They stand with their hands in their pockets.
One man adjusts his mesh cap, an excuse.
Something tiny, precious, real bleeps furiously through cargo khakis.
He types expertly with one finger and smiles chapped lips to himself.
Leaning against the uneven coffee counter, he reaches for his latte
and walks out the door with his fashion twin and best work friend:
grown men who assimilate in substandard choices to fit-in
years past high school.

We're ripping with silence
woven through our tar veined cardboard skin,
falling falling falling apart
because our scars are unseen
and all our lost battles are faded
and distant.
They don't matter
because it was all in the past.
Standing before our unhealed eyes
is a lonely avenue
littered with forgotten memories
because all our past
is a constant hue of gray almost alive,
almost tangible so potent
that it fissures our bones
so deep that we unhinge,
falling into incomplete remnants
of what we once were.
You can't help that your desires are inhuman.
I'll fit my hand into the imprint of yours
and tell you that it's okay
if you don't want to be human anymore
because I know it is hard.
But I'm your tether
anchoring you because you can't see,
that the higher you fly
the harder will you fall.
And I can't let you break
because I promised once
that I'd be there when you fail
to stand straight.
I never told you the truth
that I wouldn't be able to see
the tears shining in your eyes
with an unrevealed anguish.
Someday maybe I'd tell you
how I'd want to die.
I want to die when you're with me
because you're the last face I want to see
before I fall into the void. This time for ever.  
I want to die with your pale moonhands
tucked in my trembling fingers.

don't tell me how to write poetry or how to write stories or how to write at all. don't tell me there's a rhyme or reason to this; don't tell me that i should be using iambic pentameter or separating each line into delicate sestets or  molding metaphors out of things that were never intended to be meaningful. don't tell me that there are rules i need to follow and that nothing i ever make will be precious and valuable and wholesome unless it conforms to the artistic, intellectual way of doing things because i am not artistic and i am not intellectual and i will write however i please because my writing is imbedded layers beneath my skin, so far down i could never tear it out in any way that wasn't raw or real or rustic. don't make those parts of me insincere simply to hold them to ideals set by different old writers in older times with different old feelings and dreams and beliefs than mine. don't tell me how to write. don't tell me how to not be me.

I write best at two a.m, or whatever time is less convenient.
Irksome really, why only these hours my words become brilliant.

It could be the hour, or just the bottle I've picked.
Or on one of those nights, maybe the **** I ripped.

Whatever it was that sirred up my thoughts
Whether it was the drugs or the tequila shots,
It's always two a.m when the process starts.

I held a pencil
the other day
and the magic of passion
took my hand to paper
and my mind
to places
that I wish
to share
with you

Some people,
write from the heart

While others
still, write from life

Still, others
do, think-out first

Yet to,
some, the world; joke.

The World is a Joke.

The Heart, is emotion,

The World is a Joke.

Are you Laughing?

or,

...are you,

Writing?

It's funny
that inspiration
only knocks on
the doors of your mind
in times of heartache
in times of heartbeats
but never
in times of peace
... and as twisted as it sounds
I like that