A spiteful taste of malice

Slithers across my tongue

Secrecy spoke in volumes

Before the words begun

This sensation it saunters

Into solar vacuity

Perpetrating sheer, faugh

Acts of congruency

In vain contempt I wallow

In the pillars of infamy

Whilst faint my ears waltz

To vindictive symphonies

Prolonged my strife be by humanity

Whilst I attempt to appease

As they flaunt their existence

To miscellaneous degrees

The English language resembles

Clouds of hyperbolic fallacies

In light of this hapless universe

They share an index of analogies

From behind cracked windowpanes

I peer at all that is inane

With repugnance I am slain

As I wince with disdain

I scarf reality in intervals

Reaping jagged grains of salt

Though helpless I am left

Pessimistic by default

© 2011 (All rights reserved)

If I can so easily see (and so deeply love)

both sides of your multifaced self, don't you think
you also can start at least try seeing  and loving
yourself as equally beautiful (simultaneously, so) parts,
who's congruent sum so beautifully make within you,
  the whole?

Look at you shoot and scoot (run back and hide)
after never even (until now) having a taste of being seen
(and yes, Babe.. loved) for who it is that you truly are
( a beautifully.. goobery, complex sum of the whole)..
growing,  as you little by little embrace the truth,
and in doing so, have the broken-into-shards ,
tainted perspective within your trauma-stricken mind
become slowly rebuilt  and renewed  

    into an accurate picture of the true you..
Even if that picture is conveyed back to you  
as I hold the mirror's reflection up to you
(a reflection that your beautifully.. at times, open heart
paints upon  innerwall linings of my heart-infused soul)  

and then you admittedly (your beautiful honesty, again)
jet back into your world of daily distractions..
    So I say to you, beautiful girl..

It is you that chose to reveal to me your true self
in a way that I could so easily grasp  within all of who I am
as I struggled to keep myself from truly falling in love
with your gorgeously-blatant honesty..
  so I ask you once again--
Why would you so beautifully choose to  paint
your true self upon the inside of a man
that you knew and believed could actually  convey
the utter and beautiful reality
of that incredible picture back to you:
   but do it in such an unholy, sneaky way
   as to be able to bypass any and all of your intricate,
   security (survival) based defense system
   in a way that the true view of you could (and can)
   actually get through?

You fear the congealed congruency  of the truth
of your own consolidated glory,
   as if you are forced to live within the resignation
   that the  true  parts within you
   cannot co-exist  equally and simultaneously
   within you at the same time,
   without the (feared) unbearable tension
   and anxiety within you

    causing your own spontaneous annihilation.

But still, young Beautiful...
You  showed  me  you,  anyways.

You did not do it because you hate you,
that we can both agree on..
But the manufactured (created) you
has a whole world of relation (its own form of 'connection')
   built around  the you  that feels safe inside
   if the presented image to that world
               remains loved and cherished
But also, good as people that they are..  they find you..
   (you,  who so well emanates a self that congeals
                                with their emanated self).

..So when you enter into a room  
that you can truly breathe (as your true self)  in--
As you prepare to exit its beautiful doors,
you almost have to (temporarily) sever all there is of you
that you have so beautifully and tangibly painted (imprinted)
upon the insides of all of who it is that I am.

You are beautiful within your entirety.
I am not intimated by it,  nor am I threatened
by the possibility of its beautifully shining glory
being 'stolen away' by another. The gift of it all to me
is that you have chosen to reveal your true self to me
   even though you very well  knew
   what it was going to cost you--
   (the stronghold within your manufactured self)
And so now,  here you are--
   shaking and trembling   within the
   unprotected tenderness of your own,  newfound Glory.

You feel it here within these four walls
like you have felt it in no other place on earth,
..So why would you want to betray yourself
by running and hiding back into your detachment?
It is horrifying to be seen and loved like this, I agree..
   But think of this...

