The fire rages
throwing shadows across
the trash.
Pepsi, Coke, Malboro
Cowboy Killers.
Lightning strikes the midnight black pavement.
Please Lord,
keep us safe.
Is this how the world ends?
A puff of smoke
tainted with a subtle hint of
Budweiser.
Oh, the humanity!

The wound has grown too large.
A bullet whispering through the air,
landing in a young mans chest.
The world ends
surrounded in yellow caution tape.
Police Line:
Do Not Cross.

Here the guardians sit
on the worlds edge,
looking over at the chaos,
coated in yellow gold and
thick black smog.
Choking on past sins,
the curtain falls on this
vaudeville show.

The world doesn't end in fire
or ice,
but both.

The wind howls
calling out to the
crumbling buildings
and the tenants that reside inside.
Slapping at the once ruby red bricks,
now a sad brown.
Time has taken its toll,
with no mercy.
No mercy for anyone.
The tenants are scared,
they cower in the center of the room.
What can be done?
The lion passes over the roof.
It crumbles.
Boards
snapped.
Screams
heard.

If you want to know about real sadness,
ask a clown.

Young man,
young man.
Don't walk through the sunbeams.
If they catch you,
it'll be your head.
But,
what use is a head,
if there is no body.

Whisper through the cracks in the painted tiles,
tell the preacher your sins.
He is the only one that can help you
through this trying time.
What if the times aren't trying?
The clock is broken.
Stuck
at a quarter til twelve.

I am feeling faded,
like looking through the eye of a needle.
Watching the brave men
charge into the abyss.
This is their greatest pleasure.
This is my worst nightmare.

We are greater
than the clock
the sun
the abyss.

I heard once that when you stare into the abyss,
it stares back.

I hope that my abyss is blind.
I hope that the tiles are not cracked.
I hope that the clouds block the sun.
I hope.

Old man,
old man.
What do you know?

I feel my head exploding,
splitting really,
into a thousand clouds of
silver.
An uncharted breakdown
that is so very familiar.
People should be held accountable for
the actions of others.
The pressure lessens its grip on
my spinal cord.
The musical adaptation of my life
blossoms before my very eyes.
Seen through a dream catcher
that is broken with
nightmares of fallen ancestors.
Please,
forgive me for rambling.
Words are hypnotic and
let me forget about
the ringing in my head.
A thousand decibels of silence,
shattered.
They are forgotten by society.
Forced to live in gangways with cockroaches and
the pages of old leather bound books.
They leave on
a wing and
a prayer.
Bathed in dust and dirt,
they hear the barking of the pitbull
inside my head.
Brought down by the blade.
I once observed a church being boarded up,
blocking out the elements and homeless.
It was calming.
Does that make me a horrible person?
Eerily beautiful.
I wish I could go back to that moment in time,
frozen in place.
My head explodes.
Can you hear the bell tower ringing Quasimodo?
Chimes louder than a bomb,
falling through the rotted out wood.
It's for the best.
The Horseman didn't need a head.
The silence will bring me back.
Remember,
our actions now
are our actions now.
Ring the bell!

I am a selfish poet.
I am a narcissist.
Yes,
I like to re-read my poetry.
Thinking to myself,
"Oh! You nailed it with that line!"
Then,
I won't write for months.
Don't want to give the people too much.
Keep them guessing,
wanting more.
What happens when they don't want more.
In a bright room,
I'm the dark center.
In a dark room,
I'm still the dark center.
That's the great thing about being a selfish poet.
I can always imagine being the center.

No,
not like an egg.
Watch my eyes flash from
wall to wall.
Breathing heavy
because that always helps.
My life gets better but
my poems get darker,
filled with anger.
Is this how life is supposed to feel?
Regretting the life that
got me to this point?
Fractures forming.
Oh,
this isn't the end.
There are years left to this.
In five years,
these days will be
the good ole days.
and in ten...
Whisked away on
the edge of a cloud.
Wow,
that was deep.