First off...
Who's the chump now?

I know.
I figured if ever, I'd have to show my true self.

I'd held hard.
And even have had a fast to hold on.

But it bit me instead.
and now I'm dead
and I never held
a head in my lap
that said:
"I Love You."

Plastic fact-based witches dug a ditch for me last night.
I never knew. I only thought I'd partied too hard.

Sentenced to a hell-hole, in basal bereavement I showed.
I showed up and store all sorts of goo.

I knew it's not funny.
But still I buried my hell-bunny
And hopped into a hellhole of sinful slop.

I flew against the wind in order to meet Mr. Wonderful this morning.

Had I known all he do was ignore, I might've had a second thought.

It's not that I hate him, or that he hates me.

He just seems so much more happy when I'm not around.

So, today I found him.

In a pile of laundry.

Soaked with **** and remorse.

It's much worse when it's him and not me.

I grabbed a knife.

I knew what I was doing.

It was a knife and sharp as ****.

I weren't not ******' round with it.

It's a deadly weapon, older than you. Older than Jesus.

You know it's true.

But I don't care,

much for me.

Or my tools.

Lucky you.

My knife is dull and not worth much more than catching
the ice cold drool of demons spiking my drink and making me think that I'm just a fool.

How hard must a heart hurt to not feel worth what you are?

How bad must you be, to be able see that you took it too far?

How sad must you feel before you can accept that it's
YOU'RE deal that makes you less happy.

How mad and ****** can you feel about you feel about yourself before you see all you're doing is being a baby?

Not long enough.

But also long enough.

It's been plenty days.

We all have had a living hell and now I have to say:
It's okay, even though it's not.
It'll be alright even if I get shot.
Everyday is fine,
and so are you.
Everything is beautiful,
and so is what you do.

I came across a patch of trail plums along my errands.

I stared at them and thought that they were real small.

So, I tried one.

And found out that size is not all congruent
with flavor.

The bigger plums were fat and nice,
a taste that I could savor.

But the greatest plum wasn't fat and right.
The greatest plum didn't light my light.

The greatest fruit was soft and subtle,
and much harder to obtain.

I climbed a hill, a fence, a mountain
To taste that fruit again.
I knew.
I understood.
That the fruit knew that I would
Climb a hill, a fence, a mountain

Just to appreciate.
Just to know that fruit can grow
In a way that I don't hate.

I held an hourglass against the sun to burn up all the bugs.
All of the little critter crawlers that buried under my skin.
They like me more at night, because I'm very warm.
So, they storm my hair hedges and burrow in my skin.

The ****** up part is that I let them in,
and allow me to be itchy all night,
all night in my dreams I sweat.
It's salty, saline regret.
And it steps inside me, over logs of happiness and hate.

I let them in to help me begin to be a better person.

And they let me know that the horrorshow is that I'm worse than ever happy memory I held and thought I still was.

I've had a plan to leave before the beginning of November,
So, Since I miffed about my privilege
I've sent a visage. Two torn bits broke apart,
and used to start a fire beneath my knees.

Spread glee and see what it does \ for you.

Fashioned air had fell apart.
Passion showed me her flag on the hill when I started.

Before I parted from being a frail little fish,
I started to miss how hard she had been on me.

I'd tried over ten days over, to master how to pick apart a pickle jar.
It's a travesty to see a grown fuddle over glass and cry.

Still, I've had a chance to see my life through brine-stained glasses.
The passage of time is an ******* who steals all your good jokes.

Instead I stay coked up and well-fed.
And I no longer bleed red.
Instead I'm a bleached blanket of white socks and sorries.
It's not how large I am.
And not only how smart.
But my language can be best felt
in all my stories.

Closeted was my emotions.
And even still,
I had posited an emotion
to stop all position and it's my mission
in my life to send my hellhole
that I live in everyday,
the hellhole that I see when I say
that my pain is sent into remission.
Bliss. and blissful buttons had finally
mustered up a wall.
Should I call you now?
Should we finally feel how we really feel?
It's not really who I am.
It's just my stupid deal.
And I dealt and felt about just everything.
Please.
Don't make me sing.