What if what is seen and felt (Loved)
within the four walls of this private room
we are in together here,
is the true taste  and pieces of True reality,
and most all outside of this,
only continual extensions of 'the game'.
What if this right here is how life (love)
was truly meant to be experienced  and lived,

and most all other things out there..
just a well-built and contrived (machine) of distraction.

Let your own heart be your guide.  
You can sit and play my guitars
while you unfold so beautifully (as you so well do)
right in front of me. In turn..
and through day after day
of me being there for you like that,
your beautiful war-torn mind will slowly
(and then, quickly) become renewed.

It will all be about (and for) you..
and when you have had your fill,
you can punch me in the nose
for my having a hand  in plunging you
into "the horror" of it all,
   But you truly also for the rest of your life,
   will never be the same.

You are fascinating to me in all of your brilliant-minded,
gorgeousness. You are absolutely beautiful, kid.

This is what is truly real.  This.

A bluebird blissful, fistful of flight
happily hopping to the greens and the grain
accompanies the rhythm and rhyme
subtle solemn songs intertwine

Through the still and the sway, now boy don't you walk away
you just wait, we're gonna fly someday

Hearts flutter in congruency at the speed of waiting wings
swinging in the summer breeze, blending with the autumn leaves
shades sank so deeply--those amber eyes so discreetly,
just dying to complete me

And Love,

Though the fair fall is fleeting
with winter winds freezing
There's a warmth in the way
our eyes dance the days away
starry gaze, steady aim, toward the spring

Give someone a joint.
Watch them glow.
Watch the squirrel run down the birch wood tree.

Congruency in lives,
It’s complexity is unmatched like
The Mighty Leaf
Vs
The Hungry Giraffe,
Who’s David?

Lalalaisallthismeans.

Catapult cherry bomb metaphors
Like pestilent adolescent authenticity
No sharper then dull is the witless then before
Yet we ignore constant facts that lack congruency
Purely a jest to elements of a vicious nature shown
A lead lined carpet with no broom large enough
Hiding only chucks of self that fade to dust
Pyrex houses have shorter lives when granite flies

a smile, a look, a touch
is all that's needed for them to think
you belong with me
(you do)
but you are not mine
not in ways they presume
when they see us together
and the ever shrinking space between us

you are not mine in ways that are well trodden
of obligation, of possession, of labels

but you belong with me
in ways that matter
in the way we talk just to each other
in the congruency of our thought
in the importance we have for us
in laughter and sadness
in sickness and in health

they look at us and they presume
but they can never know
how deeply I belong to you

Hound-dog swallowing poly-coated pills, filling up, bloated, falling off stage, and into a more permanent and lasting Graceland, to be surrounded by another’s verse.

I only enjoy what comes from my own head, a modern Samuel Johnson, no matter what happenstance brought about to be said, a cage free Bronson. Hearing false verse through a syllable count, hoisted onto adverbs easy to mount. Congratulate a lesser mind, reaching commonalities most could find. Ease in creation, opens floodgate doors, distributing specs of grace through misworded spores. Life, love, and the pursuit of vanity, leaves simplified lumps of prosperous thought riddled with anonymity. The invention of despair overwhelms those ungifted, and leaves them erecting stale forgeries they grifted.

In the wee small hours of escaping light, a crooner steadies his hands as he falsifies his originality, reading off the music from another’s sheet.

A change in topic is something to hold as worthy, though in a modern context of prosaic prose, such good fortune can be exceptionally elusive. Broken hearted symptoms shared through a hash-tag, rerouted and worded, to fit an illiterate youth’s lesser diction, reposted to approach validity, only to be called forth as an original soul, one to revere, and hold as an entitled fraction of logic.

The piano man knocks out a tune, hit in stride with vocal conduct, inspired and laid in pen by a lesser man propelled by better wording, given up for another’s career.

Market’s over-saturated with teenage sonnets, weeping over cut wrists, ended (Victorian inspired) trysts, refreshed and brought back around until sentimentality vomits. Themes used to run rampant with fresh ingenuity, made extinct, occurred in a blink; now every poem has some congruency.

The grapevine got entangled, getting involved with a troublemaker, providing the soundtrack, using another’s words.

