Non compartmentalized, thus trenchant...
an unbeknownst poetic
songbird picked its patch of blue to fly home
to.
A wet one, soppy...one-offed and kissable sun,
monk-ocher... presents its only case...clearly through
him...to you.

Alone but together
over the Christmas days
time was not running out
for once the kitchen clock
had stopped looking at him
meaningfully and she

today a thing of beauty
of gathered curves
flowing in and from
that special frock
bought for an opening
(and perhaps worn once?)
she was lovelier then
than any woman
he had known or seen.

Earlier that morning in place of falling
ever falling towards passion’s state
he had lain peacefully beside her
and from his pillowed space in bed
had gazed . . . instead

They did the usual things
but with an unusual care
taking time with presents’ paper
savouring wine between sips of water
cutting into that well-iced cake
and sensing from a distant room
the scent of candles glimmering

On St Stephen’s Day  
they’d upped and offed
into the glen that rose above the town
that held her world of work
of children house and home
walking up through bare winter trees
where far below a stream rushed valley-ward
undrowned for once by the traffic’s noise
and the sudden rush of the railway's train.

About to turn for home
he saw her stoop
to look to gather to pocket
Some sixth sense told him then
an idea had formed itself
when as between her fingers
she held five acorns from the path
not squirreled-perfect shiny ones
but damaged and in need of care
these cups and fruit garnered about
with slivers of broken oaken bark

Later she left them lying
on a sheet of card
their winter colours
true but hard
in the kitchen’s light
objects suddenly
removed from all disorder
of a woodland way.

An hour or so perhaps later
still with her small fingers
she had stitched until . .
no not stitched she said
darned with blue and red
and silk-golden thread
in between and then around
these fractured acorn shells
picked from the path with
the cracked and shattered
broken bark now made
good as new and mended well

Her smile expressed a triumph
and a joy of a doing done
and from laughing eyes
and heightened voice
he sensed something
stretch into time’s distance
something wholly private
she would guard
and hold and own
to be only hers
and only hers alone.

The pulchritudinous aquatic lair,

Of resplendent melancholy depth,

A place damaged beyond repair,

Teeming of glazed ghosts of death.



Hither and yon an offed world lingers,

The alluring charm of the cadaverous expanse,

Where bony-ice settles deep in frigid fingers,

A bloodless shore of gothic romance.



Eyes burning with a copper glance,

Vermilion waves wash over the bare sea-bed,

Waking the argenteous sand lance,

From their hide-out in death's head.



This oceanic God's acre,

Populated by inert remains,

Destroying the soul of a ballad-maker,

Hang-out of many sins and life-banes.



My languid, crippled stony heart,

Floating in this burgundy desert,

In fragments shattered into pieces of ****** art,

Blown away in a riotous explosion of subvert.







A/N: This poem is a tribute to the thousands of forgotten lives lost under the sea.

[Alright, I don’t know how else to say this, but...
You know Unsafe?
I only made 3 parts.
I keep getting wind that there’s a part 4.
I’m starting to think that SHE continued it somehow.
How she did is beyond me, considering she isn’t exactly real.

Oh yeah.

       You might want a little clarity as to whom i am referring to.

Alright. so, the series X is written about a mystery girl that is called (or rather represented as) X, no?

Well, the reason she’s called that is because nobody knows her name.

I never gave her one.

Getting back on topic, it’s supposed to be written by another fictional person, whom for the sake of continuity, we will call W. Now, W and X were in love, very much so. W is offed, X mourns, yadda yadda yadda, et cetera, et cetera. Well, I felt that in order to give X more clarity and depth, that i’d have to write a second series, One that is written in the perspective of X. This premise became what you now know as Unsafe.

But, for some reason...

As I continued writing Unsafe, it felt more and more like I wasn’t even writing.

It’s like she had extended into my subconsious, from the fictional world in which she dwells, and into my pen.

Luckily, she’s easy to identify. I write her in ‘a special way’ as opposed to my [normal] writing.

Wait.









