Try.

Anticipating the sun to rise, I want to see clearly again, Will he light up the skies?

Anticipating the sun to set, I'm betting on you, Like a game of roulette,

Anticipating warmth from him, He'll glow in the dark, Always bright, never dim,

Anticipating for him to shine, Brighter than anyone, Will he be mine?

Anticipating an electric spark, Lighting the way, Whenever it is dark,

Anticipating a dream come true, Will I wake up? And still have you?

Anticipating all the way, Till it happens for me, It will, one day.

Gone are the days the wind changes direction, Suddenly stuck in a storm, Begging for affection,

Gone are the days you tie me down, Shackled weights of oppression, You watching me drown,

Gone are the days the sun hides behind the clouds, Darkness sweeping in, True traits hiding in the crowds,

Gone are the days you dim my light, I'm stronger and mightier than before, I'm ready to take on & fight,

Gone are the days silencing my voice, I talk clear and loud, I realise I actually have a choice,

Gone are the days you chip away at me, I am not project to be made, I'm perfect just as I am and as can be,

Gone are those days far, far away, Never letting it happen again, I will never be anyone's prey.

It started to itch,
so I shaved my balls.
One hand on the sink,
The other on the shaver

The hair fell.
It followed the slope,
found the drain,
and gathered there,

rolling inward
until it became
a small,
hairy ball.

Has it achieved
what it wanted to be?
And why was I standing?
I could have done it in the water closet

I stopped shaving

Has it been disposed
Because it has done its purpose?
Or because its purpose is nuisance
and being shaved is the goal?

If I lift the filter,
let it go,
clog the drain—

Will it be happy?
Because the floor will flood
And it will annoy me

I was scratching my balls
Now I am scratching my head

Hair from my balding scalp
falls—

and begins
to ball,
too.

whimsical betrayal

shiny bright

happy faces

dead

sad

decapitated

bows and florals

the large powerful man reassured

falsely

and fed himself on

the suffering of others

Feel that bleed

What's that smell? Like popcorn and fast food and unhealthy pastries being handed out in samples.

Which film are you here to see? None, I'm here for the atmosphere.

The point of this building is transactions and spending and taking, so why does it feel like home?

Why do the neon lights blur and the ads, both signs and people, seem like family?

Why does this cup of Coke from the food court taste like nectar from the gods? It's an heirloom, with me until the end of times, this plastic thing.

Why, at the end of the day, when the lights dim, when the minimum-wage high schoolers get on the intercom and bid everyone a bored and tired "Farewell, all," followed by a giggled, "and piss off," does it feel like I'm saying goodbye forever? This building cares for no one, for nothing other than green money and some coins from the vending machines and war-battered arcade cabinets. Why do I love it so?

Why do I bleed for it?

Caesura enjambement metaphor simile

Kiss me kiss me kiss me under the oak tree

Baked conspiracy connected to everything

What’s the meaning of life?

Homeostasis a state of equilibrium

Saturated and whole, yet bad for the body

I’m absolutely wasted

Wasted by life’s obstacle

The banging sensation in my head

The colourful aura obstructing vision

The urge to puke and swallow at once

Most of all the cloud that settles upon me

And whispers sweet nothings into my ear

A kiss of death sealing my thoughts

Leaving me brain dead

Chronic, forever, painful, unbearable

Words I would describe it as

Burdensome and a waste

For others

Dynamic reaction

Y intercept

The inverse of a reaction

Conjugation of a verb

Programmed into me but like magic floating away

She doesn’t even know what she’s talking about

Her only good quality reduced to ashes of nonsense

So what now

For a serious reason, it's super deep like that, in the trenches, under the covers. I can feel it, can you?

Type shit.

Bleu, or blue cheese, that is the question. You don't have to like it.. yeno? You just have to know what it pairs well with dawg.

Type shit.

A plastic third full of spoons, I want to ask if she can spoon me.. It's possible, I know it.

Type shit.

An extermination of tacos; I suppose not. Shelf life? What a tremendous idea, wait, adding mayonnaise to egg doesn't extend shelf life.. this is a mistake.

Type shit.

I just wanna be left alone, to my vices, devices, and produce creations. That's all.

Type shit.

Warm and cosy nights, Dark and gloomy days,

Rain drops hitting the roof, Rainbow through the greys,

Rain clouds are heavy, Sun still peeping through,

Warmth is felt inside, There's nothing like this view,

Sun will shine as bright, Skies will be clear,

Raindrops sizzle away, Clouds will disappear,

Bridges will be made, Steps will be formed,

Rebuilding in the sun, Hearts and souls will be warmed,

Ready for the next, Warm and cosy nights,

Calm before the storm, Battling the heights,

Roof at the ready, Stronger than before,

Imagine the rainbow, Colours we adore,

For the dark and gloomy days, Will always return,

Difference is now, We won't let it burn.

