I  had the chance to have a conversation with a madman .
But I never was a fan of talking to myself besides I had nothing new to say.
We often find ourselves trapped lost in worry over what others may think.

I truly never gave a **** .
Call it ego call it whatever you care to because I wont be listening to begin with.

The only critic that matters is the one that stares back at you in the mirror.

Torn
From what,
"The word" states
And what,
I AM...

To be gentle
Is wise,
And yet
I have
Aggressively
Anxious
Hands...

I don't want
To be a fool,
What i do  
I create
A need to have...

So out of necessity
I hide away
I hope
You understand.

-iT
Doesn't care,
iT
Wants
To Be lost
In iT self...

-with all iTs distractions
Peripheral visions
Collideoscope
The heart felt....

+ diluting
All that's around
iT
Can't comprehend
The ágape...

+ so iT
Crashes
Head on
In hopes
iT's purpose
Properly translates...

- push
stampedes
To shove,
When the blind
Brush along the walls.

-Occasionally
Bursting off the ceiling
When
There's nothing left
to stand on...

+Offense
Shouldn't be taken,
For that in which
You know not
There of.

+sadness
The constant passenger,
iT
Continues to love...

A stanza a day keeps my depression away
But a broken heart fuels my ways
I surround myself with the misfits and the corrupted because misery loves company and I hate being alone
I smoke cigarettes because I know they ****
Slowly but surely
Only time will tell
I twist my feelings into words
I spill them on this page
For the whole world to read
It is my only escape

No future is set in stone, pages are blank make the story how you want it to be don't listen to what other people may say. It's your life live it the way you want. Don't be scared or worried about the future focus on now and here what's going on. Worry about the present and what you have now because you never know when one day it will all disappear

It's a question I dreaded as much as any  other .
It was always a simple one to ask and often the hardest most ******* annoying question to answer.

They seldom cared it was more like what they were expected to ask and I loathed the looks they gave when they asked it.
It was a mix of this idiot doesn't even make sense  how could he be anything more than a ***.
That and well guess there's no need in asking does he work for a living.

My answer was always the same and it seldom was the answer  they themselves thought they wanted to hear.

I write about life.

How do you mean?, they would always ask confused as I was on how to answer this simplistic question.

I write about the people that fill the bar the ones that judge outside the bar, the women long since who have become bitter and the drunks who are just happy to catch a buzz.

I write bout the ******* who thrive off the misery of others and the cruel ******* who break those same ******* all the same.
I write  about myself cause I truly don't give a **** to know about you .

I just write because I exist.
And I write for I am a writer .


I paused to see the look that although the face was different the look was all to familiar.

Umm okay well I wish you the best.
The woman said as she turned and simply walked away wishing only to distance herself from the man who she could not tell if he was insulting her or just to caught up in his own ******* to give  a dam to begin with.

I had to laugh to myself for even though I was far from a people person sometimes I wish only to know this answer to this ******* question that followed me like some dark cloud.

My work always spoke for itself but it thrived separate from the man few people truly know .

And with me I always preferred to be distant from the reader.
I had been writing for as long as I could remember but those around me would truly have no clue if you asked them about my work.

And honestly that's how I prefer it.
The pen and the page hold magic and me I simply hold a drink.

Two forces that exist as one but make no mistake are greatly separate by design .

I would rather people know the illusion than the fool behind the curtain.

For when after they read the  writer.
Seldom if by some strange chance we met did they ever ask so what do you write?

I want to write a poem about
                    how
the poems I write are personal now.
I want to write a poem about
why this has become so.
I want to write a poem
explaining
                    how
everywhere my complaining is heard
through my type-work
my mind becomes a big ole ****
and shoots me down.
Ya know, I was once I flying bird.
Who could live outside of herself, while also bringing out the within
This
               is
                                too
                                            personal.
That I cannot r e s t, enjoy
the characters
I've created with the beater of my chest
or a song
or a quote
or a word.
                 instead
Into the paper I come out.
                               It
                    is
           too
personal.
When I cannot seem to
let it go
to let me go
and free my inner me's in pieces and in bits
instead.
Instead of dramatic fits, and murders of lines--
virtual ink inclined to think like me and respond
to this tip, tap tying.
Oh
I               am               too                 personal
With this bit, and that bit.
Of me.
And no more, do my stories reign
The randomness is replaced with madness or glee
whatever feeling I feel, in the poem
it is therefore connected to me.
I'm connected to every word.
I want to write a poem, that not speaking for me.
I want
             to write a poem.
I want
                    to write
I want
to              not

       be

so

personal.

Drawn blood,
From crossed lines.
It never fails,
The amount climbs.
The walls mark,
Targets; future sales,
Truth be told,
or it be written in brail.
The heart will always feel,
because tender, tend to fail.