Click, clack
bucket hat
won't that ghost go home.
Flying around the moon,
silent in the smoke,
in a spaceship made of stone.

Voyage of the ******.
It begins with one.
The man was once a great explorer,
reduced to
the time between six and noon.

Recovery is a process that takes
lies, and
deceit, and
moon light.
Shining through window panes and
smelling of sulfur.

Coo coo achoo.
God bless you.

If the apple rises up in revolt,
what would Newton do?

The world is full of monsters and cheap drinks.
Yes,
the two go together.
Sometimes they hide behind ghosts.
Expect the unexpected to tell the truth
in jazz bars and to
use ***** needles.

Clack, click
the rumors will stick in
the adulterers mind.
Which is funny because the punchline,
wraps around the world,
like a snake crushing the Golden Goose with monstrous jaws.

The ghost struggles to shake hands while,
watching the street collect dust.

The man dies.

So,
now there are two.

Swirling and spinning,
crisp and clean.
The house will be demolished.
Brick by brick by brick by brick.
Windows don't break,
they shatter like glass.
Which makes sense over time.

What if the ghost can't go home?
Then,
there will only be two.

Coo coo bless you.
Cut off before the big finale,
***** curtains dropping
hints that,
the spaceship with be destroyed.

Death will come for the man.
The ghost will go home.
Click,
clack.
There is no bucket hat on the moon,
only the sound of trucks rumbling.
The moon,
like all cheeses,
spoils
the child and spares the rod.

Dish, dash, doom.
Hair slicked back,
the man is lowered into the grave,
looking like fire.
No tombstone reminder.
Just green grass and
mistakes made for two.

Watching in the rearview mirror as the world turns,
finally,
the man is an explorer once more.

Old King Cole needs no introduction.
The lands cheer when he rises from his throne.
Old King Cole was indeed a merry old soul.
He fancied wine and women,
Merlot and money.
Feasts fit for a king can always be found in his halls.
There once was fiddlers four.
That is until Old King Cole found one using his pipe and wife.
He is very protective of that pipe.
No,
Old King Cole needs no introduction.
Step out of line and you'd face the gallows.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
who ruled with an iron fist.
Old King Cole believed it was better to be feared than loved.
His garments were made of the finest textiles and jewels.
His people starved and he had more bowls.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul.
Indeed.

Start with an idea and go from there.
Just let it flow,
like Titan strikes back at the dawn.
Always remember that the worst a person can be,
is when they are by themselves.
Sometimes,
staring at the sky,
nostalgia forgives me.
I would like to think that I am a good person.
Momma says never lie.
A lie will lie to the liar.
A thief will steal from a thief.
Once I saw Jack the Ripper,
asking for a favor.
"Come with me", he said.
So, I did.
Clocks ticking and tocking,
rocking to the rhythm of times to come.
I remember a time when happiness was a memory.
Please,
oh please,
travel the World and see the people,
not the sites.
Okay,
maybe see the sites.
I once saw The Fog,
moving swiftly across the pond.
Engulfing everything in his path.
Why is The Fog masculine?
I don't think he even knows the answer.
Yesterday,
there was an article describing the state of the World.
It has since been taken down.
Fitting really,
the World will end with a click of the mouse,
destroyed by the comment section.
Walking down the stairs into The Underground,
figuring out all of life's questions.
All aboard.
Do you realize?
I watched the sky fall.

Ringing in our ears,
wild haymakers throw us off balance.
We are The Smoke.
Eyes jump and jive,
dancing,
to the music of earthquakes.
we stick and move
through terrain so tough,
The Devil himself gets tangled.
Feet pounding on yesterdays dreams.
Thundercats roar towards the sky.
Forgiveness is not given to the weak.
Hammering on,
always look twice before the fall.
Remember what it is like to fall and
forget the taste of strength.
The birds are hungry for their pound of flesh.
Move!
We run.
Left, left, right,
two forward,
three back and
once to the side.
The birds are closing in, watching with red eyes.
Swollen,
we run and
cross
this path,
leading us to the spit soaked floor and
broken chair.
Another round
and round we will go.
Hands cracked with every minute the clock beats down.
Forgetting the taste of victory.
Our lungs are filled with smoke.
We fall.
The wild ones smash through the Heavens,
warriors through and through.
We must forgive ourselves.
For glory,
we will shake The Smoke.