Passed on, passed over.
Held in tupperware were all of my leftovers
And everything else was kept in an envelope.

Half shown, and half covered.
I'd blown off all of my friends,
and I shove my lonely self in a shower.
It had empowered a bitter pitiful boy
to finally say how much he enjoys being alive.

I'm a chewed up, contrived overworked
salad-piece made of charcoal and avarice.
It would have been nice to be plane
and just see what every one else sees.
But that's not me.
It's a version of myself I don't ever plan to be.

MUCH

How far should our infractions set upon us pain?

How long is hell and hoow often should we feel good

Pressed upon the edges of lamp black were words.
It's absurd But so still I had to breath and convieve.
I have to live in a life where hate could take total control over me even thogh all I can see is pain. And I want to die. and you won't help. Good night! GNGNGNGNGNGN
Go to bed. Goood Night.

Greaseniness is which and when we had held air.

Pleasing is just bereivement and it's soley how much we sell air.

Blankets and coughing coughs had sloughed me on a deal.

I don't pain or run.

It's just feeling is all I feel.

I dressed in a black tie suit.
And we had situated all of us into a line.

I'd felt blessed with us.
with who we were
because all I knew was insanity.
Blame me for feeling,
but I never knew.

I never showed myself
about life.
and nothing else.
Nothing much.

I bunched up a hitch in my parts.
And I started on how far we should feel.
So I dealt with it...
and that's my deal.

Seven mentions, Seven mentions was all I had after
she died and it was up to me to check her phone.

It lessened the pain of death,
which felt right.

But also, it lessened the joy of life.

How did this happen?
Why is this happening?
What sort of deal did I do
that left a rust knife
shoved into me.

Blue veins bleed red blood.

White clouds can cry grey rain.

And perfect little packages can
abstain from turbulent life.

Living is a knife in the ribs,
barbecued in riddled coiled proteins.

It's obscene how dumb luck is.
It's obscene.

It doesn't even mean anything.
It's only a way to bring yourself back from where you came from.

I had crammed a whole load of garbage
into the bed of my best friend's pick up.

Luckily it was made by us
as a message of how unassuaged
we were about living in a dirt bag all day.

So, I should say that this is a win.
I'd even sinned in my pants while
leaving everything up to him.

Only thing I regret binning was
my huge win I had with a hippy girl about a day ago.

I stuck a melted crayon right into my forehead.

And I let it melt into my eyes until my tear ducts bleed.

I even had had the nerve to show my never-face.

I gurgle up an explanation of why my life's a waste.


Even still, I packed my lunch.

Just caffeine and old shoes.
The things that make me love life's color
and love all of it's hues.

Clipped in paper matches was the edge of horizon about midday.

So, I slipped into a undergarment that would match how I felt

and say so much about me, without even saying a bit.

Shipped into a waxed box was all of my letters,

held steadfast, to secure from shock, and from the shaking
of rain against all my faulty, falsely made paper packages.

in the corners of your eyes

inside the corners of your eyes.



How held up had you felt to not rub the corner of your eyes?

How tired must you've been to sin so much?

and not even care enough
to rub the corner of your eyes?

The last of us is lies
and all we do is make cheap soap.

Our bloodiness only helps us die,
and with out good leaders we've lost all hope.

Seven days
laid out in a lawn.

Leaven air in ways
that we can smell at day

It's only shade
when fires burn at eve

It's the only way...
air breathes, too much for us to grieve.

Every day a blade of grass doesn't sell it's soul to a ****
is a day that happens at every evening when we need
it most

So long ladle ladled parchment paper packages
can ladle me a bit?

Flickered into corners,
on the edges of evening doorlights.