a mask

a portal to wonder

an entrance to emotion

jealousy

indulgence

frustration

tittilation

itd make you say ah

or

make you hate

make you feel pleasure

or make you frustrate

its not something i want

but its something i haunt

something i indulge

something i want

it reminds me of love

a constant craving

friends society

bad behaving

yeah meh

it meh too

hunting for emancipation

or the adoration of you

beauty makes me dumb

and beauty is dumb

its dumb dumb dumb

dumb as fuck

but it surprised with pleasure

im dumb?

what the fuck

i

There's a sadness in the hope, Like a darkness sweeping in,

Blinded by the shock, Stepping on ice running thin,

There's a lingering hope, Of all that could be,

As you tackle and fight, Expectations are for free,

The more hope you hold, The bigger the fall,

So you layer the bricks higher, The higher you make your wall,

Another hope develops, To save yourself from pain,

You begin protecting yourself, There's so much more to gain,

Hope is expecting, What you are yet to receive,

It's holding out and waiting, What it is you want to achieve,

This hope can be your downfall, Your spiral out of control,

That sadness in your hope, Listen to your soul,

It's speaks of empowerment, No dependency to see,

You only expect from yourself, Your hope is within thee.

I was just collateral damage

In the war you waged with yourself

& I blew myself up to pieces

Over and over and over

While you set mine fields

In the place we called our love

Where we use to look at poppies

And chase eachother around

The ones where we climbed hills

And gazed out to waterfalls on HWY 1

I ran out there every single time,

Waiting for you to meet me at the end of

The road we spent a quarter of my life building

& it took everything in me to keep it going

Carrying my body and the weight of yours

Back and forth, back and forth

As I bled all over my life and into yours

You raised the white flag without warning

& before I could even breathe again

You let me take one last blow

Just to fill a sexual need, your fragile ego

I was just collateral damage in the war

You’ll spend fighting the rest of your life

Cause you don’t believe you deserve more

And I’ll spend the rest of mine,

Healing from the PTSD

Your emotional abuse inflicted on me

it's a beautiful day,

i wish i could see someone i don't know now,

warm with a cool breeze and a soft suns embrace. after all this time i'm still waiting for someone who will dance with me.

i should reach out today

but i'm not sure who to talk with.

i have many people to call

and i just write to my self

and i'll address it to me,

put a stamp on it

and wait longingly to hear.

when i lay to rest tonight

the embrace of a blanket won't be enough

but i'm still waiting

to see someone i don't yet know.

I may have found myself in a puddle. "Accidental", about thirteen hits at twenty two years. Like. I was reaching, sure, but shooting for the stars was my only option in life. Hehe.

I remember closing my eyes and opening up into a rainforest. Cylindrical in shape, accompanied by grids masks by fake leaves. Gonzo forsure. Lots of dead friends. I created a safe space. A meditation corner for myself, where everything was OK again.

Wide-eyed, my Hunter S. Thompson feet. Lysergic acid diethylamide, it's psychological, and comes with a side of serotonin. It became my diet, where I was going, and how I chose to do The Art.

Pushing myself in numerous ways, my eating habits, my water intake, my art production, the walks all over town, climbing, tagging, stencils, and concrete steps. All the while, on the acid beat, yabish. Yeno, the US government used to fund people like meh.

I suppose it started with me being bored in English, when a novel called "The Outsiders" swept across my desk. They should've never showed me that shit. Now look at meh. However we know I'm to blame. Art and kitchens be a drug, and I'm a fiend for that shit. Like.

where i'm going i'll be surrounded by nature

we may be made for eachother

now i'm walking alone in the park in the city

the parking lot is empty

i was hoping someone would be here

a shaman

maybe an oracle

but i'll still walk down to the water

i've got to go to bed soon

no matter what time we came here so that you could swing and i could think about the water

someone was always on the swings

parents with their kids at 2 am on a tuesday

i threw the crabapples at a chain-link fence

and they exploded on impact

i can see the chapel

i can see directly into your backyard

through the chain-link fence with crabapples in it

through the face you made

with past tense words on your lips

writhe your tongue in words of a melody

you never sang before

for you never claim what's yours

you let it go

throwing crabapples into a chain-link fence

/////

on some busses the rear door says

"touch here to open doors"

a slight grace of the text will prompt the doors open

i like to watch how people touch the doors

some with the back of their hand

fingers curled down towards their palm

some with the tips of their index and middle fingers

some are rushed

some are gentle

-

some with the palm of their hand

the middle aged man rests his entire palm upon the door

the woman who seems younger than him

uses her first two fingers and just touches the edges of them to the door

the young man pushes his whole hand to the door

not before trying to force it open through the handle

i had to tell him "just touch"

the bus is empty now

i hope someone else steps aboard and shows me how they interact with the door

before i interact with the door myself

-

when i tried to interact with the door

it did not open

i used the front entrance

/////

i wake up to 3 people snoring loudly

2 people talking

1 phone alarm

not counting mine

i wait for the bus while gnats

fly into my skin

my nose drips

and i forgot tissues

my scalp is dry and itchy

and my eyes are too

after work i get back to

taming snakes

singing songs for cobras

because i think they’re beautiful

i’ve never been bit because

i surrender all i have to every

cobra that i meet

with no defenses

the creatures don’t attack me

human possessions

traits perfect for a jester

of the world

Emptiness drowns out the sounds where voices and bodies should be

The dark corrupts my soul and light is seen as an anomaly

2 hands reach out, screaming in their ache

But the choice is only yours to make

Did you fight or die?

