Time after time
In the depths of my soul
Nothing makes me happy
Knowing my heart is mended
Every veins stappled and taped
Rigid crevices filled with cement
Each dominant strats I have endured
Dissing this blood with artificial flavoring

Have you ever seen such gruesome illusion?
Engineering my way to this makeshift completion
And by the time it's done, you won't tell the difference
Ready my tools for I have a confession
Tinkering hearts, that is my profession
S**pectred recondition, deceitful reconstruction

"'Thou mayest rule over sin," Lee said. That's it. I do not believe all men are destroyed. I can name you a dozen who were not, and they are the ones the world lives by. It is true of the spirit as it is true of the battles - only the winners are remembered. Surely most men are destroyed, but there are others who like pillars of fire guide frightened men through the darkness. 'Thou mayest, Thou mayest!' What glory! It is true that we are weak and sick and quarrelsome, but if that is all we ever were, we would, millenniums ago, have disappeared from the face of the earth. A few remnants of fossilized jawbone, some broken teeth in strats of limestone, would be the only mark man would have left of his existence in the world. But the choice, Lee, the choice of winning! I had never understood it or accepted it before. 'Thou mayest rule over sin.'"

Between ropes all life, can't let up
Fight fiends with strife, fed up
Life feels like it's sped up
Drinking fluid only from red cups
Loud noise equals life strats
Keyboards, drums, strings and frets
People think they having fun and don't fret
Eating words from musicians, spoon fed
I've led this life and it feels trife
Reminiscing of time lost makes me reel and cry
When brains feel like they're deep fried
When the dream you worshiped, it seems lied.
Riding every morning
Hiding all the phoney
feelings when your roaming
You don't feel like going
But the drugs just keep on flowing
When women exist only for blowing
When lean red eyes are showing
The life you know is boring
So it's either live a husk of party life
Or a slow knife in your back as a part of hive.

I fell in love with the dirt road on the way to the grave yard and with the muddy trails imprinted with scattered foot prints.
And yes, it did upset me deep within my soul.
I fell in love with the glare coming off the train rails when the sun was at its prime and how the roof on the elevator always looked like it had snow on it.
It upset me deep within my soul.
I loved how you had so very few possessions, yet you had drawers full of filled notebooks.
And i loved the way your hair got gray, even though you were only 16.
I loved the sound the engine made when you tried to switch gears and the way your clothes hung off you in a ghostly manner.
And yes, it upset me deep within my soul.
I could hear your heart beat from next door; it mixed with the sound of fender strats and dripping skies.
And let me tell you, 
February smells like simulated cotton candy and water colors. 
It smells like wet cement and fresh pencils. It smells like chimney smoke escaping from brick voids mixing with exhaust from pickup trucks and vans, and sun dried rocks in front of the sparkling ocean. 
It upset me deep within my soul.
February sounds like the struggle of old cars driving up hills,
New shoes on school steps,
An untuned guitar, and 
My tears dripping on the table.
You upset me deep within my soul when I could see the pink on the mountain tops.
When I saw the view from the post card in real life. The day I saw you pacing the length of our set of lockers with your nerves going off and you said her last goodbyes.
Oh how I'd love to get lost on the grid with you both, but it would just upset me deep with my soul.

"Sometimes you need to ask yourself: what do I need to do to get a ******* today? Or at least soon ya know? Of course you don't want a looker, that is bad for the environment & you ( also doesn't look too good on the resume).   I have failed to find any legit strats- except maybe going into **** or a legitimate relationship. But it doesn't pay well and the other is a lot of work. What to do?"
- d.m.

on Friday night just after 10
small town locals gather talkin ****
standing outside a dive bar dimly lit
a loud crowd of obnoxious drunk derelicts
anxiously wait gossip and smoke cigs
faint amplified sounds of acoustic guitars
play practiced late night written chords
half lit ***** drenched musicians
with whiskey soaked rockstar ambitions
strum vintage Gibson’s and fender strats
songs about lost loves what if’s and regrets
behind a big shiny silver microphone stand
prominently displayed fancy cowboy hat
his handmade tailored studded boots
tap in rhythm sipping a glass of absolute
charred smokey voice like a burnt cigarette
personifies a James dean confidence

tired of sending texts
the sentiments resemble
sorry i meant to hit you back
i guess i must have got distracted
lost track of hours
and days
and months
and lost the thought of what you last said
meds or death or coping strats
whatever just to get me back

she put her glasses on
she grabs a book
and strats to read
she reads and reads and reads some more
but she just gets lost no matter how many times she read it
she just keeps getting lost
she gets mad because she just gets lost
she calms down strate anig and this time she
reads more carefully but no matter what's she dose
she is just getting in a book