You wouldn't kiss me and cried and
I cried and I cried at work
and I cried at home and cried
myself to sleep
and woke up
numb and
empty.

You're still leaving aren't you?

It snowed all night,
and I slept from 5 till 6am,
and I still harbor this pain
and guilt and depression
and loneliness and sadness;
Solid bricks of sadness
pulling my chest into
my abdomen.

You've had a foot out the door for months.

You try too tell me I'm, "your best friend"
but I know how you treat your friends,
how you talk to your friends,
and I'm far from that. You lie and tell me
you love me, etc.
&
I hate you for this.

I will always hate you for this.
I gave you my love and you took it,
I gave you my heart and you took it,
and now you're walking away with both
and I have to pretend you're not hiding them
in your ******* back pocket or sock drawer?

I hate you for this, and
I will always hate you for this.

I just wanted your ******* love and affection,
I wanted to know you would be here for me,
and you would never ******* do that.
Not that you couldn't, you just didn't want to.
My life turns to **** and I'm struggling to
survive
and you tell me it's time to jump ship.

You shut me out and now you're throwing me away,
and in this sea of lies, somewhere I'm supposed to believe
nothing is my fault, and it stings that you can't even
tell me what went wrong and where you learned to
resent me.
I bet you're packing up my stuff as I write this.
I want to be less than zero and worse than dead.
I wish I could just sleep.

I'd promise you love isn't real, but you have mine
and it's gone with you, and now
there's nothing beautiful left in this world for me.
The snow is rising and it makes the distance
between us even farther.

**** it, why not make nothing off limits,
why not break everything with
something soft and velvety
or a sledgehammer made of
cardboard
executing murders at breakneck speeds.

So maybe nobody gives a ****,
and it's whatever, you're whatever
being lonely is whatever, this life
is so ******* whatever,
banal, passe.

Eyed like a tiger and donated blood to
the vampires, and used like a ******
but only ****** like ****** over;
****** like a father.
Lonely and sad and
contemplating if the bar in the closet

can support my weight at the end of a belt.

Contemplating if the liquor at the bar
tastes sweeter than the people.
Or maybe I should just move on.
Maybe I should pack all my bags
and just run 'till Satan can't collect
and no one knows my name,
so I'll make a new one.

I resent everybody here anyways.
Casual spite. I hope you all die,
so you can't see how much I truly
don't give a **** about any of you.

I'm just tired some more maybe.

Spent 4 dollars on the light gun game
in the Barcade, and beat it,
and there are no high scores,
just 2am and sore eyes and
lactic acid in the elbow.

We're all rats chewing holes in
the ship we stow away on.
Sinking in a desperate hunger.

You don't know me, and, so...
don't pretend to anymore.

You don't talk much,
I don't talk much.
So, we don't talk much.
Yet, somehow, everything
is "fine". [citation needed]

Singing in the passenger side this time,
sitting on the vocals for the perfect song,
waiting to make you cry.

I am your doll, full of needles;
We fight by cuddling in armor
padded with barbed wire and thorns.

Mutilated "lovers". [citation needed]
Cold wars and cold tongues and shoulders,
and tired of all the *******, but whatever.
Everything's ******* now.
Nothing is fine, or good,
or okay...

When I was 20 I learned all
the music I liked was garbage.
When I was 21 I realized I

couldn't write a good song

and by 22 I remembered how.
When I was a child
I was more suicidal
than now,
and I'm still a kid,
practically.

I had a couple tapes when I was 17
and not again since then, but
I'm still a pretentious ******* *******.
I've had a couple students in guitar
over the year, but
nothing
serious.

I am a yawn and poor excuse for a human at most.
Ego is on point like maybe her crotch hairs are "fleek",
but who the **** is gonna say that to
the back of her head? Without shame to hide,
dignity to keep intact, or
a head on solid shoulders, ever, ******* ever,
never ever.

Fire for breathe. Kiss me till my lips bleed;
Speak my face in, or smash my consciousness.
**** me to death, till I die, make me dead.
I wish I was well fed and not scared of people.

Nice things come to people who work and practice.

I grew up in the furnace, halfway towards homeless
with scars on my feet to show where running took place,
and feeble lies were told to strangers for
a laugh back when people used to
use people for comedy instead of
text and image and text...

Maybe I'm still lying.

Everyone knew that black and yellow
means "danger"; from
caution tape to wasps.
Smiley faces.
etc.

Held their teeth to the curb,
and their hands outstretched
far above their heads;
Never prayed for anything.
We were taught to stop wanting
what we couldn't get.
We learned.

Whatever was whatever
and was the war chant for
Afghanistan,
and when Bush Sr. decided
he could name wars as he saw fit
[As a friend calls it,
"Operation Desert Storm™"].

Devalued friendship
in case we had to run away.
Adapted, really.
Ran away.

Prayed for death.
Fell in love constantly.
Desperately tried to have a home.
Wanted a home.
Wanted something quiet.

Out of the furnace.

Pink noise in place of somber thought.
White noise in place of shelter.
Noise instead of feeling.
Noise,
and heat.

The brightest
star
isn't in the sky.

You fill your Marlboro blacks
with marijuana and sing off key
all the way through the songs
on 90.1FM.

We turn onto the highway and I
manually
roll down the window and put my head
into the breeze and pray something stops me.
My hair too full of Murray's and American Crew
to really shift in the wind, even as it beats my
eyes shut.

Tell me about your obsessions with blood.
The kid in the back seat can't play guitar,
and the Béla Bartók inspired cacophony
in the gutters of my soul
assure me, "Yeah, it's so ******* easy to be
a 'good person', and maybe you can't
sleep some nights
or
repress anything, everything,
but the hardest smiles are reserved
for those who don't want and maybe
cannot be saved anymore."

Turn off the highways, avenues, streets,
roads, parking lots, radios, lights and minds.
My mother swears to me that Christ said,
"the last shall come first and...",
so I aim for rock bottom and
let the real drummers take a break.
Sink into ceilings and headphones and
products and senses and relish it
with tears in my eyes.

We make our blood toxic to predators
&
we don't fear hurting the people we love,
because we don't love anyone, really.

The brightest star isn't even in the sky,
but not everything that shines reeks of beauty
or significance, or glamor, or assurance, or hope.
Everything could be ******* perfect.
[It excels in mediocrity.]

Odors build up from a session of
sleep-work-sleep-work-sleep
[suicide in slow motion]
that seems to cycle
without hesitation
and soon

naturally.

Well fed big cat, poking at the
starved hysteric hyenas with
a 3 foot cattle ****. Laughing.
Avoid eyesight.
Contact.

The hand that feeds holds down your throat;
the invisible hand masturbates your false ego,
your sense of self is attained by
radioactive superpowers achieved
through the assault of arachnids,
or the bite of some exoskeletoned predator.

What gives you incurable illness provides you
with some naive interpretation of life as
"endless shining light of warmth and love."

Yeah, well tough **** for the dead,
and please, less noise from the dying.

I broke a lantern in a vivid hallucination
I had in my sleep. Inside was the scripture
of a fortune cookie from
"Golden Dragon" on lee road.
It read,

"Life is made worth living."