I wrote a short story once.
The villain was standing in the end.
Waiting for the sun to rise over the mountains and
the snakes fell through holes.
I can hear the sounds of silence.
I can see colors floating through clouds of liquor.
A bottle of wine and the whole world seems
flawless.
Maybe,
I am the flaw and the world is trying
to erase me.
The blood flowing through my veins is electric.
It is strange how the world turns,
yet these walls don't break.
Staring at the ceiling and I can hear the birds chirping.
Please,
God help me through this day.
I can not forgive myself.
Only the heroes remember the past.
It is simple nostalgia.
That is the key to destruction.
Love.
Maybe,
that is the key.
One
Two
Three
the trick is over and the spark ignites.
The Earth will one day turn to gold.
One day.
Stars sparkle in the night sky and
the pieces move about the chess board.
Only through capture is there hope for escape.
One day.

Laundry spinning and the humming of
other tenants.
I am drinking wine again.
There is a pattern.
Don't let anyone tell you differently.
The world is made up of shape and sounds and colors and
clocks ticking towards the end of another day.
If this poem is depressing I am sorry.
My sincerest apology to the past and the future.
The present isn't looking for another sin.
Always genuflect before entering this house,
the owner watches.
Do what makes you happy and
watch the TV fade to another show.
Yesterday the curtains refused to open,
the weight of the world is on their shoulders.
Forget the candles burning,
hot with anxiety and
go to sleep.
Frame the world in dark wood and ask the God,
any God,
for strength.
Laundry spinning and I rock in the chair,
thinking of eternity and how mice fit through such small holes.
Flip the channel.
Pull back the sheets.
This could very well be the end.
No mints on the pillows,
no courtesy calls.
I'll let you be the judge today and remember the shapes of clouds.

There are stains on the walls and mattress.
The linens have more holes than a cheese grater.
Spent cigs burned into the dresser and
the light is dim.
Oh, Flophouse
you are truly great.
The Holy Bible would be ashamed.
The moans and groans fill the room with one night pleasure.
The walls are cracking and the carpet is cheap.
For a couple bucks,
there is a hour of
"What just happened?"

I walked by a man today.
Can you spare some change?
I laughed and continued through my day,
not realizing that the wine would go down this smoothly.
This makes me a bad person or
should I be ashamed of the world?
The walls are dotted with flowers and
peacocks.
When people say they need money to survive,
do they mean food and water?
Shelter and clothing?
Wine legs crawl down the glass.
Has the world come down to paper?
I roll a quarter across the hardwood to see how far it'll go.
**** these rules!
The game will be lost if we die romantics.
Jaded individuals wishing
they could remember the song that is buzzing through their brains.
I just keep walking towards my car.
It didn't hit me then when he said,
"I'm serious."
Another day amongst the rose and tulips,
all the flower bouquets at the store.
These soaked sins will catch up to us all.
I promise this isn't always my state of mind.
When I walk amongst the flowers and drink Merlot
the wind whips up the it's best face.
Sir,
I am truly sorry.
I was on my way to another place and
forgot my humanity at the door.
The day was bleak and
clouds painted the sky with trouble.
Cheers to the sun and moon.
Cheers to good wine.
Cheers to nightmares.
I hope this poem makes me remember.
Cheers to survival.

