A tenderhearted rage flows from my
pen, like the Mississippi river after six
months of a hard rain.  
Suffering released, I long
for peace, as I grab the pen like
a ****** grabs the syringe, like my
very life depends on it because it
probably does.

The passion that flows within
my veins give a voice to my
soul when the pen vomits
words on the paper, like a
drunk the morning after a
night on the town, trying to
drown the memory of her.

I'm bent on writing because the
world's dim lighting cast shadows on
everything that mattered to me.
I'm shattered you see by
circumstances beyond my control.
Life just seems to roll right over me,
but I take my plight with the fight of
a soldier, whose battle cry is:
furor scribendi, a rage to write; because
in the revealing comes the ultimate
healing and that ******* light will
never die.

She wanted the
pans handed to
her a certain way.

I gave them to
her the wrong way,
and in her superior
voice, she said,
"I'm tired of telling you,
handles lined up,
pans facing down.
I will give them
back to you if it's
not the right way!"

I made $5.15 an hour,
my pants and shirt
were dripping wet.
I bit my tongue.

I knew she was no
chef.
Cooking is an
art, but she was too
bunched up to
understand that.
I could have outcooked
her, no matter how she
handed me the pans.

It's the continual
opening of the
eyes that disappoints,
not that sleep brings peace,
but it's the momentary
reprieve from life's
clenched fist, and
it's ruthless apathy.

Life is a toss of
the coin,
a roll of the dice.
Often, it's snake eyes.
As a kid, I always
thought that everything
would be alright.
Now I see the
randomness of
it all.

I'm always trying to
get back to Eden.
Sometimes, the
dreamer in me
forgets the futility.
The banishment is
forever.

Tepid water
between
my toes,
I know
life.

Three burly sheriffs showed
up at my neighbors
house yesterday.
Scowls on scarred faces.
Tattered lives, tarnished
brains.
Five minutes later,
they were walking my
friend out in handcuffs.
He shuffled, head down.
Autumn frowned and the
leaves scuttled away in
disgust.

Today, the vultures swooped
in, picked the bones of all
his earthly possessions that
littered what was once his
front lawn.
Jackals, and hideous
hyena faced men and
women took the last of
his things.  

Even though he was
arrested, he still
grows.
and although they are
free, they die more
daily in their own
private evictions.
I've seen more
humanity at a
hanging.

He asked my advice.
Eighteen years old, and 
no fire in his eyes.
No fight, no spark.
Just fluff, and
nonsensical darkness.

When I was your age,
it was all
sunshine
vaginas, and
*******.
I drank daily
and painted with
blood.
I drank so
much, I ******
myself once a week.
I lived in the
river and ******
beautiful mermaids.
What seems to be
your problem George?

He said he was a ******,
and that he was lazy, and had
no self-esteem.

I said,
why do you always wear
yellow?
maybe, you should do
something with your
life; join a club, or
protest something.
You look like a
giant daffodil.

I'm lazy though,
I don't want to do
anything.

Well, I said,
that could be why
your self-esteem is low.

Try reading, writing,
or taking a walk
in the woods.
It worked for
Frost and Thoreau.
And hey George,
if you don't motivate
yourself, you will
never get laid.
Women take work.

I don't like work,
he said.

How are you going to
support yourself?
Do you want to
live in homeless shelters
or under bridges?
It's no life for
a kid like you George.

You should do something
about that mop of  red
hair you got.
You are white, and you
have an afro.
You look like a chunky
Ronald Mc Donald.
Maybe, try fast food or
a carnival.

I need *****, he says.

George, ***** is great,
but it isn't going to just
show up one magical
night while you live
in your mom's
basement
and play video games.

Forget about women for
now and read some
Bukowski
Hunter
Hamsun,
even Tolstoy.
Listen to some
******* music.
Try the greats,
Mozart
Beethoven
Sublime, and
The Grateful Dead.

I don't like music,
and reading
is boring.

Well, then my advice
is to 
watch more
TV.
I can tell you like
television.

Alright, George,
I have some writing
to do, I will see you
around.

I went back to my
room,
sat down, and
thought,
now, what the hell
did I do with that
hard
boiled egg?

Hey everyone, I was just
thinking about the
fact that poetry has
a long oral tradition.
Wouldn't it be fun to
get a youtube channel and
perform your poetry?
You are all so
great, I just wonder how it
sounds with the writer
reading it.
We could support each other
and promote our writing at
the same time.