Drying Drops of Love.

Such articulated truths,
Much anticipated moves,
Beneath the sky,
I wonder why,
What’s the fucking use?


To know you pondered aloud,
The wonder of something you found,
In the wake of,
Drying drops of my love,
You cast your chance around.


How could it surprise you?
When none of it was really new,
No profound sensations,
To feed such ruminations,
As the shit that you cyber-spew.


Wow…but it’s nothing new,
Now your choices strike back at you?
Fool me twice,
Against all advice,
The venom in my veins courses blue.


You’ve cloned and cookie cut my dreams,
You’ve proven nothing is ever what it seems,
Fists up to you,
Untried and untrue,
The likes of you can’t fuck with me.

Frying Pan.

Choosing never affects a good choice,

only amplifies the neediness in your shaky voice,

aren’t we are all adults playing on this playground,

or had I been mistaken?

when I took in,

all the grown up sights and sounds?

play games like you have power here among our kind,

unhealthy certainty in your wobbly-kneed stride,

I can practically taste the intentions that know are underneath,

like the fat off the bacon,

in the frying pan,

do not kid yourself into believing your own longstanding deceit.