Sent in shred was flakes of obsidian and jade
It'll be weird to sell it
but I bet it'll get me
laid because I'm handsome and brown.

I frown at the lack of respects all the liches and hoes sow in our corn fields.

Build me better people and I'll send you hell in a sugar built steeple you can sell and ride while you send us to hell

Clear. So fully. I said that even though I'm blind, I can be a seer.
It's like shaven fur off of a beast that's at least will to make me fear

Sullenly, so sorry. With drips of lamplight lit with chicken stock
Burned up with reduced hate fat.
Unlacking in a shamble.
But FEAR
Please relent and do assume how unendearing
I'm steering my own bit into life only lit with bitter wood
Dry and misunderstood.
But that's good.
Because I would rather die than try to fly in air that I can't breath.

I checked out how well the stew was seasoned from all of my advanced students.

I knew the recipes and rudiments only hold fast after hate hadn't held and wouldn't last.

So, after education had made real mention of how hard life can be,
That's when I wrote my book of what I actually see.

At the reunion,
I held back in the corner.
Watching people walk passed.

It's lasted at least an hour.
I refilled my seltzer glass with a shower of ****** *****.

So, in a effort to pass the time
I perused the guest book,
and used the socially available sharpie.
Made available for signing.
In order to remember.
Instead I used it to draw a HUGE, crudely
rendered manly member over as many faces in the yearbook as I could.

Settled in the the dried up grass
among the thistles, tired roots, and nettles.

I've settled,
I know I'm not a succulent.

I'll repent but so should you.

I hate vegan food,

but your beef based, chicken stew
is gross,
and I'm not one to lose my subscription fee.

It's food coloring on habitats that I can'ts see.

I will never use my arm.
I can't raise it above my head.

So... Instead.
I'll used my legs and my feet.
And still try to be neat.

Held in a concrete roach shell.

Smiling, I had hated charming shaving.

Little, bitty shavings.

Shredded.

And held an inch above my head
when I never knew a knowing rapture.

It'll hold.
It held watertight.
And it'll capture when I'm right.

After scraping away rubber with my nail,

I found a hole.

My pneumatic contraption, 100 years old, in ideas,
Had failed.


I sloughed off sheets off ice my old lady had held on me.
Because she was so hot, I had to be freezing.

I wheezed and coughed up a ruckus into rain-soaked air.

After I cough a lot, I could hear music blaring over my ailment.

I derailed, reverse-repented, and spent my next month lamenting in piles of white powder and rotten meat.

After weeks of self hating, I was able to abate from being a *****.

And Finally. Finally, I let her were stick and grow on me.

It helped in as much that It was me see what sort of **** I would be when I enable my own, immature, worst, behavior.

Although it's tedidous,
I've abandoned the mortem of the tedium
of face harsh advances.

Standing in a copper cage is a molten knackered weathervane.

Naked, I abstained from God.

I knew I was bad, so I knodded.

But GOD.
I'm appalled.

I'm out in pasture packed, knackered rack dealing.

Let me die.


And give my something to chew.

I chawed on all of my raw dealings.

It's not little fifty dollars bills anymore

It's a lot more that I ever that should be

But here it is inside of me, upended in my intestines, and shouting

Kindey dream doom

Soon it'll boom all over

It's paper packets

Over all the olive oil fires\

and it end's in the refreshing wishing well

Baking egg whites in my oven

was a sort of ashy quiche.

Making my laundry stay white is often

missing the beast of the moment.

Lowing out offers and staking a bill in statements made for really
bad, bad memories.

So, let's see what else can be made out of rotten, token failings.

Never, it's an assailing makeshift shower show.

Blowing in orange air, blessed with care and kinder coffers.

See what lot make little out of over laundered linens,

baked in waxed winnings and pinned under our armpits.

Lit with gas and kerosene and left leaning on our most flammable bit of prized literature.

