and i will write and you cant stop me
for writing is the only release
in words emulating me i find peace
in the sweet sound of syllables that make sense
to me, and you may question and scare from it
like a skink from a light beam you curse
and i swear for it, for these words are
obsolete without pain to accompany me
whenever i may leap into a pit of self sacrifice
these phrases make sweet sense to me
and fall out of my head as a rolling pin to
a slab of raw meat i cant help how you feel
but to me these words are what make me feel
what pride could be in the face of adversity.

to wait for your rebuttal
as i confess my adversity
is as redundant as to
wonder weather a wave
will join the shore
and break away into
a fragment of froth
or to wait for happiness
to reappear in the picture of
the man in the grainy frame
that you keep around
'just in case'
i wait for your sigh
or an indifferent attempt
at making me feel
like i matter
but i see you look straight
through me at the mantelpiece
where you once kept your feeling
the dust accumulates
then say
'it will be okay'

youdon'twanttobelikeme
consciously wasting away at the ripe age of 17
smoking to savor the sensation of decay
******* in the graveyard of dreams
or going to vinnies to pray.
youdontwanttobleedthewayido
lies upon lies. im lying now
im. trying to lie down
but my karma is unbalanxed
and i cant feel the sweet release of sleep anymore
so i sit down and weep ashey tears of the mouth
to keep my tastebuds alive.like its the decayi need
while my mind runs 6 feet underneath

...and all i have, the air i breath

i will plug, and diverge into
a manifestation of memory.

you have overstayed your welcome
and im overdressed for summer
but its ok to sit here at this summit
and wonder, will there be another
because you know i do too
but we both feel the strain
from reaching out over mountains
to fumble at eachother
even when the sky is clear

and the wind is at our ears
im sorry ive never seen winters
sheen or autumns eyes
because
summer has never ended
and i cant bear another season
of tears

some notions take flight
from the current of time
pinky curled in the dank
soil of my own pigs pen
cells shed and die programmed
by something undeniable
some people were there
on just incident
malnourished sleepwalkers
searching for the seed
grandmothers mothers
wedding veil turns to ashes while
dust accumulates at the tips
of my fingers like
a silent promise.