Such a filthy mind I've had
I've longed to conquer
and use flesh as nothing else
Blood would surface
at the though and sight
of *****!
and they are *****!
and for that I've longed to punish them
encourage and
despise them

But since then
since I've seen my "****'s" candid smirk
and humble eyes
and soft, stimulated shutter
I need nothing but to lowly appreciate
and hold her high above me, as Queen
yet remain in mind as King

"Of course you do" she smiles
and so as do I smile
Happy
and trembling
with each motion of mine she breathes another obscure lyric
to a song I am unfamiliar
and never ask of or about
because, I too, just sang for her a tune
conducted by the index finger
and played with the tongue
For in these songs
words matter little
it's that resounding crescendo
that begs replay

I shouldn't waste my time,
no matter how invaluable here,
if I've nothing to say now
I will however, in months soon to come,
overflow with statements of ease,
contentment and warmth
The secondary intensity of life
will reflect, will back the primary
and in that time I might discover
which is which

The morning that relaxes my strained tongue and eye
is secondarily consumed by corned beef hash,
marijuana and electronics
It wanes to afternoon and night
all without the choking and doubt
that might as well have left itself in her place in bed
or in either of the two kinds of tissue
all too often left on my nightstand
by (or in the wake of) her

The thought came to mind
that I already know all I really need to know
to become and thereafter remain happy
but if that were truly so
the thought would never have come to mind
as the knowledge would already be in use
rendering itself obsolete and invisible

I have a fear of the future
and of dollars
and of living without knowing what makes me happy
because dollars are so far comfortable
yet sinful, lazy, and sad
They breed spiteful, poisoned fathers,
rebellious and emulative brothers,
impulsive, confounding sisters,
broken (though hopeful) mothers,
and boys who all too often waste their time
in an unrelenting expansion of perspective
Not only are you trapped in what you Know
you can't Forget
I am either Narcissus
or anchored in the Know

What beautiful time
What sore, unexpected sight and sound
What an ironic meeting of minds
then eventually eyes
on an unassuming Wednesday in December
What troubling, compulsive imagination
obsession with potential
is seated on my shoulders
How confusing
and how hopeless the thought
that remains thought
And what relevant means of unspoken expression!
What other way to say?
What tail, the veiled magnetism
What relative syntax and emotion
This is fitting, seemingly fateful even
Yet, despite that
this is fruitless pretending
and as such it will remain

My skin, shoulders and forehead
vibrate in place
as thoughts of relation cross my mind

Passivity, neutrality, rationality
used to work to keep me sane
but have been, as of late, laid off
in influence of these aggressive,
opinionated,
economic hands and lips
that I find myself seasonally at odds with

I've come to resent spending my youth
staring at the back of student's heads
knowing their skull's restriction
I find it likely the root of this resentment
is an undeserving self honor
inappropriate for this economy's well being

I dare not interfere
just reemploy

It's time to make a move
It was so far, I could not write
Let it get better
Stay your hand

I keep getting this feeling
of relief, or hints of happiness
and it is all wrong
There is still blood and
pain to pay
I must make up time
I am guilty and sick
Listen to the true ill lyric in reminder

I am tired
Lying in bed alone though
is not the rest that heals
There is now time to waste
Don't **** it up.
That weight is too heavy

In place of these observations
I substitute anxious reflectio**n
and retrace the lines of I and o
and the waste time with which I am supplied
under a similar stress
my busy classmates are trained to fear the absence of
For without that fear and stress
there is eminent reason to fear
and stress
so I narrate this midspace
for?

I have no solid idea of where I stand in regards to the social bonds I've thus far formed. No conclusion I draw is indefinitely backed up and the more I think about the inconsistencies of my observations of others versus their actions thereafter, the more I am frustrated and pushed to understand and predict them. There is an invading paranoia swelling in my skull; I fear I am being lied to, and I harbor very little doubt that this is so. Disheartened, there is not much left to do besides either amputate these slippery bonds or perform surgery on the minds of others, coaxing the literal unbias I so crave from their auditory masks.
Do not **** with me, you machinations of society, my fuse it short.
What a puzzle, what a fruitless aim. I've been removed for such a time that I'm unsure whether these cogs deserve motion, or even feel righteous in their rotation. I deserve but one of three outcomes. That I might see the actual grinding and spark, that I might unbind the ties of this machine to my being, or that I might find some hopeless madness to consume my concern.