Alright, Don’t be alarmed, but She MIGHT (this is a big might) have escaped the domain I made for her,

Unsafe,

And into my Notes.

I cannot tell if it’s true or not, as this notice is considered it’s own poem. I cannot interact with my Notes until I decide to leave any poem that I am currently in.

But more importantly, this also implies that she is SENTIENT, and no longer needs me to convey her thoughts and actions.
Hell, she might be fighting for control over my account as I write this!

Ahahaha...

I really ******* myself over, huh?

Anyways, if you see her, tell me IMMEDIATELY! Just whatever you do, DON’T interact with her! In her current state, she is most likely extremely hostile.
I do appreciate you reading X and Unsafe, but this is getting a liiiiitle serious here, so uh...

Please take caution! I couldn’t live with myself if one of my readers LITERALLY GOT KILLED OFF by one of my works.

I’ll update you guys if anything meaningful happens.

In the meantime, I think I’ll go somewhere...

Familiar.]

Poor kitty cat, crazy dazed cheshire cat
Thinks by offing the parents
The offspring offed will be
So scratches both the top and roots
Of this family tree
This disillusioned kitty cat
Can't seem to understand
That by scratching a leg
You do not bite a hand
This addled backwards kitty
Has much to learn these days
And harsh admonitions
This ***** do not faze

