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 created a new condiment out of jelly, ranch, beef jerky, and lsd.

It's really salty and cost as much as a buttered popcorn kernel cover with the mist of the perfect potato chip.

It's as sweet as a ramen noodle prison driven in an uber lead by a giant ketchup SUV.

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 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.

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.

My passion project as of late has be to not hate who I am.

Bastions of souls hold in cold hell, burn higher than I've ever been.

Sinful shame bends rays of shelter, over arching our heads.

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

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.

I stuck a butter knife into my childhood tree.

Just to see.

Never. Not ever would be me.

I'd rather die that gleem a glob of hate after a shaft had held us fast.

I'm Sorry.

I'm boiled water that would never last and stack us upon stale oxified office keys.

Please. I'm sorry.

Just send me to bed.


I'd rather be dead than answer a question that held my soul in remission and stuck me on a hickory sticker post caked in hate and held up with stagnant sand.

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.

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.

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.

I can't tell.

I tried.

But, well...

It's either a splinter of a crack pipe,
or whiskey glass, flacked and fracked about in my finger.



I can't smell.

I'd guess it's burgers.

Or ******.

It sounds so beautiful, it could even be Schroeder from peanuts.

I know I'm not new to this... But.
I brought noodles,
and I'm remiss out of how I should make me new.

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

Goblets shove all of the leftover grizzled gristle and guts,
Sinew is dry fiber soaked and tied taught.

Hack up with your sharp knife,
shaving diamond dust and uncrusted rusty edges

please pour that toxic oxidized powder into my tea
I want septic shock to leave me without the chance to see.

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

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.

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.

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.

Salted in my sausage casing was my dead best friend.

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

Cramming little boondoggles along long ladden trails makes missing pain and loss a love; makes it a lot like other efforts pretend to  matter because if the potato fields thought they didn't matter, we would rather have a foxhole shell be a dud, that
Auntie Helper revive a dud.
Wet fire responds with "Thud"
Our life fire lives in mud.

A mud of fear and hate,
with a net that cannot shelter.
Abated by billions sounds great, unless you cannot eat.
Auntie helper puts them to bed.
But, her machines can't cloth you. Nor make socks to clothe your feet.

Cold.
Uncle helper reminds they're not dead.

One time.. I helped my uncle build a bed-shaped casket made for the dead.


Reading red as luck of fortune only made me much more mad.

Because, I bet (even though I'm reckless)


I am not the only one with a

mom

and

dad.

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.

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?

I googled how to bootleg, so I can learn how to sell my favorite movies and have all the free ***** I need.

Pardon me for saying that I should have found out how all by myself.

I used my first batch of wine to pickle my corneas and sear my kidneys.

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 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.

take me take me..
I hate myself.

Take me I hate myself for being a girl who
has to be brown.

Take me take me.
Please take me.I
Im not a bowl of noodles.

I'm youre girl.

Don make me die.
I'm a real person.
I dont want to die under a pile of sticks a soiled water bottles.



Please.... I'm in a lot of pain.

I'm going to die....so sorry. so sorry. Oxygen is for the fun.

It's seems like somebody left some eggs in the sink
For far too long.
It stinks and I wish I had something to eat
Maybe I'll reheat the spoiled eggs and gnash at them anyway
I'll have it with pickles and whisky
I'll eat over overstained sheets
Repeat, and renounce
My flavorful past
And then last as long as my food

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.

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.

I hate to share.
To bare myself on all sorts of losers.

Everything thing is new news to them because they've never stepped out the door.

You're welcome.

I'm happy you paid so much money so you can ignore your own emotions and latch yourself to mine in order to find what it feels like when you live like a really real person.

I'm tired though.

And I appreciate your immersion because it pays the bills.

But still, i have my moments when I feel really mad about
how a human can by feeling.
Using the money that they had to take the place of who they are.

And I have to pay rent.
So your cash goes real far.

i was too much.

Sorry Kate.

Enjoy youre run.

It's clear that this is what you need and am going for.


Sore.... so SORE. It's okay. gn baby girl.

You do you.!!!!

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 made a snack tray out of anarchy and stale sandwiches.

I made a ******* stack so high that I'd be lying if I said it wasn't cool.

I stood, high up high on a stool after making breakfast.

I lied, after folding fried bread into a spiral, and then I died.

I tried to fold it in a square,
I dared to sow salt into a dare.

But, that didn't matter.
Nothing is near nowhere.

How and why did I
just find you so freaking perfect?

Maybe it's real obvious now,
about how and why I did.

You lifted the lid off my world
and hid all hate from me
Ridded me of all my pain,
for a day or two so I could finally see.

Sometime.
There would be a time I would walk home.
And i would not let life stay.
Occasionally life sprayed away.
Like a cacophony.

Nice noise, ****** boys
Noise, boys, noise, boys.
****** ****** barrels.
It makes me so sterile.
Life on ears.
Like potent steers.
Will make aggro hearts so sterile.

God, godly
Good so gaudy.
Goodness, good have brought.

Gauly, galleries have a lot
I take my pence and a ***.

Potted in a plantern
Patterned in ***** herbs.
I don't fell my motion
My love is undisturbed

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

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

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.

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.

Messed up,
and found in her ruffled nest of hair.

I found lightning,
made of flour, dust, and air.

So, I got up for a drink of water.
And later laughed a lot.

Because I became a herb-smoked doughboy
That smelled a lot like bergamot.

I leave myself bereft of all the feelings I'm done dealing with.
Mitigated with rigor,
an obligatory pity party had started after hours.
The only stipulation
is to participate in every stage of the rapture

I'd love to live in a rat's nest
Besting the next rat next to me
Making meals of apathy
Slovenly licking off plague fleas
Please let me live in a rat's next
Living on cheese and liberal arts degrees.

Innocent purple, tiny little laurels.

It'll hurt like a pimple when I popped your brightest morsel.

So...Lets linger instead into dreadful fatty food.

Because it'll be the mood, instead
That will shape what we do.

So.


I held a bug and it was dead.

And I was I, you see.

So instead I'll be much better than

what ever you'd thought I'd be....




Yipee!!

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.

I made a point to paint a heart breaking pretty picture.

I think that it'd make sense to make it look like Breakfast.

So, I settle on a the best thing I could think of tasting,

Because painting delicious feelings is a feeling not worth wasting.


Starting with how if feels to start the day

Is the strangest sort of feeling but the only sort of way

I pretend that I live
I live in in a box
Only answering
To lots of anxious knocks

I live in glass globe
That makes me so perfect
I live a life in strobe
God it makes me sick

I don't want be
I won't be who I am
I won't let life so see
I bleed life like a lamb

I slipped on a pair of sneakers,
Waxey, slick-soled.

Obviously mottled with bleach blots from mopping too many floors.

Made, canvas first,
the cured in a patina of labor.

They're comfy, and rugged, and they will probably last
twice as long as me.

If my shoes could see and endure the future,
do me a favor:
Please don't ever tell me what they will see.

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.

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.