Classification is hard to predict.

how **** impossible would it be enough
if you hadn't made enough food in your family so
we could all be safe?

Three days after pasta night,
It's alright
It's only food,
and we are so poor
so don't be rude.

I blasted a plastron of over cooked crust over my underexaggerated neighbors.

I plastered a naked girl with her breast broken over the necks of our favored favored people.

Crafted,

Long lasting carved,

Was a shorn and shaven, wooden totem held up high upon the door.

Paraffin wax held lights on high sticks held up on my hallway halls,

Held up high and burning for more hours than I needed.

More hours shown about in stories that led me feeling that I would never have a minute to think before the tank of time will sink me dead.

Flabbergasted by misguided altruistic zeal isn't appealing,

neither is kneeling next to a half-hearted neighbor,
and spilling your guts.

Nothing will work, and it's nuts.
But, making is like living without taking up more than you need.

And even then, it can suffice avarice, greed, by allowing the self
to make and consume one's until, with out outside help or need.

But, callous and canvas can't stand lack of work,
so the stork of labor swaddles on over and dribbles out a bindle.

Carrying a button, a bun in the oven,
an warm hearted creature in need of some lovin'

So, start shovin' your sorries and stories away in a heap,
because someone
might someday
rely on you
rely
on the silence and peace of your sleep.

Soft speakers.
Lured.
And held in secret.

Blessed martyrs.
Maybe matrons of
health and hell.

So, maybe.
I should be okay.
And maybe, so should you.

I was born under a sash.
Held high.
By a midwife in a mudhut.

I learned under a tree.
Where I stashed the fruit of knowledge
beneath me.

I grew under the dirt.
In a burrow underground.
And found my first and second love.

I stirred and stewed around
before I came upon a mound of more folks just like me.

I made a life.
With a woman.
Who would soon become my wife.

I stayed, through strife and struggle.
In order to make it work.

I, sad to say.
I went on strike from life.
And bottled all my hate and love up in little plastic cages.

And I raged and thrashed about in moonlight on my bedsheets.

There used to be a long line of boxes filled with ***** and an epiphany.
Lipped it, ring around the roses hung over headboards and wrapped all up in itchy blankets.
So after shooting up, the dresses hung out to dry are all done, and it's time to break apart
everything, it's frozen.
That's why we got up so early, it's a lot easier this way.

Patterned after the shapes she had built apart on my broken blanket.
Thanklessness is a fuel cabin held hostage.
Pottage is porrige in brittle built cabin cages.
Assuaged by buildings who have gas and hate as weapons.
Sectioned in air, I reckon bullets and hell will will hatred.
Stated in being
With gloss eyes seing
Saying
Praying
and bitter built being.

I've enacted a plan in my personal journal
Worrying and fretting is a fraternal ambition
My mission is that my dad can live on
My brothers can feel and feel what's on
His brother's brain
By that I mean I have to abstain
from self serving service
Love makes me impervious
to the shame and the guilt that life gives.

Sifted through a scouring pad
I had ten pounds of hellbent powder
and a shower of hellhole bits.
Bits that lit when dawn will light the rest of life

She set a stage for me.
For us, I should say.
Because both of us had decided it was worth it to stay up late tonight.
With each other.
And why does that
feel like a proper decision?
It's because the exposure to the things that you like can actually make you happy.
Things can feel not so bad.
When there is someone to have an evening with.
And to even have someones ear.
Caring.
It's what begins to be done once evening staring has won over topics in conversation.
The air on the tongue and the skin in the lamp light is what actually matters tonight.
Any song can be sung, under proper conditions. Then the artists true vision can be heard on her ears.
Her hair.
I'm feeling the urge to stare and every one can tell that she might feel the same way.
But they haven't said anything.
Because there's nothing to say

I'd been wordy since words were a thing

I've been unhappy ever after in every song that I sing


I've never had a bitter deal not feel bitter in the least

I've fleeced and choked my hope for rent money in the street.