the day after his cousin died, he stuck his hand onto the hot frying pan when his mother wasn’t looking. she cried rivers all the way to the emergency room and the only thing he could say when she asked why he did it is “I touched her last. I touched her last”
the doctor came into the sterile room and said he lost three out of five fingerprints on his right hand, but he would be okay and so would his shaking mother. the boy had hugged his bright-eyed cousin before she shot herself and I think the bullet hit him too
let’s not tiptoe around coffee-stained details, that boy didn’t grow up to be an inspirational anti-suicide activist. he put up defense mechanisms and lined his entire body with barbed wire, and he’s been piercing people with his touch ever since
truth be told, I loved that burn marked boy, I did
but he threw me to the wolves when I got too close and maybe he felt guilty about sending me to the bottomless darkness he lived in or maybe he still can’t forget the way his cousin kissed him on the cheek before she put ammunition to her head, but I saw him at the gun store on the corner two weeks ago
it still hasn’t sunk in that he followed the exact path his cousin did that destroyed him when she was seventeen and he was only ten. he walked in her blood-traced footsteps all the way to the end of his existence, didn’t he?
he bought the gun, he loaded it
he probably started a note
do you think he started a note?
how many times do you think he’s tried to write it in the past seven years, broken pencil ends and the smell of tired lead
how many times do you think he tried to write it on Sunday? Sunday is God’s day, right? that’s what he always says to me
said
it’s a past tense
that’s what he always said.
I wonder how many pieces of notebook paper he crumbled up before he decided that his final words weren’t good enough to be seen by the people he was leaving alone on Earth
he always said he wanted to fly and I wonder if they can fly up there like all of the stories say when they talk about angels and I wonder if he can actually fly now
I wish that I could see those scribbled lines on discarded pieces of paper just so I could know why he did it
but maybe I’m lying to myself
maybe I already know why he did it
I knew it the day he said he couldn’t take it
the day everyone told him to stop being so overdramatic and grow up and be a man
I remember the exclamation points at the ends of his sentences like lines and flashing lights that screamed “help me”
the days his smile would say everything’s okay but his eyes looked like he was already dead
I wonder what his eyes will look like now
I wonder if he’ll still be the simple kind of beautiful when he’s in a coffin
what do you think his mother will pick out?
she always loved that red shirt
but he hates it
he likes blue
he liked blue
he liked a lot of things
he liked running and baseball and 3am movies and math and sometimes English and never science and most of all, he liked self destruction
I wonder if he gets to see her, if there is an afterlife like all of the Christian books he studied tell of
I wonder if she would tell him that there was never anything he could have done to save her back then
I wonder if he would regret letting himself float away that night
I wonder,
was there anything I could have done to save him?
why didn’t I?
I saw it
I saw the scars that were a little newer than the ones I had memorized before
I saw the sadness in his eyes on Friday
why didn’t I do anything?
but…I did
I asked
I asked him if he was okay
“I’m fine”
“I’m great”
“I’m happier than i’ve ever been. It’s okay. I promise. I’ll never go back to that bad place. I just have to keep my head up and keep going, I’m amazing lately”
exaggerations
false truths
lying through his teeth
I always know when he lies because his smile gets a little too wide, too artificial, and he can’t look me in the eyes unless he’s telling the truth
but he’s never going to look me in the eyes again
do you think it hurt?
do you think it was instant?
I wonder if the hurt made him happy like it used to when he scratched lines into his skin and ran until he collapsed
I don’t know if it actually made him happy
he thinks he deserves the pain he inflicts on himself
a sadistic self destruction is what he thinks he deserves
thinks?
is it thought?
this hurts
turning every present tense into a past tense feels like someone stabbed me in the chest
or maybe even shot me
how funny is that?
not at all
maybe a little ironic
the police will investigate the blood stains on the hardwood floor his father installed back when he was half sober and they’ll write down every scuff they see and they’ll have a sketch artist draw the green eyed boy who offed himself
he’s just a statistic to them
just another case
just another rotting body that they get paid to sign a death certificate for
they don’t know him
they don’t know where his scars came from
they don’t know that his dad gets angry when he drinks, and he drinks a lot
they don’t know his little brother
they don’t know what style he writes his paragraphs in
they don’t know him at all
he’s so much more than just a casualty
a casualty to suicide
another number that the hotlines can use to try to get money to save teens with razor blades and sad thoughts
another percentage
BUT HE’S NOT A PERCENTAGE
HE NEVER WAS
how would he feel about this?
he loved math
he was good at it
how would he feel about being another tick mark on some scientific research paper about the risks of drugs and alcohol and falling in love and teenage suicide deaths
falling in love
did I fall in love?
can you be in love with someone who is dead?
someone whose heart has stopped beating
maybe his heart stopped beating a long time ago
right with his cousin’s
did I mention that I saw him Saturday?
he was in the batting cage when I took my sister to the park right beside it
we talked and he said he was great
but I watched the news today
the news, can you believe that?
I only watched it because I had a terrible feeling in my stomach as soon as I woke up early Sunday morning
it’s Tuesday now and the police issued a report and my mother brought your mother a casserole and a bottle of wine
the police told us what happened with blank stares into the TV cameras
you died early Sunday morning
in the middle of the night
you always loved 3AM things
I saw you at 7 that night at those batting cages
I asked you what was wrong
you said you were okay
I knew you were lying and you were bleeding internally and I was scared you would fall into pieces of skin and broken boy right before my eyes
I put my hand on your shoulder and asked again
you didn’t look me in the eyes
you never did
you never will now
never again
you said you were so happy
your eyes pleaded for help, didn’t they?
I hugged you
it seems like a dream now
I hugged you and told you to stay safe
and then I left you alone in that batting cage
and I had no idea you were still planning your demise
more police reports
the news is informative
that’s what my grandpa always says
your parents were out of town
your parents were at a family reunion a state away
one you didn’t want to go to
phone records show that you didn’t call anyone after 10AM on Saturday, the robot officers in blue repeat
oh my God
I’m not supposed to use the Lord’s name in vain, that’s what you always said
that’s what your cousin taught you when you were eight
but you aren’t here anymore to correct me
I’m watching the news with shaking hands and I think I might break into sad molecules right here
because I know my bad feeling was right
the pit in my stomach wasn’t lying
God,
I did it
I held the broken boy before he shot himself in the head because he wanted to be sure that this time he would actually die, unlike the time he slit his wrists on his bedroom floor
it’s true,
I touched him last