Paralyzed by fear I sit
in this damp and draft apartment.
The hard wood floors whip into
tidal waves of displeasure.
I study the dust
flying through vacant space and wonder
about thieves and paupers.
What happen to the shining chandelier?
Broken glass and there is light falling on my face.
The Jesters are dancing in the moonlight.
The curtain whips into a frenzy and
the music tells the story of my life.
A scream flies through the air and
lands on an empty chair.
Darkness for the sake of darkness.
When do demons get their rest?
I reach for the door and the **** melts
like chocolate in the summer sun.
A scream.
I turn around and the old man is back.
His crooked smile reminds me of peeling wallpaper.
A time long before now.
This moment is not the last, but not the first.
Life is but a middle ground.
All waves cease
and the ceiling fan paints a picture of defeat.
Why does beauty need a symbol?
All doors point to more doors that point to
more apartments.
Hallways filled with creatures and empty cans.
Do demons have demons?
I lay on the floor and
let it take me.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
A poem.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
You listen.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
You stop listening.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
It fades to black.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
I don't know how to do this anymore.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
This stops making sense.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
This poem forgets it's path.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
Unfounded anxiety.

I lean forward and
catch myself.
For it is in darkness that
we truly appreciate the darkness.

I've been away for a while and
I'm not quite ready to return.
Write me off with a red pen.
Poetry dripping in ink,
even though it is online.
Can you hear the voices singing?
Once more the lion roars and then
it falls silent.
The mouse is shifty character.
The villain of this poem.
Weaving it's way through the words,
hinting at destruction.
Did you miss me?
The villagers are growing restless.
I am content to fade away.
Oh,
please Lord help me.
As I become a poetic ghost
drifting through the world of words.

Faster and faster the poem spins.
It can see the curvature of the Earth.
Memories escaping into the fire.
The pen moves too rapidly and
the ink flows backwards.
Waves crashing onto bricks and mortar,
filled with the brightest stars.
What happens when the continents collide?
Home sweet home.
Forget about the fire and ice,
remember the feeling of
holding hands with a stranger.
Under a blanket of guilt and anxiety
the night will come to a close.
Birds flying overhead
reminding society of their ethical dilemmas.
What is right and wrong,
when you have unlimited power?
We have made it through the night.
Throw caution to the wind.
Swirling around in an electric cyclone,
this is
an environmental disaster.
Unlimited power.
Let it drop.

This is how love
flies through a needle.
Forgetting about the past and
running around the world.
All in a single leap.
This is how love
dies,
gasping for air in a fish tank.
Forget the future,
punch the mirror until it hurts.
Glass shards falling on the floor.
Reflecting on the all the world's sins.
There can only be one.
Sacrifices.
Betrayal.
Laughing at the clown,
that tries to tame the lions.
This will blur the lines
between forgiveness and anger.
Which will help you survive?
The Prince and the Pauper.
Oh,
this is how the fire
becomes a flame.
One wish at a time.
Innocence.
The lions are hungry.
They have been caged for the last time.
The music begins to play.
Mozart.
Dance to the beat of
a thousand soldiers,
flying into the sun.
One day,
in the very distant future,
this will still not make sense.
Hear,
touch,
taste,
electricity.
Please,
take solace in that fact.
Falling into mythology at break neck speed.
It is wonderful,
knowing that everything can fail.

The door won't open.
Wood that has chipped and
screams secrets.
It used to be white.
A shadow of its former self.
The **** has a tarnished reputation.
It holds a small face,
saddened by years of abuse.
The skeleton key remains in the closet.
Please,
kick the door in.
The room is less interesting.
Patterns that fade,
colors dull,
love fails.
This door is cracking,
breaking,
hiding,
all the world's secrets.
The hinges hold tight.
Swinging open,
engulfing the world in light.
All will be okay.

Watch your back.
If you need evidence,
look in a mirror.
Spinning and spinning.
Until the clock drowns in
battery acid.
It will laugh no more.

Tick Tock Little Mouse.
Have you already left?
This house is vacant.
Who is that knocking at the door?
It is the rent man.
Let's steal from Peter to pay Paul.
Little Mouse,
what have you gotten us into?