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 placed a well woven blanket on the edge of a window sill.

It was well made and warm.

I stormed apart because impactful starts had shorted out holy night.

I shared a napsnack of overdigested hellholes branded in fire patches.


It's ok.

I'm left forgviving hell in firepatches made of dust and stool.

How silly were you?

How afraid did you act?

I billy clubbed your sugar out of your back,
and I acted liked you were my brother.

But really, you werent.

Sugar you burnt.

And I glowed in a softball saccharin deal.


Still, I'd feel, felt molten stolen molted ****.

I'm sure.

It's the native indian bit.

But I let it all out.
And after I shouted how bad I felt.

But still sticky words held me tight.

And I'm left in the ground.

Without rights.
Without words.
It's okay,
it's absurd.

Just let me go to bed, like it said.
Just let me got to bed. Please. Bed Please.

I'm in a thick and
terrifying.
Time bomb tiring
Ooey Gooey Depression.

Less is more.
And salt crusts up on the ocean shore.
I stored more stools and sores for a very long trip.

****.
Pick apart pants and leftover bits of rotten leggins.
I ****** myself.
******* at myself.
Rocked off of a shelf I sat on for over five years.

Crippled, I griped a being
Let me linger, let me hate
I hate the sort of seeing
that makes make berate
I bet a kind of action
is a sort of betting worth
Let me mind my faction
Let me have a opinion sort

What's it's like?
What's it like to be okay?
To spend everday
shutting of
everything you feel.

Like a lizard under a rock,
Like a slave covered in lamp black.
I wish I could rock a faithful cover
but instead I'm smother by our over carboned-air.

What's it like?
To hold hate far against your heart?
To never have feelings?
To be the kind of person of never appreciated when your life started?

I've dreamed.
And pictured a fragile rock.

So, I picked it out,
and sent an image of footage.

I sent it out.
I did..., I thought... Why not?

So...
instead of peace...
instead...ugh..I thought...
I figured...
ugh...
I just...
I must
ask...
What?

So I'm sorry.
I'll go back.
It took a long old little sory
to finally fight back.

I blew up a glue gun in highschool.

One, owned by my chemistry teacher.

Met with high heat, and overclocked ambitions.


So I knew from others

That I was a fool to believe

That I never knew to look in a mirror.

\
I feared I'm the steerer of hate.
Of how I fell.

Of how I'm in charge.
I'm the one to ring the bell.
And make sure that everyone knows.

That everyone knows about everything.

To show that everyone knows about everything
and anything,
and that is always how is goes.

And that just goes to show how quaint, quiet, and simple
everything can and should be.

I use that idea,
I use it everymorning
to wipe the gunk out of my eyes
so I can finally see.

It happened on a fragrant feast.

It happened in a tree

I felt when a sore had burned

I felt it beneath me

Under a sort
Under my breath

I felt a kind of knee

Like a bump
and Like a lump

Lumpy it came i see

Gently pressed into pages on our family bible,

sprayed with Pam and Lysol were stages of life held in suspension.

I didn't mention the Giger counters,
mounted up meters of stone cold serial serious business.

Still, I'd be remiss to miss our beauty made of grass, and dusty weeds.

Sacrificing a seat of sullen ****** brews
and the same path of thinking that you make you use and lose
Like it's a blanket that with cover you
but it keeps you from you life
Wanting is discovering and makes like not worth strife.
I
I
I
It's like bleeding in helpless deer
It's like a fire undiscovered, pain bent on, without fear.

Little, battered, melted thinking.
Held deep down in the fry,
is a glob of batter thinking.

Bitty, little, shake-ups.
Held hard, and soaking in a basket.

Tiny little baked goods,
turning stale as time is passing.

Chewy little fractures,
can turn up and **** all truth.

My life is full of *******,
made and kale and Baby Ruths.

Soreness only engaged extra forces.
Let reason and shake
show force unlike
any that has ever been seen
obscene was british command.