It was as if the world was spinning spirals around me that got smaller and smaller, and more and more distant with every whirl until it was just a spec floating before me and I was nothing but an observer. I was no longer dancing circles in the center of it all, just to keep up. I was no longer a part of it. It’s like… I don’t know have you ever said a word so many times in a row that it stopped sounding like the thing you were describing, and instead started to sound like this separate alien entity? “Crayon, craaayon, crayooon, crayonnn” I used to do it all of the time when I was little… just repeat things until they weren’t even things! Or, when you stare at yourself in the mirror for so long that you start to question who or what is actually looking back at you… and you reach out and touch the glass and then you touch your face, just to believe it. Just to make it real. I felt my heart breaking inside of me, and then all of a sudden… nothing. I was dizzy for a moment; I felt the beginning of a headache let in but then… silence, silence of mind, silence of physicality. All was cut off. I was so numb. So separated. So tragically indifferent. It only felt like a moment’s time that I had sort of escaped my body, but when I finally came back... back to feeling… back to myself, the sun had gone down and I was alone in my tiny flat in London with the door locked, and a dresser lodged under the handle. All of the lights were off, and I was sweating. They say that by the time the police got there, twenty seven people were reported missing, and by the time they cleared my flat, twenty six body bags were sent away… Orange, black, orange, black, white, white, white. Bread. Bricks. Bars. Bolts. Locks. Keys. Psychiatrists… twice a day every day, “What do you remember from the night of the murders?” , “Why did you do it?” Some of them got so emotional, the men in blue escorted them out & I never saw them again. For the first couple of months I had a different psych every other day. But I’ve had the same lady for about eight years now and she hasn’t got a single thing outta me. Mostly because there’s nothing there. Have I thought about making up a memory and a motive? Sure. But, what if by some beautiful twist of fate, it wasn’t me. What if I was framed? What if I was drugged and the schizophrenia is just a misdiagnosis based on an event that had very little to do with me… I mean, I was the twenty seventh missing person… what if there were twenty eight of us in that room and the guy who offed those twenty six victims left me to cover his tracks? I think about it all of the time. Twenty four hours a day, for the past ten years. But I’m here. Here for life. “Most notorious serial killer in four decades.” I hear it every day. My name, and my face plastered all over weird, low rent books twisted teenagers dance rituals around or whatever. Me. The schizophrenic, ******, sociopath murderer. I was a normal kid. Went on dates at local coffee houses. Sang along to ****** rap songs in the back of my best friend’s car. Took beach vacations every summer. But now, now I had twenty six lives I made myself responsible for… and I haven’t had an episode since. Makes you question, ya know. Question everything. This life. These facts we learn and know to be true, the surroundings that we perceive to be reality… all of it, does it even exist? Do I even exist? Honestly, I think I’m dreaming. I’ve been dreaming for a while now. I just can’t figure out exactly how to wake up.

Scooped some loops of troops with their heads offed, scoffed, at the loss with the cost from my own losses, in lawless, flawlessness accosted by pentecostal brothels hugging it out with the clout of the lord.

Oh lord! what am i talking about, as I am doubting the amount i can pile on my brow, and not break a sweat, playing my stakes to their best, and jettin, while i'm still a veteran in the scrambled lettering of my iris, spreading viruses, inside us, uniting us, to Set...

The scores straight with annihilation on my mind, and an island for them to find, my station at the shrine, to launch codes in kind, to your denied existence of the lines in time, cruxing the fluxing path of inevitability, crossing out the math of probability, clearly seeing everything that once be, bettered. Be. Been, about to be, grinning again.

Because it tickles when i'm stoopid, but im snoopin steadily through your blueprints, moving amongst your movements, and proving that you will lose this, in clueless, fluid, drizzling down the drain with your social stains, still straining the veins to my brain, trying to maintain one sane morsel of a reason not to **** you, i love you, but booooom.

Making room for my assumed solitude, in astute rudeness to the rudimentary business of idiots, stand back i got this, and when im into it, there are no limits to what my digits do, in true blinding hoops of halos bent, in unrelenting wrenching of a stint, of greed, but having everything needed, and settling for sanity.

If humanity had a hand, it may demand a stance in return for a burn that's graphed away, in firm concerns made in forgotten stays of my patience, ghost writing in payments, to my slavers, giving blood to my saviors, saving us from the lesson.

