the wall with frothing endorphin's
feeding the bull and the bear
hoping to satisfy a chemical equation.
The Human element left asking, “How am I supposed to feel?”

Together they clash;
two piles of oxygen, two waves from opposing ends of a spectrum
force fit together with hopes of a harmony.
They make a new heartbeat,
and form a new flesh,
and learn to see God for a fleeting moment,
and then detach.

Cut in half they fly apart, now two distant starts on a chart
and wander as aimlessly as the many breaths expelled.
Inhale, exhale, open up, ****, **** and then ...disappear.

This speed-of-light life is made vain in so many ways.
We destroy ourselves with nature.
We **** our minds with pleasure,
and ignore truth beyond any attempts to measure.

Thus is the fate of the fleshly things.

In vain, in vain, in vain,
I cry, is a worry here,
But a tear to the eye,
In vain, in vain, in vain,
You said, is a worry here,
But a pain in the head,
For my blessing are kept,
In a box up there,
No one will rob them,
They will not tear,

You bestow at the proper time,
It’s not my place to beg and whine,
Or think that I must push on through,
Without what I need, and not with you,

In vain, in vain, in vain,
You said, is a worry here,
But a blessing bled,
Not for not was my blood shed.

a writer writes,
to ameliorate the pain
be it holy or profane
be it balanced or insane
with affection or disdain

Every word written wipes away a tear
every line, refuge from fear
a sort of self medication
a self reparation
a hopeful initiation
from a hopeless situation

every couplet,
a bleeding wound healed
every stanza,
a memory sealed

a writer writes,
to begin again
to leave behind the pain
a release from a binding chain
and that familiar refrain
in vain..

and so the writer writes..
Again..
    and Again..

Hes never been less, than clever and fresh.
The final test is to out dress,
Kanye West, in a versace vest.
Not his sunday best, but always on a quest
to add zest to his chest, and possess
clothes that leave lookers in cardiac arrest.
Always unimpressed, making days stressed.
People think hes blessed, a sickness infests,
needed bed rest, but instead felt possessed
Thoughts of civil unrest, led him to his ammunition chest

I suggest you know where the tale is going to end, my friend.

Days later he violently expressed, which led a big mess.
Forced to confess, now hes in the coocoo's  nest.
Distressed, now force to digest nasty chicken breast,
but thats what happens when you become obsessed.

The dust of confusion hangs heavy in the air
Obfuscating the vision with thick veil
Until strong wind comes to clear it away

It's five o'clock in the morning
and I'm sitting here at the bench park
-- alone and waiting.
I stared on the green grass but my mind is somewhere.
My body shivers due to the morning air.

Then, suddenly I began to ask questions
why I am here, alone and waiting?
Whom should I be waiting?
do I need to wait this long? or should I just stop waiting and go home?

Strip me from my name so I can bleed upon it in vain. I'll wear my heart on my sleeve until it freezes in the polar caps of my brain. May I lay in a pool of blood to represent all that I've sacrificed for. But in all of the end, was it worth it?