You watched me:

Live the life of a spark, always trying to be a flame
An act of quintessence, a folly void of blame
You burned your hands countless times whilst trying to suppress my sou
A burning string, from flames so bold, they almost felt like glittered gold

But how could I never have seen the cowardice in your eyes?
The anxiety from time to time that produced sweat so cold
I swear they would douse my fires
If they could touch me

You began to withdraw yourself
A recluse
A hermit
But I knew this was more than a gambit
This was not childlike epiphany
This was not a consequence of misery
You had known all along that I was disparate
But yet you acted in congruency with my antics

You are a whiter shade of your former self now
A hue so pale those who once knew you would never know you now
But I’m still a spark, the same old, disconsolate spark

And your sacrifice has been in vain
Ashamed, I am, for your reputation I swore to never taint

You are a tessellation
composed of repeating patterns,
a labyrinth of congruency,
and the last thing I need
is another right angle
to corner myself in.
I don't want any more
symmetry
or geometry,
I simply want to be freed
from this multicursal maze
you left me in.

We are here
experiencing life
through the challenges
we find our opportunities
to transform our selves
back to our true selves
we are creators
weaving our way
from dark to light
stumbling teaches balance
as we recognize our divinity

We are all engaged
in the perfect symphony
will we pause
to listen today
as the melodies
harmoniously
ensue

As I grasp
for meaning
courage to continue
and purpose to be
I remember
as I’m reminded
to walk my path
in authenticity
sharing my honesty
my pain
and my joy
as I am open
to receive
from you
in celebration

The master plan
is our own creation
we designed it all
to learn to love
to honor
to allow

Take my hand
and I’ll lean
on your shoulder
shed a tear
and I’ll offer
a smile

Each moment
sequence
timing
and season
perfectly placed
in congruency
manifesting as it is
with perfect reason

Taking solace
and finding warmth
in our beauty
and our grace
locating truth

I want to be true to myself,
and tell of lies no more.
I want to explore congruency,
and cease the inner wars.
How can I create peace,
if I haven't known it yet?
To live in utter bliss,
and be free of hatred's debt.
Who am I?
I am who I pretend to be,
who is really no on at all.
I only am when I am free.
Well, when will I be free?
When I finally realize
that I always have been
and take off this silly guise.
To be scared of one's habits
is to let them defeat.
I want to change
and let that change complete.
I know the way to love,
and I know what I must do;
it is only first
that to myself I be true.

I decided today that it would make it easier if I just ******* castrated myself and then cut off any limp remains of anything

it would be easier if ***-parts mattered less to you, for a forced congruency is to be established as fine, and the fact that you **** me you **** me you **** me it makes no difference

I have been ***** of my being by my being, and I will be ready shortly, once I figure out who I am for today.

I am but a wanderer seeking refuge
Finding shelter in the arms of one cherished
But this sanctuary lacks congruency in my heart
Now, I acquiesce to hope and conviction

We mourn the loss of a child called love
With youthful enthusiasm it was encouraged
But if one loves the child more than the other
Love grows divisible and rebellious

The pain and anguish of the vanquished,
Need not to be in vain
All feel the sting of relinquishment
Soon, a fleeting memory

The soul intuits destiny’s detours
Like a mouse in a maze, we seek a prize
Worthy of the pursuit
But are we mindful of the past costs?

Hair draped back
I can see the path of the brush
where it swept fuzzy sleet
away from her face
and out of her eyes.
The strokes echo in soft strands
framing my her face like fluffy waves
the way the brush intended.

My friend is not perfect
in the sense that she is not flawless;
but in the vestige of her presence
her aura is captivating
and is absolutely beautiful.

I babble,
but what I mean is the potency of self,
being without trying.
Synchronizing with the spiral center
and twisting like a cork
into and out of the trunk that hinges
her existence
in a way that grows eternally.

Essentially, the unconscious.

Free, I fell into it
and became one of those moments
I want to lightly pinch
when he said
"Wow, you're a good dancer," just as freely back.