I merely choose to burn in the learning curve, that curbs my satisfaction with distractions, with past tense presentations, intending to mend in venting of the clues to the other news askew ..

In smoking away the blues to hues of happy, haphazardly, chappy in the final hour of sappy nights, of goodnightless fights in righteous might, of my mandatory story telling, of the felling of the fireworks in finale fires that burned, until the uncle died, and smirked from the casket of a bizerk card shark, barking from the starkly stripped semblance of a resistance to tyranny

Its tearing me up to think, that i care, laying bare, to the bruises, these intrusive abusers use to move this rock from its plot, and stop, a catastrophe..

But i'm mastering.

Disguise.

We didn't break and we did not bend.
We swayed like toothpicks between teeth.
Sitting.
Silently smiling with cigarettes hanging from our bitter lips.
Smoking up the thing as if we were women who couldn't get enough lipstick.
But life bumped me and i smeared that ****.
See i wanted wintry hands and an almost nonexistent waist.
In order for that to happen my mind had to break.
I bent over backwards trying to get toa new body. I did cartwheels over calories and colored in a watery blue on all the pictures of food. I fade farther into myself the older i get and monsters ****** my imagination. There's a grave labeled "skeleton girl" that we're racing to. I Thought if skinny means dying then so be it. My mind already offed it's self when it analyzed my thoughts.

Its 1:31 AM, I’m awake on a Sunday night having just finished a sad movie. I must be an emotional wreck because I usually don’t write like this unless I feel deeply sad in my heart. Its weird how its touch and go, how one minute I’m sad and the next I’m nervously smiling watching the crowd in a nostalgic happiness. For some odd reason I’m crying, earlier today I was at a concert, and then afterwards my mother brought me to an over 21 bar. I’m barely over 17, and I realized in that moment next year I would be an adult. A free, unbounded, set on adventures full blown adult; and yeah I felt excited but the worst part was that unbearable scariness clenching my soul telling me unknown is upon me. I’m very odd like that; while my exterior emanates pure bliss my interior can have a billion thoughts of terror and fear of the unknown, a silent battle on a happy vessel.  I’m trying to keep it together here, but here I am almost 2 am on a school night crying my eyes out for nothing and poring my heart out into a poorly written letter to myself. I’ll probably stay up all night because at this point will be extremely tired either way. Sometimes I regret ever taking AP and honors classes, they take up so much of my vacant time, and I always end up procrastinating till the end of me and it hurts so bad. One day I think the stress will be all too much for me, I’ll have pulled out all my eyelashes, picked off every last bump, and silently cried my last tear, and I’ll just vanish into an endless sea of sleep. I hope that never happens though, because for some odd reason I always seem to thrive in these stressful times, I mean sure my coping mechanisms stress me out even more but I survive. I hope the next time I feel like writing it won’t be spur of the moment 2 am because I really need my beauty sleep. It goes without saying that I am a very shallow *****, I am rude and arrogant and intelligent and annoying, but without any of those qualities my life would be impossible. I probably would’ve offed myself by now if I didn’t have a way to cope, if anyone who knows me is reading this you should know how deeply sad I am yet how unbearably happy I am at the same time. I love the time when I wake up and I just want to roll over and sleep again, the moment when my whole outfit screams my name and I feel the best kind of sexiness, when I finally get that math problem or I am full speed ahead in all my classes, you have no idea how happy I am when I hang out with a family member or on rare occasions a friend. How sad it makes me when my sister pushes me around, yet how happy I am that she is still to date my best most wonderful friend in the entire world and there is no way that I would ever be able to survive without her in my life. Now I’m a sobbing mess, over a rude sister, wow how ******* my perspectives of the world are. There is no way I would trade her for anything in the world, her natural beauty and grace, her constant fighting spirit, and her wonderful and unattainable intelligence because there is no way I will ever be as smart as her and no matter what I will always look up to and in to her. This is not a love letter, more a jumbled mess of sad and happy words all mixed together desperate to sort itself out. Scared of the future yet so unbearably yearning for it, what a terribly numb life it hurts so bad it makes me happy to be alive. I could be a sullen gloomy mess of a girl yet my life revolves around the simple fact that I am happy, and no matter what diagnosis or what condition I will always be happy.