If lightning strikes the roof,
it will run down the gutters.
Shocking the grass into attention.
I feel the morning light begin to warm
the soul of dead ancestors.

The darkness is alone.
Staring through open windows
at former feelings.
What happens when your greatest wish comes true?
That is when we fall.

Let's face the truth.
Wishes are made up by the weak.
This house was built on a poor foundation.
Shake the walls until it crumbles.
One last time.
Watch this house become a home
and burn.

Hell hath no fury like
a stapler jammed.

I love poems with no titles.
So full of mystery and intrigue,
they're like Nosferatu walking up the stairs.
Shadows in a black and white movie.
I am lying.
Here is the truth about titles,
they're very important.
They lay the yellow brick road Dorothy.
How would you get to the Wicked Witches castle?
You wouldn't.
You can't even navigate a tornado.

I am waking up and
thinking about titles and poems.
Words on paper scare me,
what truths are seeping into this wide world.
I had a dream the other night.
I was walking through a crowd,
faces I have never met.
I was told once that if you do not know the faces in your dreams
they are the ghosts watching you.
It is comforting to know
that someone is watching over me.
Big brother is always watching.

This poem is a testament to my stupidity.
In this world full of words and swords,
choose the pen.
The sky is brighter when it is being shamed.
Try it.
The clouds are just moving through life,
hoping for rain.
They have something I need and
they won't give it up.
It must be taken by force.
The time has almost come.

I forgive myself all the time.
It helps me sleep at night.
Dreaming of titles and words,
forgetting that one day,
we will all fly.
The titles we work so *******,
spending countless hours fine tuning,
they will fade.
Then again,
we will never grow wings and this poem
will have a title.

Please stop rhyming in poems.
Start using Kung Fu.
What is going on?
This isn't my universe.

A wise man once told me,
"Son, a million dollars is worth
a million dollars. "
That was the last time I saw him.
It has been six years and
I still can seem to find enough money,
to make him proud.

Once I saw lightning strike a field.
It was magnificent.
I could have sworn the Earth stopped.
It didn't.
Life never stops.

Do you want to know a secret?
The wise man was a fool and
life does end.
Shocking revelations from the fool's student.

When does the student,
become the teacher?
When the fool becomes intelligent
the world will know peace
or
burn.

A wise man once told me,
"Son,
live your hours day by day."

I still hold on to the knowledge and
live my life day by hour.

What is going on in that beautiful mind?
Are you thinking of me
or iced tea?

Be mindful of the gap between
the stapler and tape dispenser.
That my boy,
is where evil breeds hate.

Bacteria waiting for the right moment.
A sickly blitzkrieg.

We are alive,
here in the office,
Looking for the next paid holiday.
One that will come too soon.

Forgive me for rambling,
it is what I do best.
Alone in my thoughts
and feeling like I am back home.
The road to ruin.

How can I help you today?
Oh,
I can't really do anything for you.
I do not care.

I respectfully request that you stop.
This poem will ruin your day.
I would feel bad.

Let's forget this ever happened and
get back to what we do best.
Staring into space and hoping it reverses.

You're mean.
You're nasty.
That's why God put me on this Earth.

You're full of hate.
How can you live with yourself?
A question I ask twice a week,
maybe three times.

When the sky opens up
and rays of sun blanket the homeless
sleeping on park benches.
I feel nothing.

Putting a sea shell to my ear and
listening for the tsunami to crash down.

Yep,
pessimism did **** the cat.
Curiosity was just a cover up.

I'd like to think that
I am mean,
nasty,
and full of hate.

Standing up to the sun and
shouting out clouds.
Tomorrow will forgive my sins
and give me false hope.

The world will spin backwards
and tonight I will lose myself.
The clock doesn't stop the child from crying
and neither will I.

In a world that is warm,
I am mean, nasty, and full of hate.

I like short poems.
Second only to ****.
They make me feel like I have accomplished something.
When I really...