As winter stands,
animals move to sleep
and similarly I move
and try to burrow
Something of this must occur
Fruition in the cold
might stay my mind
from submission to psychotic ice
It's warm inside
I can't stand out here any longer
Let me in
Unlock and understand
so I might build a fire
and rest deep

Very much experience exists
in this impending summer season
The intangible vantage points
of ease and warmth
haunt this seemingly ever static perception
of bare trees
and bittersweet sights through snow

Accepted is this inevitability
without the cool head
with which that heat was and will be
By now I've surrounded myself
with those who are closer to I
than I am to them
This happens in intervals
and I am still ignorant
to which fate is worse

Lonely cryptic unforgettable actuality
the shore
or
the sea
this busy concerned reality
that governs current coping

I don't know why I take such little precaution when eating food that has the potential to end my life.
A reaction might be an uncomfortable way to die, but living with that heightened presence of quite possibly imminent "danger" might be even more so uncomfortable.
This would be especially true after surviving and experience of near-death, the stigma that already looms over my head in this regard would be even more obnoxiously present.
I gamble to feel normal is my guess.

As they talk of ******* teachers and eating ****
I contemplate where I might cut myself
if the righteous will and chance arose
Seconds of pain and otherly horror
were all that really stood between the absence and I

But words like that do little more that stain this page
and make actual the tainted thought
that is now setting in to my lead tongue
as frost is set on grass
**** that

Sanity wanes
and I do not know
what it is I honestly need
to avoid hours like this

That familiar static
rings insatiably in my ear
and the lights turn on

I walk the wrong hall
afraid and tired
to push myself through sounds and sights
that blind and deafen
and can't be handled
by a person as weak as I

And I am aware
consciously
to all the truth I spill

Does hate feel better here?
I used to not hate
let alone literally feel

THE LONGER I STAY, THE LONGER I'M LIKELY TO STAY HERE

It kills my high
when venom is spit
This enclosure,
unlike mine,
comes with a ****** narration

Mine hears birds and owls
wolves and crickets and bats
and sees quite often starlight
smells burning wood
regrettably the occasional crisp arachnid
Commonly scents of Cannabis Sativa, rarely Indica
Incense, and punks
There are sights of resin tables,
half-inflated air mattresses,
and ***** on the fence
Cling of fence gate
Car
Cry of relief or adventure
heat
sleep
aimlessness

Frozen water
"warms my heart"
and chills my fingers
beyond average motion
Maps of wind
and identifiable ice
tell me exactly where I am
and sarcasm
inspires these few words

Snow falls today
and trees through glass are bare
Circulation I will suffer

A dead concern is what
puts words on this page
Yesterday's warm failure
is these lines manifest
Incompletion does not
usually prove pride
Yet I am proud of her

A friend, now states away,
left me with cherished spice
that he so feverishly loves
and I tolerate in memory
We spark to him
and smile in pain
and hope he does the same

Lustful contortions of harmony
or absence of harmony?
I fear suffering
is self taught
though as is that very phobia

Lie in bed
with me
and open your eyes in intervals
as to see me open mine
This formula of life
you so crave
is seen and acknowledged

The blueprint you grasp
is expected
I know
What I contort is the **same

In feeling
I feel like I am alive
I could attribute this importance to anything
Yet the choice
is a blood flow
distributed over six lines of irrelevance

In this electric wind
I've found a senseless care
A prevalent doubt of the sound
heard as a cry of the masses
Drowning out observation
I am told to learn
from some instructing voice
and to disregard the question
of where his knowledge
and right
do actually come from
I'd rather dream my own Bible
I conclude on my own
because of intuition and independence
logicality?
or fear?
I refuse
for the same reason you close the book of mystery
and conclude
My head hurts and I feel eerily like you must have

My eyes sting
and I'll be without comfort
for 5 or so hours
Feel good this Monday
or risk all that last night and tomorrow morning
was and will be worth
Sometimes it's hard to tell
if you're afraid of death
or just want it over with
or just need
deep sleep

An album of a friend
drones as I try
I try to console myself
with a pencil
Staring at a filling page,
nevertheless ever suspended in time,
found is an uncertain ache
and this ill desire to drag
I break for flat soda
or to look at the clock
or to look forward a few hours
and feel no better as the last song ends
and I write the final word
of an unfortunate poem

I am almost connected
truly with another.
I am only almost,
because my naked mind
strikes fear and harbors a violent instability.
I have seen reaction,
drawn conclusion,
and decided to dress
and hide next to you.
Aimless intention lacks relevance.
Why speak up?
I'd rather mute
than lie.
So here I tell the truth.