Planning for the future is a
skill that is innately human.
An evolutionary achievement.  
It is thought that memory is
used to predict upcoming events.
That we use our own perception
of our past to picture our future.
Set goals. Plan. Do.

Some of us are better at this than
others, survival of the fittest I guess

That checking societies boxes
At appropriate ages is a sign of
good mental health.

Maybe I don't fit that mold
Maybe I don't want my past
to dictate my future but I’d
still like it acknowledged in the
end credits in the movie that is my life
that 'she could have
offed herself much sooner but
choose to write this **** poem instead'.

No I don't have a plan.
I can't see the future
But for the first time in long
Time I know I have one

Lines at night by the light of the moon
Their plan for death will come true for some all too soon
Our lungs with air that’s bombarded with toxin
chocking on the particulate, that spreads across the land.
Veggies and fruits grown by hand or spiralina with colliadal silver,
Cannabis and chlorella too, those are to filter out the Toxic Goo or
The slew of the ultimates poisonous brew
Masked evil intended for the micros
That’s you and me or
should I just tell you something you already knew.
The gates are opening and the *******  is spinning
The time is ticking,  their hands are getting all sticky
From all the ***** money that was made aloft from
All the Micro beings being slowly Offed.

Hey its me
You know who I am many worried of me last night and many rumors went around I offed meself. NO not the case have been having health issues and wound up in hospital because of it yesterday but will do better... So for all you wondering I am back home and well..  Much love
And thank you all for caring so much! Thats what this life is about caring for another whether another poet animal human being and loving another and being charitable without wanting nothing in return! Thank you all soo much.. May you be blessed!!
Brandon Cory nagley....!!!!!!!!

Being stuck between two clouds is nothing
like a mosquito being stuck from a flexing arm
but
both are more advantageous than having
the mark of brother Cain.  That's just the truth.

If it wasn't King James who said, "I'm going
to fiddle with the word of God for a bit",
then
I don't know who did. Burning bushes
or not I think he made some **** up

just how Abraham almost offed Isaac.
It's a good thing the creator has a sense of
humor
because if it didn't, what's left of these words,
wouldn't matter to me at all and the fun times

would be scarce. Keep the arms not flexed
and the clouds apart and the world might not get
stuck
to itself like plastic wrap does when wind
blows itself through the plastic.

If it wasn't King James who said, "I'm going
To fiddle with the word of God for a bit",
Then
I don't know who did. Burning bushes
Or not I think he made some **** up

Just how Abraham almost offed Isaac.
It's a good thing the creator has a sense of
Humor because
Father’s all over would raise their arms
To the sky and sacrifice away their sons and only God knows who else.

The king was relentless, He didn’t mind
I could only bite my tongue when I wrote
Jonah was spit
To shore from the whale.  The king just wouldn’t let
Me end it there.  

I cringed when Mary birthed
The king of the world as a
******.
It was hard for me not to laugh
Especially the part about forbidden fruit.

I even made up a story about
Rationalizing with wild
Lions
In a den but as long as you
Looked up you lived on.

One night I found an unlabeled scroll
That said he would come when heaven’s the heart
And earth’s
the body and the bones.
James burnt it that night while he drank his tea.

It's suicide
I died,
I died and tried that suicide again to feel the numbness,
all I found was pain.

No pill can thrill me like the thought of death that killed me,
but it's suicide and suicide lied twice to me,
suicide's not nice to me.