I have not put pen to paper in a good while.
It is probably for the better.
The blinds hide the world.
Listening to movie trailer music,
I write and hope.

What happens when you get older?
I hate it when people say they are "young".
You're 40 years young?
No.
You're an *******.
We are dying from the moment of birth.
Don't forget that.
Pessimistic and proud.

Sometimes I sleep with the T.V. on at night.
A constant reminder that my dreams can give way to
war,
famine,
Perez Hilton.
If this is how the World ends,
life was good.

You see...
This is why I don't write anymore.
Poems that give way to inner thoughts.
How deep and depressing.
I could write more...

I won't.
Maybe.

Poems that end like highway wrecks.
Leaving you wanting
nothing,
but a refund.

Slam.

Even when you think that you are being watched,
through the roses and the
cotton flying around you.
Villains will always remember that you can fall.
It is the purpose of the world.
The Earth breathes and the butterfly moves it's wings,
just a little faster.
The moment will always come,
when the wings are shattered.
One final
darkest before the dawn.

Even when the final step seems impossible,
remember,
it is.

Poetically falling apart.
I really don't care.
Even if...
You should save yourself for this sinking ship.

Don't forget to laugh
when you fall down the stairs.

Don't forget to smile
during the car crash.

Don't forget to grin
as the sky falls.

Don't forget to cry
when the clown trips.

Don't forget to love.
Even when the stars are not aligned.

Forget everything.

When he ran
it was fire that followed.
An orphan with a family.
Remembering all the wrongs in the world.
These false pretenses
will be the death of him.
Forget what the past says,
and just keep running.
Through fire and wind,
change will occur.
Only when it is least needed.
These lies are eating up the insides.
They are making for a dark future.
Regret.
Regret nothing.
Just look for the wrong answers and
find the truth hidden in
this scorched Earth.
When he ran
it was fire that followed.
It was fire that extinguished
the truth.

To all of those
who consider me a writer.
You are only fooling yourself.

It's tragic.
How little I care about the screaming in my mind.
If I had to pick a point in my life
to go back.
I would pick the future.
It would be easier to see what is to come,
than what once was.

If I could I would stop the squealing that comes from the dark.
But then,
who would scare the day.
I wish it would consider me.
The wind and the stars
are friends.
Giving strength to the night.

The ways of the world are only known
by the sky.
Every day fire chases the water away.

One day,
I will master them all.

When he ran
the fire was close behind.
Black smoke billowing from the sky.
It wrapped him up in a cocoon of
depression.
Who watches him know?
He will never forgive you for what you have done.
Would you truly want forgiveness?

The sun sets over the buildings
and he can see.
Church steeples and pebbles rolling over the road.
He is a hawk,
if only for today.

Can you hear the horses?
Thumping through our night,
their day.
This is where the world was made.
Pushing down on the Earth.
The good Lord will forgive all.

He runs by billboards and broken windows.
Haunted by the future.
Giving it all up for a quick fix.
Don't worry.
He'll forgive you.

When he ran,
he tripped and bathed in fire.
Welcoming him home.

I can feel the spiders crawling through the bed.
Hear the car horn,
keeping me up.
If this is how the world ends,
it will be annoying.
The empty wine bottles roll around,
crushing the cockroaches like Indiana Jones.
Only,
he escaped.
The snow surrounds my car.
Helping me forget that
the world is ending soon.
Oh,
the red wine is raining down on top of the bed.
The spiders are content sleeping at my feet.
It is a truce.
I can hear the upstairs neighbors fighting again.
Heel walkers,
they stomp and thrash about.
Scaring my spider friends.
*******!
We are trying to sleep!

The cracks in the sidewalk are forming a pattern.
Keeping away those foreign to this land.
If you don't belong here,
don't be long here.

It is funny how the snow falls
over the trash and bricks.
A blanket of white that hides the problems.
The deafening sound of sorrow.

A retirement home retired.
Covered in graffiti and ****.
This talking must stop.
The sky is growing darker and the nights
they are below freezing.

