Thrown.

The thoughts,
are the same,
as what they’ve,
always been…
the uneasiness,
steady lingers,
in each pore of,
my crawling skin…
the hatred,
still grows,
to spill blood,
from my nose…
forced perceptions,
well imposed,
self-deception,
in overload…
the plan,
now unfolds,
adding more heat,
to the coals…
the signs,
have been here,
in a language,
crystal clear…
the nights,
have been darker,
and absent of fear…
the truth,
shall appear,
the lies too,
have no fear…
the curtain,
has now closed,
the padlock’s,
been thrown…
the desire,
has left me,
in darkness,
and, alone.

Day Number Two.

On day number one:
you’re the Earth, moon and sun,
you’ve invaded your way,
into the folds of my brain;
and it’s all I can do,
to go without for a day –

Day twenty-three:
this isn’t working;
you need to let me be,
…breathe, …breathe
get your face away from me,
yeah, I remember,
but I was amiss,
while we built up to this;

Day sixty-two:
believe me,
I wanted it to be true;
wanted Father Time to,
eventually prove,
that you would be,
a novelty,
a relic of my youth;
the one I seem
to unfailingly,
return my sorry ass to –

Day one hundred and nineteen:
my teeth never stop grinding,
in the background,
buzzes the sound,
the unraveling of a wire,
a trip line quickly reeling; –

The final day I spent with you:
the house on fire,
smoke thick as glue,
we should have taken,
the fucking que,
we’ve been forsaken,
since Day number two.

Scotch Whiskey Wet-suit.

I soaked my wet-suit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
that my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
and two fifths of Bell’s,
to numb down the fear,
and drown out my tears,
that’ll send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wet-suit,
weighs down heavy, it’s true,
heavy enough to snap the strings,
to my perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to find the shore eventually,
a return that’s most likely,
not destined to be seen through,
if the body in the wet-suit,
doesn’t make a toast to me.

Thrown.

The thoughts,
are the same,
as what they’ve,
always been…
the uneasiness,
steady lingers,
in each pore of,
my crawling skin…
the hatred,
still grows,
to spill blood,
from my nose…
forced perceptions,
well imposed,
self-deception,
in overload…
the plan,
now unfolds,
adding more heat,
to the coals…
the signs,
have been here,
in a language,
crystal clear…
the nights,
have been darker,
and absent of fear…
the truth,
shall appear,
the lies too,
have no fear…
the curtain,
has now closed,
the padlock’s,
been thrown…
the desire,
has left me,
in darkness,
and, alone.

A Scotch Whiskey Wetsuit.

I soaked my wetsuit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
two fifths of Bell’s,
to fight off any fears,
and drowned any tears,
to send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wetsuit,
weighs down heavy it’s true,
weight enough to snap the strings,
of my given perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to swim back to shore eventually,
a return most likely,
not destined to be,
if the swimmer in the wetsuit,
also indulges in Scotch whiskey.