I live on
all thought of death long gone,
no longer trying to be dying,
no numbing though pain keeps on a coming,
try suicide or the one that died
died for **** all.

an alleyway croquet mallet
has offed me aside the cheek, mom
and hallow I ruse and relish and weep about it-
carrying the decaying,

I rush to greet certain death, only to find more construction sights
and cars, bothered by their metal and their enormous frames

and my cynical attitude, i know, turns no light for decent people

making invaliuable clauses out of merit heat, and I fear

out of rational and simple,

that I may have exchanged my promise for plea,

I ask the gods and my mother

of such a night like this,

that I may go in peace?

through this one,

at least

You're ****** up in every way
And that's what makes you more perfect
You've made mistakes day by day
But I'm always here to say you're worth it

You drank to relieve the pain
And smoked cigarettes to fill up your lungs
You covered yourself in tattoos from fingers to arms
But there's always that person reminding you of the wrong you've done

You swore to carry on
Past the judgements and mistaken looks
The ***** stayed to help and so did I
But somehow that never helped, and so your life, you took

Your smile remained, along with your love
Your laugh, your touch
Your courage was there
But something wasn't enough

You kissed me and it tasted like death
Of whiskey, recklessness and cigarettes
Your heart, it continued to beat less
But on this day, I never knew I'd be all alone because you left

You offed yourself that night
It was summer, and the moon was out
A tight rope, with relief in your eyes
You said you'd carry on
But here we are, you and I

n.j.

Love is a gangrenous limb,
Mangled and raw,
Never healing, love is a metonym,
Fatal ifn't offed     with a hacksaw.

There was always something about the way she spoke that made you want to listen,
Like a crying fox stuck in a trap pleading for mercy from the humans that lacked humanity,
Scorned by God like figures allowing agony to be known in the eyes of this small innocent creature.
Why did I always feel I needed to pay penance for wrongs I didn't commit?

I don't resent her really, no I couldn't, not ever, for I would drive myself mad trying to pull sensicals out of moments that are truly abstract in nature.
Flex my understanding of what some may never come to know,
Gouge at my eyes and call ME the bad one!

See I've been dealt an awful lot of tragedy which all leads back to you,
It's a matter of fault, and there is no escaping, the one who runs from blame!
The fingers were never pointing back at me I must now confess,
I truly crippled you and for that I am so sorry...

I allowed your own faults to be casted in my direction,
To shield you from the painful sting of ever sinking blame,
I honestly protected you when I shouldn't have...

I felt like you were the moon trying to live forever in this solar eclipse,
Over accentuating that one moment of true rarity where you blocked me out!
Horrific really, allowing your son to set.
But I was always drowning, so am I now the melodramatic one?

There was always something about the way she spoke that made you want to listen...
I'm used to it honestly, how couldn't I be? But it's kinda ****** up for me to allow myself to find familiarity in her screaming,
Like a baby who can't fall asleep without the sound of it's mother singing,
I yearn for the nails etched across the chalk board, I find solace in her ever rising voice...

I wanted to hear her sing but in moments of hopelessness, I wanted her to sleep...
Something peaceful really, observing a deadly creature, so fragile and defenseless,
Lulled into a moment of peace, such a ferocious beast!

It almost seems out of character really...
Pleading the role of the fox brought nightmare, my ankle hurts but only out of respect for the situation as these metal clamps dig into my very soul!

The moment is killing me so I seek refuge in a plethora of memories I've obtained!

...

It was lonely, that's all I can say growing up in the mansion that is her ego,
I felt myself shrinking as she grew even larger,
I almost offed myself when word came about her plans to expand this already monstrous poor excuse for a home...

But as I grew old enough to understand the situation at hand, I felt an alienation becoming of me, I reject her empty gestures of love, they were all bought!

In a ****** up way I became who she needed, the one who affirms, an advocate of sorts,
Holding the hands of the perpetually filthy,
But I just couldn't be who she needed me to be for her,
I felt pathetic almost as if I failed my normality, I had to start thinking for myself...

When the mansion shrunk I was shocked really,
Honestly it was a dreadful burden to navigate around as some of the rooms were disappearing.
She was growing numb in reality and it took allot for me to still hate her,
But that's the point of this really, I resented myself all this time for loving her...

I wanted the one who runs from blame to take on all I've been shouldering,
I wanted in a place separate from reality for her to come to her senses and to apologize for all she's done to hurt me!
But there are some things that will never happen and I guess that was my point of writing this,
To give those permission to love the unlovable, to reach out in the situations that don't care to be understood.

