Walk, Talk and Breathe.

Friends that refuse to respect of me,
the smallest of ways that I ask to be,
excused from their own stupidity,
yet – they choose to abuse,
and they find these things funny…
A family turned to the judge and jury,
no hand extended in my times of need,
the after-burn of that first, initial sting,
the day I noticed they were on an opposing team…
Others play the friendly role all too regularly,
to the point it’s obvious there’s no true identity,
behind any of the faces in the places close to me,
just life-sized puppets that walk, talk and breathe…

Anonymous.

“Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.”

~ T. S. Eliot

I believe
that so it goes:
the gift of humanity
is bestowed,
to souls with empathy,
and only those,
a carrot hanging,
a step ahead of me,
ever-dangling,
before my nose;
and not just mine,
but anyone,
from the assembly line,
from which I come,
we’re made to ache,
to hurt – to burn,
from day one,
to ride the wake,
to bend and break in turn,
until our last words,
to be heard,
have finally come;
the world is cruel,
unless you’re blind,
it’s a flea-ridden fool,
that succeeds the unkind,
it constantly bleeds,
sucks up my energy,
drains the tide pools,
swallows the sunshine;
for those like us,
nothing is anonymous,
nothing can ever be fine,
no peace,
as we sleep,
only the fire,
from the front-line.

(Not-So) Ancient Proverbs 32: Stupidity.

“Get all the fools on your side and you can be elected to anything.”

~Frank Dane

 

The problem with educating stupid people was that they didn’t know they were stupid. The same went for curing crazy people.

~Chuck Palahniuk

 

 

Every.

Every last inch of any space I’ve ever claimed
has been taken in turn and never been mine again

every desperate word spoken from my mouth, in vain
has somehow been twisted by negative change

every bone broken and trampled on in rage
has submitted to the ghosts that haunt my DNA

every moment stolen from every hour of every day
has burned my eyes and settled deep into my brain

every childhood need ignored by a mother who walked away
has permitted my adulthood to slowly fade away

every blog post written in attempt to ease the pain
have become the journal of a ghost that still remains

every time I fool myself into believing I’ll be okay
has only been another lie to get me through another day

Legacy.

I have started to write this so many times
Replaced certain words and erased entire lines
the curse of this message is veiled behind
the fact that its author seems frozen in time;

At times its content strikes me as absurd
I lose my last nerve upon finishing the words
the truth of my sadness is vague and obscure
By the time I’m done writing, I’m left feeling unsure;

Yet it’s plain for all to see through such futility
the desperate force that keeps on driving a need
of the author to express certain points clearly
before there isn’t time left to convey such things;

So then, the permanent pen of this sad story’s end
may help ease the hollowness suffered within
may offer release from the binds she’s wrapped in
may turn out to be a good bye to her friends;

Either way, the result disappoints all the same
the unfinished manuscript prevails once again
as a mockery of things too harsh to explain
until I resign and throw the towel back in;

Even so, against the fading of productive days
I strive to somehow put my sorrow into paraphrase
to pull the anchor from my chest and toss it far away
by writing down concisely all this shit I want to say.

Clutch of STFU.

Admittedly
I never found
The time to read
Hitchcock’s ‘BIRDS’
and now
I’m wondering
Was the story-line
About being driven
Bat-shit crazy?
Or bird-shit crazy
More accurately
Because that’s the kind
That pertains to me
And the state of mind
That I find lately
The chirping
The clucking
The fucking audacity
I’ve had enough
Of the finch clutch
Known as the Society.

clutch of stfu2

This Year.

This year’s irony
Oh twenty fifteen
Has played itself out
Like an old guitar string.

This year’s misery
Been weighing heavily
Been transforming all
And ruining everything.

This year’s changes
Make it quite hard for me
To look up the road
And see any good thing.

This year’s reality
A bullet through each knee
And nothing has successfully
Stopped the bleeding.

This year’s finality
I can’t help but to perceive
As if the tolling of a new year
Will bring an end to me.

Next year’s poetry
will have a different ring
Words to precious legacy
Or some other stupid thing.