Flattered, happened, and upheld
I had centered myself

and sold my soul
to a crossroads man.

Pressed, in leaves of vinegar and soy sauce.

Sensed, believe were me of essense.
The sense that umami came from within.

I found you in the crack
on the sidewalk.

Like an ant who had feared fire and loved honey you shoved me into a space. a little hole.

a foley.

a space-sent lollipop propped
up on
edges of heaven surged beds.

Instead I'll meld, build, and set upon places.

I know we're all poor so instead of wealth,
our award will be people and faces.

Walking in the witching hour
is better left for those that should.

Schelping in a helping of life with a belly
full of meal should
be understood as awful.

Bellywake.
Incantation should me wake up just for dinner?
I know I'm a sinful being
so seeing me is all you have to
deal with...

Time to make an hourglass,
Time to pass all feelings...

Time make sure that we
feel
all of Earth.
her underkneelings.

Time to take a second chance
and not hate life so much.

Time to plant some flowers.

It's time to make it such.

hahaha!

I never knew.

It's been ten years since I met so
so how can I burn this up and run this in the ground?

I think I know...
I'll blow it up.
I'll show up and burn it down.

Everyone is so nice,
so I'll take and run with it.
I'll split with all your joy
and take a **** on
what I should
make good
all out of hell.

i blew into a straw one day
to just feel how cold air felt

i'm out of every space
that should make
a nightmare of the self.

so i'm bidding
all alone
for a piece of heaven

i'm not elevated like
you think i am
i'm a monster and
not an even man

so even when i'm everywhere
even when i breath

i know that i'm a monster
and i know i should live.

Someone said one day
"You'll make a lot of you!"

Someone said that I should say
what I really do.

Someone, somewhere
once upon a time, said

That I AM a lunatic
and that I'd never really shine.

Glassiness is the debt I made in my eyes.
Money's overrated
and so is love.

Love is like a masterpiece
that you see in a show.

It's real nice to be by it
but it'll blow you up and know
just what it did.

Bidding for a fancy life
is a horrorshow
is exactly who I am
and it's all I'll ever know.

I saw a ******* monster hovering over me in a dream
and I decided it was time for it to die.

And I tried.
I really did.

Instead my Id took hold and sold me out
into slavery.

It's amazing that my freedom sold itself for love.

So now I'm a puppy-dove in a cage made of safety and food.

It affects my mood
in the fact the effects should hurt and now that they do
I'm eschewed of all personal beings.

So seeing myself in the mirror
is the only spirit
I have left.

Don't take it.

Please.

It's all I have left to give.

Happiness and Joy are two very strange things.

It seems like a lot of friends hanging out and telling secrets
at night, giving information that you will never hear.

They steal away and say everything that you thought
you should.
Blood is good, but so is food.
And my mood shouldn't determine what I need
because I bleed for everything and It makes me sick.

I went out on the corner
and bought a bag of chips.

Then out on the road
I shared a swisher with a Mr. Hellhole
and we happened to talk all night.

Bright and early in the morning,
I woke up
with a helluva hangover
that was written in blood
and shoved my into
what I really was.

Wagging in the wind
was a piece of who I was.

Sagging in my legs if a feeling
that buzzes

Fuzziness is fleeting
and it clouds my thought-filled head.

I'd rather eat some nachos
so I don't feel so dead,

I'm so sorry
I know I'm a maniac.
I know I have a nervous disorder
and this is the most
bombastic
Asstastic stupid
******* horrorshow that I've allowed myself to be.


I can't see anymore.
I have self hate slime
gooeing up my eyes.

My life is a slovenly horror show lie
and it's breaking me into little pieces

What's my credit score?
It's all lies.
and I want to cry...
and shy away from everyone.

It's all lies.
everything dies
and I'm apart of it.

I thought life was lit.
but now I'm burning down.
Don't frown and cry for me.
Feel good. Eat food.
Live life.
Have fun.
Have dogs and go vacation.

