Go On.

Scratch every single thing
That ever held meaning
Swipe away the empty words
All Ive said and all Ive heard
Make it rain with truthfulness
Wash the stain of uselessness
I dont need the toxic lies
The well concealed goodbyes
Its all a joke told cruelly
Behind the trusting back of me
Just go on and get in line
And take your place in kind
Youre all the sorry same
Point fingers and place blame
In the face of reality
Incapable of solidity
Its like a giant oozing wound
Stitches opened far too soon
Im alone in the responsibility
Of letting mutants close to me
Days and nights between
The lies fed forcefully
I vomit each and every breath
Until nothingness is all thats left
Go on.
Go live your life.

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…

Thy Will Won’t Be Done.

My wrinkled face
is beginning to waste,
limp body, still hung,
on a squeaky clothesline,
that is tightly confined,
beneath a given thumb,
any part attached to me,
repeatedly gone numb,
neurons firing incorrectly,
missed the target,
subsequently,
my brain feels like,
a bowl of old pond-scum,
the day and night,
continue to come,
Hell or high water,
thy will won’t be done.

Bent.

I am the face blended in on the train –
with open wounds bleeding blame and shame –
I am the darkness that protects the light –
blinded by a goal in sight –
I am the reasons why I hate myself –
just me to blame and nobody else –
I am the hatred in the moments alone –
when the place is quiet and nobody’s home –
I am the purpose that drives so many vessels on fire –
I am the face of the weary and tired–
I am not satisfied with the way things have become –
I am not going to accept what you’ve done –
I am the one who meant each word I said –
I am the one that you lied to instead –
I am the one who is sullen and down –
I am the reason none of my friends come around –
I am the cause of all things tragic –
I can make people disappear from my Life like Magic – 
I am the cultivator of this poisonous place –
I am afraid of my own body and face –
I cannot tell which creatures won’t bite –
I will eventually resign to this fight –
I am convinced that I’m better off without –
I am aware of what they’re all talking about –
I am the one who tied the original knot –
I guess that that’s a detail that each one forgot –
I am not filled with any cold from the snow–
I have mastered that defense system, you know –
I am a human fucking being –
I have a heart that pumps and bleeds –
I am not interested in dramatics and games –
be decent to me, and I’ll treat you the same.

Ashes to Dust.

Somewhere is a hallway lined,
by door upon closed-door,
each one leading to,
its own room full of lies,
boxes stacked up four high,
and color coded to the eye,
the naked eye sees right,
and someday, somebody,
will discover this place,
set off an explosive device,
to open up each doorway,
to be told every herein lie,
to be snowed,
to have the wool,
pull back over those eyes,
to be plowed,
mown over,
set on fire,
and then left alone to die,
in this hallway that’s burning,
in this place full of lies,
there’s no escape,
from what we choose,
to believe to be right,
only choice left is to embrace,
the flames,
the blazing light,
as the discoverer renders,
the discovery statement,
ashes are tendered,
before a gathered crowd,
only to be poured,
onto the dirt floor,
to the ground.

Carcass – A Haiku in Four Stanzas.

Void are the words spat,

from the mouths of the elite;

ugliness in speech.

Green is the standpoint,

of pseudo-democracy;

liberties gone weak.

Lost is a future,

Trumped  fading reason,

A carcass for a hairpiece;

“Make it great again”.

Political filth,

Spread amid such poverty;

Serves not a purpose.

Step off the soapbox,

Nobody wants to get clean;

Lathered in those suds.

Counterfeit.

There’s a feeling that accompanies –
the blood that begins to flow through these,
mud-red, blood pumping veins of my body –
anytime that I allow myself to recall certain things;
a feeling that forms a layer over everything –
that envelopes down to the core of my very being,
that swallows whole – the sunshine’s glow –
and will leave my achy mind like a fishing line’s reeling;
this feeling counterparts my glee –
and takes away the joy from anything left to be,
it riddles me with shame and the first name of the guilty –
and washes me clean in my own fucked up memories;
there is a watchful set of eyes looking over me –
day and night, anytime I look I can see them glistening,
tearing up to cry about the things I shouldn’t need –
lamenting for my losses and my counterfeit winnings;
there’s a trick played by the light endlessly on me –
a trick that keeps the surface break just barely out of reach,
that continuously haunts my days and nights relentlessly –
reminding that there is no kill switch that turns off this machine;
if I reach the decision and set my mind to its finality –
there’s always someone there to try and stand up stupidly,
this creates another monster to be born, and then unleashed –
wreak havoc on the roadblock before climbing back inside of me;
welcomed through the threshold by those similar, genetically –
celebrated through paper lantern concessions and gluttonous feasts,
a party to be had for every time that I’ve been trampled under feet –
a burial site that gives birth to new light with every new morning.