I take her in vein
and trip down miles of wooded watershed
and here she is, in my blood,
set there by instincts of flow.

Rooted now in my flesh,
as a means of cellular cycle,
I take this,
a calming, natural, primal drug.

Her ecstasy and my withdrawal are nothing short of
beautiful experience
and divine addiction,
a breath of euphoria which pains me to look away.

Words dedicated mean little,
fluid and merely symbolic.
The ethereal fountain from which they spring however,
that driving instrument of sense,
have emotional and chemical relevance to her.
Grounded heavily in reality and sobriety
is the humble expression of love.

The calmer the room
The more accepting its workers
The cooler the busy heads
The more I see a nightmare
in its reflection

I'd hate to remember how I felt
and that's why this mechanism
twists and flips and burns
staring straight into the fear harbored by unintelligence

I'd hate to stay here
so here I am again
It's living sometimes

**** metaphor
Something written raw is real
I need truth without censorship
Please, crash down on me
I've got no place whatsoever
Where is this honesty that haunts my mind?
Is it's translation possible?
Are efforts in vain?
Will this be, again, wasted time?

"Do you have something to work on?"
"Yes."

Critical self expression under an invisible eye
Pointless pondering twists my fingers
and those twists fire neurons
proving an unending cycle of evaluation
Pointless and without reason, nonsense
Today I feel torn
and reach for a less fictional explanation
of what needs this page
and of why
Tell me, who the **** cares about this?
I don't need it
I hardly even value it
Better here then soaring without direction

Vague function, left unending

I wish I felt more for you
or for those who surround me
Yet everyday attention and concern
come rarely in this current state
The one I dare not let go of
for extended expansion of what I need
Sanity is that which I hold dearly to
and yet the notion of such makes me insane
What a beautiful cycle of unmoving hate and love
I die to bleed
I live for lively comfort
and chase that which is not there
leaving me **here

I find little difficulty
in fixing my eyes on metaphorical suns
when a soft tune drives my gaze
Unaccompanied, however, this ideal is broken
with results of pain and blindness
A strike of actuality
A tear in the fabric of what ought to be
Reality weighs heavily
on those who pay the right
(wrong?)
kind of attention
Not every waking moment need be evaluated
lest it become mutated memory
A view does eventually return
A view with the scattered remnants of that metaphorical light
Tainted by, perhaps? A reminder of?
Floating positivity, avoiding center sight
The good vibration
that is burned into the senses
to remind oneself
to blink quickly
or lose daylight
to a blissful sea of darkness

I am numb to the sickened interjection
of whom from which I've heard nothing but ****
...although
Existential light must first dim
if mental dilation is to take rightful place
Think Exist

That which is scribed is mental music
Originally electric and intangible
Forced into physicality
via a juxtaposed orchestration of muscles
The result of which
you perceive
Now

Each anticipation bleeds inevitably into memory
Illusion persists and exists thereafter as corrosion
Scattered stimuli let swim in neuronic soup

Such is the sum of past and ultimate value of future
When of mind, nothing is absolute

As these words fade
The page they are written on serve as example

I am not separate from all those around me
the only difference found is the I
and even that, it is thought, we realistically share

Misplaced communication is too often picked up and dismissed here
not meant for I or most others
Information decoded and let rot in time
Connections forged and severed
Vocalizations unanswered and ignored become static
and push my pen

An existence made aware of itself
may find itself then trapped
Physical design give way to stimulation
as stimulation is a catalyst to self-observation
Sensing oneself is not the beginning of mental corruption
yet true awareness is unattainable without such
Simply put, break your mirrors
and you might find ignorance as easy as respiration
and with each breath might find peace