Driving down alleyways and watching the apocalypse prequel.
Slam!
The car stops, not wanting to move.
The reverse went out long ago.
Everything that had promise
is broken.
Shattered glass reflecting hope back into the sun.

Sitting in an abandoned lot,
listening to the screeches of
seagulls and freight trains.
I am staring at a condemned building.
Condemned to have more windows broken and
be marked with unoriginal graffiti.
YOLO and RIP TGB.
Bricks crumbling onto broken glass.
I guess you really do only live once.

Construction tape blows in the wind and
it is strangely terrifying.
This forgotten lot where
there is "absolutely no tailgaiting."
An owners car will be towed
A police car drives by and just stares.

I'm just doing my part.
Forgetting about this lot and all the events that took place here.
The asphalt hums with the highway traffic.
Click Clack goes trashcan
rustling around the fenced-in area in the back forty.
Progression marches on and
the picture fades away to ***** signage and power lines.

If there is beauty in this lot.
I have forgotten.

A
P
O
E
M
This is how you write a poem.
Isn't it fancy and edgy?
No,
it won't make you drink or smoke.
But,
I'm sure you'd look cooler if you did.
Snap your fingers while you do it.
Warriors
come out and play.
A
P
O
E
M
Oh **!
It's poetry.
Wow,
this is horrible.

The caramel corn has taken on a subtle hint of hand sanitizer.
It is enough to **** all the germs.
A kernel escapes and the search party is unsuccessful.

The tile in the bathroom reminds me of other jobs.
Janitorial work,
cleaning up after others.
The tiles in my store were larger and dirtier.

I can't think,
this headache is raging a war.
Aided by my cube neighbors fan.
I snore at night and dream of helicopters.

Things usually come back around to bite you,
like a snake
or NASCAR.
America,
the Land of the Free.

I have lied so much that
it comes out as the truth.

A rusty swing set sits in the backyard,
choked by weeds and broken furniture.
The overstuffed purple couch
has seen better days.
Tonight,
it will sleep alone.

When I am feeling down I count the ceiling tiles,
getting lost at fourteen.
Fifteen is a liar.

What would happen if the stars did re-align?
Just for one day,
the cost of beer wouldn't be so high.
Then again,
the liquor store on Jefferson sells Tallies for $1.19.
Let's not be greedy.
I will buy two of them to make sure that when I sleep tonight,
it is soundly.

The phone keeps ringing with complaints.
People are more interested in their neighbors
than the fire.

Forget about this poem.
It is better if you just skim this literary travesty.
There is no substance.

This new day is failing
and it will soon be cleansed.
Forgive me Father,
for I have sinned.
Please,
watch over those I care most about.

The television says that there is, "no signal".
I will believe it this one time,
as I doze off off on the hardwood floor.
There is a bed in the next room,
through the French doors.
However,
I can see the picture of James Dean and Natalie Wood from here.
Both of them from good families...
Tonight, I'll be a rebel.
Listen to the upstairs neighbors dog
run around
for freedom.
If you put your ear to a seashell you can hear the ocean,
if you put your ear to the hardwood floor you can hear the shadows
gaining courage.
They're waiting for the right time.
I put a towel at the bottom of the door.
It keeps out the cold air and
let's the neighbors know I want nothing to do with them.
I am withdrawn.
Destined to live on this floor,
seeing all the spots I missed sweeping today.
Dreaming of locked doors and too-early mornings.
The fan spins
singing a song of praise.
Glory,
glory,
I am saved.

There is war.
There is fear.
There is hunger.
There is heartbreak.
There is anguish.
There is sadness.
There is death.
There is a change in the Dollar Menu at McDonalds.

It is far enough away to
not dream about it.
However,
I am locked in this box and
insanity is setting in.
Watching the days paint
tainted ideas all over my prison.
Hidden from humanity,
I can only hope for a dream.
It will never come back to me,
no matter how hard I try.