The world is gonna blow up some day and all you'll have is memories.

It's something we all can see.
Make a day.
Please..... have fun.
For all of us....

Light clicks off of keys
Clacking,
I gulped
ice cold water
and It made me breath.
And it made me think

Paper smells...
Wet paper
held in a cavern over night
while fires lit the walls.

I never knew that that night would
play all out like it really would.

But it did,
and so it should.



Predestination thinking can be fleeting
because all it will do is make you ill.

When you die,
no one will care if
coke or pepsi
is what's really REAL.

Still I'm holding on
for the hope that I'll find a willful women.

Not a savior.
Not now. Not then.
But someone who can really love me
and really be my best friend.

Waking up
On the edge of a sandbank
stinking
and pulling stink bugs out my hair.

Waking up in the desert
sweating
and letting scorpions build a lair
in my tent
and in my boots.

Shooting hares and ravens,
for meat.
For a thrill.
It's not with it to go through it.
But still I ****.
I knew..
It would hurt but I would live,
but not in peace.

Living.... with a shiv in my ribs made of the bones of all I hurt.
I'd rather nerf my brain a brain and build hut made of dung
A yurt padded with bad memories, and hurtful lovely beings.

Stamens float above the stems
of all upended stalks.

Arthropods can crack their
old shells upon my rocks.

Tricky little fishes find so many ways
to out smart me.

With out my sunglasses,
in brightness I can't see.

Chasing...
Chasing trouble
Chasing sinful behavior
and facing on me once everyone is gone.

Forlorn for another's struggle
Forlorn for a family
but instead I have to go to bed
tonight with only me.

And that's the way I like.
Alone for my own sake.
But really I'm alone
because for those I love
it's just hell that's all I make.

Black nerves
In shambles
borrowed from
the everlasting
light a long
ways away.

Simple well-mannered men
have sent me to heaven
and then to hell

I was really mad today
so I mashed a hellhole I had made into an internet message.

So I had envisioned a visage of ******* and poachers
that had stoked a fire made of
fair trade coffee grounds and mounds
of unmanaged bullets that are still
held hostage for melting a hellhole into a business.

Please...
I'm begging you
dig deep
and let reality sink in.

Let sin and acid rain showers show
everyone everything about how horrible life is.

It's a bitter business to sort out all of our tired terror into
stupid little sections
and it beckons the question of
"Why?"

I clapped together a batch of tortillas.
And I had handled my hands steadily when I haphazardly
felled a mesquite tree for good quotes and firewood.

I should feel bad for feeling
and so I do
because I knew that reeling suspicious condition
would finally show it's
ugly head and leave me cold and dead
and blue

I knew.
and it hurt, but was worth
the moment I had to spend
when I still felt like
I was alive.

So now I strive to dig the stickers out of my shoe
and show that I'm still healthy.

I'm not a monster.

Please listen...

I'm sorry.....

I don't think that I'm a monster.

Hosting a party in a hotel room
is partly why I'm not as hydrated as I should be.

Parting waves under a durag to helps shape my hair
left me owning hot oil and sandpaper.

Maybe later I'll be okay enough to say that I'm in love
But showing up like how I am is unforgiving,
So I'd rather shrug off nature and notions
owing to outlying litters of
frogs, fish, and finality.

Tell me that I never knew what it meant
when the wind blew threw the trees.

Tell it's only lens flare.

Tell me it's the green dots that appear only
when we saw green dots of the light
showing through the trees.

I have wishes to grant,
Stories to finish.
Dreams that are still waiting to come true.

I have nothing.

I have jokes with no punchline
No breath to breathe into my proteges,
Nothing to give to my lovers.

Bread and bridles debriding spittle
and little glass lentils made of starch and silica salt.

Bent
Tilted
Wrended and upended on a layer of greasy catfish.
I wish I were so slimy
And licked about with my whiskers out of me.

My meaty barbels are my eyes when I can't see.