I smiled - then stopped.
Noticed my fleshly shell
echoing with the reverberations of my soul,
and withdrew.

Tremors booming from the inside
seem invincible
but so intimate to the Center
they're more like
Night's shimmering water
whose glimmer always waves
but never lingers,
Just shivers.

I learn as I die
how to align to myself
and what congruency to one's context really means,
because it's not conformity.
Just as significant as it is irrelevant
My Own Ness has a spherical redundancy
I chuckle at finding reassuring.

I want to be heard
like we all do
But (like we all do)
only by those who will actually hear me.
Redundant, I know,
because it will happen as it will
But it's the kind of symmetry I think is worth
living for
giving for
dancing for
and eventually, dying for.

I babble,
as I watch the subtle shadow
of my friend's unconscious hair
glowing faintly in the dusty light,

But sometimes
I'm actually saying something.

Sing, poet Presley! for you are right
'Tis now or never to hold them tight

'Tis now that the heart acts like a wild animal
Trying to break out of its tired cage

'Tis now or never to seize and kiss
Or let ferment and age

'Tis this fleeting moment, passing so swift
That yet paralyzes and perilyzes me

'Tis this, to be enamored with you
And to hold you at a distance

'Tis for distance sake, as we are both
Fur and far apart

But quell your aching heart
For now is not opportune

Neither philosophy nor location
Are terribly in tune

And whether congruency is even possible
For someone like me

Is largely irrelevant for us.
For my lips beg for your lips' touch

So, poet Presley; first name Elvis,
Have we passed into the future,

making now the past?
Do we live in the never?

Why negate when such a strong feeling
Wells within me?

When it could just as easily
Be stored for them later.

Are not things worth waiting for
Worth waiting for?

I’m looking into your eyes right now.  I love you.

Don’t quit not quitting on yourself, whatever is in your heart — big, important, longing stuff like the quest for true love.

Swing tenacity’s knife exactly as sagacity has swung your *****, nilly dilly head.

Look reality in its bright, bulging, blinking eye.

Track down any self-care apathy within, jump any legitimacy laxity — **** them both.

And don’t forget to take up the continuous, scientific adoration of honesty.

If you adore emotional integrity, if you favor psychological congruency, if you pound out new affective territory — then you will not fall off a cliff at night and you will not lose all you have always hoped for.

Here is what to do.

Stare love right in the snout and speak the truth, lean in and grind out a bushel basket of openness, eat a yard of authenticity and knock back true falsity.

Shout, charge and retake the emotional high ground.

What are you thinking?

You are all that anyone could ever want — you precious cargo, you personhood of inestimable value, you absolutely gorgeous emotive mess.

You’re tired?

Okay, go watch some brain dead TV.

You’ve tried and failed?

Okay, go to bed and get some sleep.

Remember when we had lunch last week. I told you that the first three tries don’t keep the fourth from succeeding.

In the face of failure, tenacity is the still the best policy — and ontogeny.

If you can’t grow one thing then grow another, you long, glorious bank of radiant blooms planted in previous springs.

Every seed you have ever sown — even if it has died in someone else — has flowered in your own soul

Do you ever get nervous.
And you say the wrong thing  

No I want it to be spring.
I want to feel love bring me a bit closer.
Pilfer through the past,
run with a purpose
but I know one thing is for certain it matters not the days or the weeks and how things worsen

I see the clouds
and how they’ll part and how I’m
a person
the versions who make them selves appear is weird
but I know the end of suffering is near

it’s the crowded rooms in the train stations waiting to board, lazily the coach opens and you hop aboard.
The rewards of watching birds flock Inside as the atrium between you
and the outside is wide.
When I remember the past I break
through the worst.
Wishing for the feeling
of love without hurt.
In pairs they’d fly though the building, following the train as it moves to the open, to the green grass fields I wield this ability to see the congruency of each step in my life.

burning hot yet cold // this vitreous gem
rhombic dodecahedron // whos congruency lies yet
disallowed to be worn as // dryness means bareness
fasting in dry heat // remembering sins wages
evocative of a bone licked // by an unwavering rod

Heaven sent in a forest hue shining from
Mesmerized playful thought,
The crimes of love are back in my mind,
Directing my consciousness
Like the **** ******* I am.

