Poetry is for those who write it,
not for those who read it.

Music--
a heartbeat of
the infinite universe!

I. There exists only the Fractal.
II. The Fractal contains itself.
III. Everything else is derived.

Dear Beebabe,

I know you're not feeling well
The torrent of your own mind can become
The dagger that slices you and makes you frail
But it will end soon, then you'll hum
To find that you never really left home

And when that day arrives
I'll be by your side
And then you'll ask, where did I get these knives?
And then I'll say, they came from the wide
Hole in your mind

When you're recovered
You won't remember the day
That these knives did more than smothered
The bright flame that makes you sway
Your hips when you're feeling gay

The slits in your consciousness
Won't compare to the inner you
That resides in my blessedness
You will ask, why did you allow me to chew
On my beebro? Dear, you seem so renewed!

I'll reply, because even though
You're not my flesh and bone
You're own love for me saw me through
The weeks you sat on depression throne
I knew that one day you'll find your way home

That you never did leave.
I saw you through these hard times
Because I knew your mind would cleave
To see my own heart and soul chime
In the tune that makes you mine.

And mine you are
And shall never not be
Because you mean more to me
Than my very own bare
Heart, soul, and mind
Given solely to us, the beebro three

I'll hear you say, I'm soory
I didn't mean to make you woory
I guess I just choose my own folly
That bittersweet throne, golly!
I'll say, dear, miss molly

Tonight we take the trolley
Climb aboard, we'll go rolling
Through the hills to make you see fully
And not pretend we represent Fern Gully
And you'll see that depression is just a bully

That in the end, will never,
Ever,
Change the you inside

Live in your moment now.
Your mind will heal tomorrow.

But for today rest in the knowledge
That I've also been through the sludge

Today I just hope to be
The bright light for you

That you miraculously were for me.

With love and compassion,
Signed therein:

Me, your soulmatage.

I don't want to write. I'm not in the mood.
But I have to do it. It's a thing I do.
So, sorry y'all. You'll have to bear with me.
I can't even get drunk right now. Oh the misery.
If you want to skip the *******,
Click down to the ******* squiggley.
I write when the overwhelming reality
Of post-happiness and emptiness surrounds me,
Drowns me in the grip of the undertow
Issuing from all those things I knew
And wouldn't let go of. So they grew
To be stones immovable, the blue
Churning to make room for their slow
Descent into the unknown.
All this is, is my effort to make a bubble.
Whether to signal for help or help myself,
I don't know. I guess whichever is less trouble.
The lovable, down-on-his-luck, real distant
Misfit who knows exactly how to fit in.
I suppose that's me, if you choose to believe
This is me that I'm being. I won't be
Fooled so easily. For indeed I am the fool,
The fool who used his hands
To take food from other lands
And ran on his two feet
After kicking something sleeping.
Something sleeping selflessly.
Something sleeping just for me.
Hell I had to wake it up,
I'm not worth a price so steep.
Everyone should have their chance.
I ****** mine up, so **** me.
~
I told you all to bear with me.
If you've stuck around, that's nice to see.
I don't care either way, the point this is making
Is no point at all. I just need to write.
It's like pressure being taken off a really filled balloon.
It's like somehow quieting down a goin-ape-**** baboon.
Take one is always great, until you record over it with take two.
My lines aren't always great, but you'll snort em up anywho.
I know, I'm all over the place. But these words, they stick like glue.
Maybe that's why I need to write. Maybe that's why I hate it, too.
They never seem to come out right. These words hardly fit any shoe.
Yet, I need something, somewhere to start.
Bleeding heart poet? I'll play the part.
Evolve like a **** to a shart, and become
A mean-spirited thing. A bled heart sum.
A regular in the slums
Breathing trash-burn oxygen.
Looking up at the sun
Wondering where my moxy went.
Burdening my pen,
Which shifts it to the page;
Estranged from the tangle
Now, this unaimed auto-ramble.

I suppose everything should have an end
If only to leave openings to begin again.
But knowing me, I'll probably nail my shin
And fall to the ground, oo-ing and ahh-ing when
It's time for me to get off the stage.
Just take a look at my life, any page.
You'll probably wonder how I've survived on such a wage.
Well, I'm thrifty, *******. I'm insane.
I'm like a perfectly fine cat, but with mange.
You won't touch me, but my own kind will still play.
And if you do, my disease spreads like a plague
And consumes you until there's nothing left but disdain.
Please try to pet me so I can run away.
I want all the attention, without any of the danger.
I know you've fed me....like, every single day.
But that doesn't change that we are both predators.
And that hand that feeds will meet catastrophe
If it happens to wander too close to me.
Cliche time: it's not you. It's me.

So I write and while I'm writing
I find the signs of my demise
Comforting in light of my shortcomings
Falling in place along these lines