How may I help you sir?
I am working on my customer service.
This is my new home.
Surrounded by thoughts and hard steel.
Would you like a tour?
Do you really have to go?
Okay than.

I am like a bull in a china shop.
Crashing into the walls and causing destruction.
Laughing all the while.
No one deserves to see me.
In a pile of broken glass and shelving.
Red,
blue,
yellow,
hatred.

The box has a slit in it.
I watch a curtain,
floral print and torn,
flow outside a window.
The building is falling down.
A testament to this area.
It knows what freedom is.
If these red bricks could tell their tale.
It would put everyone to sleep.

I will sleep tonight in my box.
Wishing the world away,
hoping for the axis to re-direct.
Saving my screams for a different day.
What will tomorrow bring?
Hours,
minutes,
seconds.
A countdown to the...
Let's count backwards.

If I threw an apple into a well,
would it splash or float?
The apple will never forget.

I have so much to do,
but I wont do any of it.
I'll keep the words to myself.
Forgive all and
fade into nightmares.
Don't be afraid.
The end has ended.

I can see the snake slithering,
hissing at my feet.
Will it bite me?
Hopefully.

I can watch the stars
form patterns,
while laying on my stomach.
The sky's reflection is best seen,
while staring at the ground.
The Earth is causing my head to swirl.

I fear the day
the snake slithers through the core,
discovering all the World's secrets.
It is always watching,
waiting,
for the right time to strike.

Once,
I fell into a well and
nearly drowned.
My father lowered in a rope to pull me out.
It slithered down the hard,
cold,
rocky side.
I never wanted to leave the well.
The water kept it's promise.
I promised to one day return.

I can hear the hissing of the snake.
Waiting for the right time to strike.
One bite and
the stars will fall to Earth.
They will scorch the prairie and
blind the poor.
We are not used to seeing hope.

I hope that you will forgive me for my lack of understanding.
The cold-blooded killers are hiding in the shadows.
Time is ticking
through the ocean.
Forgive me for being hopeful.
The sky will auction off it's wonders.

And still,
our buildings will crumble,
the blind will hear,
the deaf will see,
and I will still be here...
Listening to the snake slither through my world,
trying to catch the wind.

One day,
I'll scrub to the bite.

Kneeling in the hallway,
in front of the Men's bathroom.
I hope no one comes out as I pray.
Please,
do not let my sins catch up with me.
Not now.
Never.
I can hear the church bells
ringing in my ears.
The path is laid out.
My choice is to have three crucifixes on my night stand,
use my finger to paint them in the soot on my car.
This will be my protection.

Running through these dark halls,
being chased by bulls and
my own thoughts.
I'm more afraid of the bulls.
My thoughts are dull and focus on
rocket science and The Green Arrow.
That might be a lie.
I am no scientist.
The arrow flies through this thick air.
I am choking on the pollution of others.
Air so dense,
it makes the weeds ashamed.
They are pushed off of their pedestal.
What happens if I fall?
Left to die in this dark hall.
Crawling towards freedom,
while the hall runs away from my memories.
The door grows larger,
encompassing the wall.
The door handle is made of solid brass,
too heavy to turn.
A knocking fills the hall with thunderous applause.
Then,
all is white,
then black.
I can smell the subtle hint of perfume and
feel the wind on my face.
It's comforting to know
that this is how I will die.

If you want real love,
get drunk and cry into a mirror.
The broken shards are like...
Okay...sorry...
That was about to be really cliche.
It was going to rip out your heart and
be so emotional.
Instead,
it just makes me look cold and heartless.
Which shows you my broken soul.
Now I am just coming off as pretentious and
I am okay with that.

Walking through the pages of an empty notebook,
the surprises are few and far between.
Listening to the honks on Market Street and
I remember when life was like back in 2009.

The room was spinning around and
liquor bottles hung from the ceiling.
The hideous growl of a thousand broken promises.
Chasing after a drunk ghost,
through a maze of street signs and snowflakes.