I find myself hindered in a rotting caucus like a maggot.

*******.
Once again seduced by chemical reactions and the love of affair,
I find myself crumpled by the air of conquest
And love.  
                                                         ­                                 The thing is,
                                                             ­                I never say what I want.
I tend to hide behind trends of
Illusion-ic syllables
Metamorphosing syllables
Portraying a fantasy so the reader doesn't suspect the victim,

But why's that?
Why can't I be living in a sunlit den of honesty?
WHY DO I LIE TO MYSELF?

I cannot answer with a statement,
Rather, an observation on the individual's reality.

I live in a world smothered in doubt.

Doubt in my skeelfulness.

Doubt in my appearance.

Doubt in the own gait mi shoes nest in.

I live in a world smothered in doubt.

Doubt in the recollection of my memory.

Doubt in my genuineness.

Doubt in every flailing limb moved by the wonky neural synapses.

Doubt in what these synapses create.

Doubt that I am humble.

Doubt that I am of value to a person.

Doubt of reaching Rogerian congruency

Doubt that I will never be the person I want to become.


And this doubt lowers my fedora and clips me into
SIlence,
The opportunities pass with the fragments of time I remember
When I am not intoxicated somewhere I am not supposed to be.

OH, how I wish I could grab you by the arms
And twirl you around in the midst of this of this morning dew fog
Of doubt we reside in for not speaking up.
OH, how I wish to swing your arms to a rebellious melody of the
Norm, and laugh at this norm together.
OH, how I wish to kiss you on the cheek and safely escort you
To your abode where we cackle at feline tendencies and
Chinwag nonsense of
Which sauce is best with gnocchi,
Which toppings you prefer on a taco,
Which swimming stroke a fish would use to saunter to Atlantis,
And if you were to be with me,
How would that make you feel?

Yet, here I am again,
Reverting to the same **** syllabic texture of a Barolo.
                                                 I am a fool living in a stubborn illusion.

I wish Mother Universe would burn my face instead of meandering
In means of seduction and silence, but it's an example of my impatient pride.









At the end of the waxing moon
I live in a world of smothering doubt
With voices tickling mi cochlea per saying
I might not be best at anything,
Nor do I say correct phrasing,

But the one thing i won't let my subconscious trick me into hallucinating
Is the confidence to amplify the manner I would care for you and
Wish to see you blossom beyond my comprehension of vocabulary.

I hope this image of convoluted pictures in a kaleidoscope
Remain steady keel,

These are my thoughts,
And you are on my mind.

I don't believe I have the necessary ability to be more transparent than these words written on canvas for a sector of society to notice,
And so the ball remains lassoed in your court,
Pleading to be shot.
Maybe one day you'll release it to explore a world against societal norm,
Because why live by the norm anyways ya know?

In this world of smothering doubt,
I can't showcase what will lay in the future,
I can't express what our paths intertwined would resemble,

But I can portray my confidence in my feelings for you,
A gasp a light to grasp at
In my world of smothering doubt.

SO I'll keep my fedora low,
Hoping, for the ball to stumble into my court,
Over yonder,  by the strawberry penny lane
In our intertwined minds

Twisted arcane depth
Is the proclamation
They claim for thoughts inept
Tribalistic view for a blind man
No proud ******* ever wept

Congruency is shelved for late
Consistent shapes become a mascot
For those who can not adapt to a new taste

**** for brains will always swing the cranes
The wrecking crews' got no skin in the game
So leave power to the insane
Do not blame me
I'm too ignorant to feel the shame

They know you are guilty but pay no mind
They see how the deck gets stacked
so they stay inside
The verdict is a glass
The illusion is the wine  
Justice is a joke
And you're the punchline
So you just stay pacified
You're just too poor to afford a good alibi