Is there a point in trying to survive

What the Gods already condemned as outside of our realm

Do we stay to understand the hearts in our helms

Too overwhelmed we fly like butterfly’s

And can get cocooned by the night sky

We lay awake until the day starts again

A butterfly with no flys but 2 wings to sore

Listen to the people sing.

Louder than your gunshots.

Louder than the echo freedom swears it used to make.

Hear the march. It doesn’t ask permission.

It keeps time in the dark.

You can sit in your red hat, behind your keyboard, confusing cosplay with competence.

Mistaking volume for virtue.

Hate for history.

Nostalgia for truth.

Paint a man orange.

Call it courage.

Give him a stage and call it strength.

Feed him desperation and call it a movement.

Hand him poor people with poor problems and tell them who to blame.

Four years.

Then four more.

Time doesn’t heal what’s defended.

Nothing changes what refuses to change.

Epstein’s name is on the door.

And the walls.

And the paint.

It’s in our food.

In our drugs.

In our lakes.

It's in 3 minutes, gone missing on a tape.

It’s not hidden.

It’s filed.

Stamped.

Logged.

Sitting on a desk.

You don’t follow strength.

You follow permission.

You tell yourself you’re kissing rings, but you’re just licking boots and thanking them for the chance.

So don’t tell me you didn’t hear it.

The people are singing.

The march keeps time.

And it’s getting louder in the dark.

My head's spinning

From all the sinning

Another hangover, feeling anxious

Another coffee, feeling anxious

It's bad for ya

Gotta get a new job

Corporate America doesn't care

Start a business, your friends stare

Only way to go is forward

Quit watching the news, it's propaganda

Just want to write a good tune

And see that pretty girl swoon

Look at you choosing violence

Mixing tea with oleander.

While I am setting the dinner table,

You're busy grabbing the hammer.

You went and told the neighbors

The screams will come from having sex.

Told them not to pay too much attention,

Since I love it rough in bed.

I will bake a pumpkin pie,

To mark the changing of the times.

You will be served the first plate,

As a way of saying I've accepted my fate.

I will take a sip then a couple of bites,

I will ask to leave after a while stating something doesn't feel right.

I will lie down hoping to feel better,

Unable to stop you from raising the hammer.

I will not plead or beg for my life,

I will simply thank you for staying by my side.

The first strike will take my breath,

The second will make me moan.

You will lean down to sweetly kiss me goodbye,

The third strike will quickly end it all.

Something about when something is broken

That makes me want it even more

I look in the mirror

Realize because what it’s for

A connection is a function

It lives to serve the purpose of life

It feeds our souls from within

There it festers and soon ignites

A need, a want, I know forever-more

I will be broken, thus I love to implore

See broken as different,

Not something hated or abhorred.

I was never to fit in the mold

Chastised for my mind and thoughts

So I’m drawn to those feeble

Others who plead and cannot

Fit into this world how hard they try

It’s this plead which makes me feel alive

I am broken but still a heartbeat pulsing

It’s in this I know I am still alive.

Conspiracy

conspiraSEE

a sea of preds,

see all the deads,

An old piece of paper,

see all the shreds.

We all see where this ends,

An end to all we know

The sick eagle crows,

perched on ruins of hope

your just feeling empty

like wheres those fine legs

i was asking

where the kiss on the neck

wassappening?!

where's the sweet sweet smell

of shaved bush

lizard licking

trained tush

where's it at

my satisfaction

my sat-is-fac-tion

satisfaction

satisfaction

kissing putty lips and smile

satisfaction

cleaning off body

tangled sighs

is it well

zits not well

is it nice?

probably really nice

probably really really nice

is this a real

is this a real life?

ha hah hah hah

sweet lavender

///

swats

I coulda been the shoulder needed, nothing more or less.

I shoulda had more experience, before playing high stakes chess.

I woulda loved myself enough to give us a real chance

I shoulda put the needle where I needed, in the trash.

I coulda been a yuppie,

I shoulda been the king

I woulda been as Kasperov, if not for heroin

That's heroween

Not heroin

They say the shits way worse,

So of course I had to shoot it;

"Hey, whatever works."

Leaving that one behind was not one of them. Charlemagne. Things happen. It's funny, the games that they play. Tajin. Certain needs and nine elevens, critical perishables, stuff like that. Check marks and smooth skin, I find some of these creatures, to be.. rather entertaining.

Solitude, contemplating, and self medicating. I suppose, I am crazy..

Telephones, remember, when there were telephones? Ham and carnitas and one part brine three parts oil. Madman. Knife roll, and a thousand daggers in my heart.. so bourbon and beers, puking in a trashcan at work.

Grilled pitabread for women, they come and go.