The night sky sends down shadow monsters,
destined to return your soul.
I refuse to accept that this is reality.
My creative spirit has fallen into discontent.
Oh Lord,
please save me from these bright lights.

I am going down 157.
Waiting for the clock to strike
any hour it pleases.
Listening to the broken trees whisper their anger.
Splintered from the weight of the crows,
they fall.
This will not end well.
The problem with every story is that there is a beginning and
an end.  

Forgive me Father for I have sinned,
my last confession was...
when the Crown Royal was still a peasant.
The victory seemed like a defeat and
the birds flew south for the winter.

Do not be afraid.

This story ends with structure, responsibility, and order.
The trees have regrown,
hiding my secrets.
My mind begins to wonder.
Everything begins to swerve.
Is this what happens
when good men do nothing?
Or when bad men fly?

If you need someone to talk to,
I am not that person.
I am a liar.
I will let you fall through
space.
Colliding with ambiguous answers and
hidden agendas.
Secrets are my forte,
the tongue that becomes a serpent.
Hot fire,
blazing glory.  
I will tell the world that
we were both at fault.
You will be forgiven,
putting your faith in the wrong person.
Hands clasped in prayer,
waiting for the time to die.
Infinitely telling your secrets to the Almighty.
I am a liar.
Nothing will be forgiven.
Buried in a shallow grave,
underneath a false headstone.
Resting,
Waiting,
for my pardon.
Please,
do not give me a second glance.
You will turn me to salt.
Everyone gets hurt
when the square becomes a circle
Forget all memories of me.
Erase me from your world.
I will only tell you
what I believe.
Is that so wrong?
Why watch the world burn,
when you can start the fire?

The world has forgotten about the moon,
which is fine.
Filled with holes and
long-distance relationships never work out.
The moon can do better.

Sometimes I look up into the sun and
wonder what the flames are thinking.
Imagination is a powerful tool.
An ally.
The sun never responds.
It blocks the view.
I can do better.

What happens when the dead come back to life?
Will we still watch reality TV?
Keeping up with the Corpses.
The strange will inherit the Earth.

The glare of the office's lights are blinding.
I wonder how many secrets
the wall clock can remember.

My cube neighbor and I have an argument.
I suggest that Spiderman is a terrible superhero,
he shows me his Brown Recluse bite.
I will still claim victory.

To the lady walking down N. Broadway,
pretending that she is a bird.
I get it,
I want to fly as well.
There is no will left to fight.

I will never reach my fullest potential.
That is something I will remember forever.
However,
I am hoping for the best.
A fool's errand.

Hope is something that
rich men talk about, while
flying through the clouds.
The sun is their ally.
Keeping the poor from dreaming.

My only plans for the New Year,
are sitting on my couch,
drinking beer, and
watching the walls dance.
Bubbles busting in celebration,
while I fall asleep at 12:01 AM.

Thus is the life of an adult.
Listening to the ruins of society,
waiting for the witches to burn.

Run,
Run,
as fast as you can.
Greed is closing in.
Dragging you down the
rabbit's hole.
However,
there is no vacancy here.
No quarter will be given to your kind.
You have
forgotten your senses,
given into
worldly pleasures.
There is a special place in this world
for people like you.
Counting coins until
the gold becomes flesh.
Trading life for life.
This system has broken you.
The beast is off the chain,
attacking at random.
Showing no remorse for it's actions.
Why should it?
It has done nothing wrong.
You fed the beast,
gave it a home.
Now it is time to pay the piper,
with interest.
You have woven this tale,
and you alone must draft it's ending.
It is coming undone.
It was foolish to think there would be no repercussions.
Only,
nothing can save you.
It is simple really.
The ending will show your true nature.
Make you want to believe again,
that this is a worthwhile cause.
Try to escape from Neverland.
Oh yes,
run,
run,
as fast as you can.

This is a poem.
This is not a poem.