...

Well I found myself running from the moon as it breached the horizon,
She was a bullet in my horizon, she stopped the son from rising not caring for the consequences of her actions!
How careless she must be...

The plethora of memories I seek refuge in, they spit me back out!
And I ask how selfish can I be for holding onto a moment longer than any being should ever grasp on to a fleeting instance.

...

I forgive you but that comes at the cost of me hating myself but I know you don't care gripping onto your own tiny little mansion...

The people that know me don't have the slightest clue as to who I am
Hell I don't either
Can't tell if I'm a peacekeeper or just a transceiver receiving the thoughts of a transcendent creature that has risen from the depths of the ether
Which is my mind
A black whole in time acknowledges the laws of physics but doesn't follow
Death one of the hardest pills to swallow
Many just wallow until the day comes
Let them listen for their bell to be rung
But hey raise your glasses because spring has almost come
Truthfully we don't know if we'll be offed by this time tomorrow
We are all just energy borrowed
The land will take us back
Our energy is not wasted but we do not stay intact
We are we you are you and I am me
All components of this universe can't you see? Harmony isn't to much to ask. All you need is to not fall for any societal traps

Gray angels float amongst the weeds,
they’ve risen to set the mood for us.
Though amongst cracked sidewalks daisies grow,
they will sing today their somber chorus.

Their march will lead them to the lake,
the wrens already've stayed their song.
dry and dusty bowl it has become,
the tears of white angels have been too long.

Perched on frames of skeletal past,
finches whisper to one another,
“I s’pose we’re better now than before,
seems they’ve gone and offed each other.”
Take flight to join gray angels’ rise,
an ascent to flee the same demise.

Now Sun awakes each morning new,
to look out upon earth’s withered view.

Her gaze afire in spiteful grace,
She’s lastly rid of the human race.

Ignited to another place
Fuse tampered
Sparked without my permission
Your intent disgusting
Some aren't balanced
Between the ears a little muddy
My temper playing hide and seek
Please don't let me find it

Mama's pie won't save you
Peace offerings offed at the altar taken
Replaced by your remains
Or what remains
If i walk these steps again
You will not be here to interfere
In case you forgot let me remind you
Who put this **** together?

Me. That's who.

I let ****** borrow my heart and she stuck it on the shelf
time couldn’t tell for there are no words
just empty vessels, boredom and thoughts she wrestles
I guess that’s better than being empty
Tempt me, I bent me and now I’m falling apart
But not off, for I was better off offed and alone
You are the velvet to my throne at which you sit
I am the jester, pain digester, who grew past 16

Down my street
a ****** suicide
and somehow it feels
like things
change.

The septuagenarian offed his wife,
then bit the bullet
and took the trip to join
her,
offering no
explanation.

Some will say in hushed voices over
stale pastries and plastic coffee cups
"well, he must have had his reasons...";
disease or no desire
or undercooked meals or
overcooked emotions
or that one night
in 1972:
masters of speculation,
conveniently circumventing the fact
that no reasons are ever
required
until you are dragged
into it.

These things happen,
have happened,
will keep happening,
regardless,
only now they are here
and so are you,
staring uncomfortable at known
but forgotten
realities,
like crossing your ex
on the way to the supermarket.

There is, quite simply,
too much -
we have to reduce to understand,
so we understand but a reduction,
puzzling the obvious
(the universe is nothing
but an infinite
Rube Goldberg machine
with no purpose at all)
when the cogs are revealed
closer to us
than anticipated.

There should be no space
for surprise:
of course we all would wind
up doing
it
to each other
and to
ourselves,
given enough time
all probabilities are eventually
drawn to
one.

The only unexpected is
it being unexpected,
just like and end you didn't see
coming.

Lost in space
Is a crucible
Inconsequential sloughed
Tested mettle

Lost in place
Reproducible
Insatiable urges scoffed
Regrettable

Hiding place
Reprehensible
Excuses always one-offed
Still, fixable

Saving face
Commendable
Excruciatingly tough
Be flexible