Let the biggest brightest take command of larry in clinton.

I swear.
you are
you are
the 'shy *****'

let your general wonder how who you are.
you're just poison.

the reason we lose.

who would take position the commander of chief once all the soldiers die and we have decided to submit to british laws and decide a

Edges of burnt up, bleeding ****** paper

All over and all torn up

****** was written in blood upon a paper

Maybe we're indifferent,
Maybe we feel crazy
Maybe it's out our experience
Maybe all they are is crazy.

I learned how to forge fake glass in my home over the holiday.


I learned that frayed edges on the hem of otherwise pricey pants on happens to make the wax filled stance cost just that much more.

I held on to a basket of old receipts that lasted longer than my marriage.

It saved me thousands of dollars,

but still I disparage the process,

and have to much pride to counter act and access the process,

founded out of fired,
mired in pumpkin mud,

living life,
feeling fire and holding beauty,

but never able to forget that I'm a dud.

I'm producing a fanciful musical,

founding on impatient propriety.

Mulling indignation, stewed in salt and peppered annuity.

What can I do when she wouldn't leave?
I know you're cool but we need at least ten years,
so how,please how should I grieve?

Slippery brightness tentacles wrapped around a wine cask,

After I'd rafter out after a picture stacked over oakboards,

Storage stewed, porridge renewed two towers of overbrewed ideas.

Goodness...
I hate to say this, but I partied pretty hard in the woods the other
night with two super big intoxicated squirrels.

They showed me that doing ******* can live alongside a productive life.

I didn't believe me, but I asked them for a selfie anyway, I can
say that I'm finally growing up and learning the truth.

Dandelion roots slow into dirt.

Working past ages of dust and skin,
bleeding out ancients for the ancient energy within.

Blankets of ages wear into an earth built silk head high above heaven for the sort of life that can be instilled by a seed held above death.

Old energy never dies away,
it's the priming of the candle that lights the path for the next day.

I reckoned,
I picked apart a soggy brick building,

I second-guessed why toad-lickers
seemed to matter so much to me.

I beckoned an olive branch out of
folk who I really hate.

And had to stand against folks I can't stand.
And although their impatience debrides and embitters me
with scores and scores of confused self-conflagration,
I've found a way to abstain from immolation,
and make the best I can out of the friends I have, and who I am.

Salted in my sausage casing was my dead best friend.

Had he oinked much sooner, he would be a grandpa then

Boiling Boiling Boiling.

Rolling caustic water.

Boil.


Boil.


Burn up the most peaceful thing.


Wait for them.


And boil them in water.

Do it.

Do the most hateful thing.

Turn the kindest element in the world into a cauldron full of slaughter.

Light,
with blood and crackers
Like written in stacks
of paper and billets.
Pallets and the bit of bullet lodges in the gullet of my pasture horse.

How often
How dead
How instead
How it fells
How bullets
How much does lead poison
How much does noise begin to
How often hearts often make
How much does it rake?
How or may or not be dead?
How instead?
How often when I won't be there?

I had bad manners, but I scattered a couplet of culinary dealings into a platter of shaky masses and unironed dresses.

I had crispy dishes stacked in the sink,
and it stunk. So, I plugged up the matter whole to show that I'm still think about how hard life can be.

So, sorry...Lemme see..

I had bees in the garden, that polinated my assets, so I could finally see.

But that's all.

Im starving.

I no longer want to be but the brisk shiver air had spared my whisker hair, but after, I'm sorry. I'm left in a pile of knee-highs and overcooked fries I left sitting on my seat after a retreat to the nearest McDonalds.

How crazy was when
When everyone saw
how quickly my fingers fired

Like a flare from a flare gun
It was hot
Much hotter
Hotter than an affair with an affluent women

Still I said
"Let's stay in the freezer"
Because believe it or not
I'm a geezer who finds life
Easier when it's whittled down to slow motion.

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.