Why are you so bitter old man?
So nihilistic, so feeble and empty...


Was it the strangers? Friends?
The way everyone seems to disappoint you
without hesitation or fail?
You hate strangers.
You hate people you've
never talked to
and afterwards hate them with deeper insights.
You hate the things you see in them, in yourself,
and it disgusts you in the way only you can disgust
yourself, in the way only humanity can disgust you.

How'd you get so mean?
You'd rather people died than left you,
and sometimes they can do both
and you really don't care.
Empathy from you for these ******* strangers,
is like trying to pull a rabbit out of a hat.

Believing in nothing.
Nothing is a belief.
Nothing as a belief.
Belief of nothing.

The way it drags on a vowel
like Nicholas Cage screams.
You're accustomed to failure, loss,
defeat and fear.
You cling to what you have left
desperately
like a dying man
clings to his bedsheets.

For mercy.

Throwing myself into wider oceans
with shallow waters,
throwing myself out,
seeing myself inside.
Distant to shelter.

I've seen too many people reach
so far ahead of themselves
they fall over.

I smothered my ambitions,
and I might pay for it, yeah
but then again I might just
save myself from
so much more.

Maybe he pumped up on drugs,
but Cash never went to prison,
so what else is a lie when we
write songs that sound beautiful
and mean nothing?


Your loose clothing, strings
falling off your shoulders,
and dying plants.
Tight on the hips,
this room is full of garbage
&
I’m abandoning it in
a few weeks anyways.

I need someone to eat
all of my sins and make me
clean again, if only for
the weekend.

We fear becoming our parents,
and then spend years learning
everyone becomes
an ******* anyways.

30+ years committed to suicide
in slow motion waiting to die.
Tigers frozen still and broken,
their eyes wild, their faces frantic,
frozen; clawing each other and running
like a container of bulls on fire and starved.
Their stripes like tears in the fabric of some
uncaring and cruel reality.

Dare to call yourself an artist.

Sunlight streams
directly onto an orchid
and
eventually it dies.
Beautiful parasites.

Stepping out of bed listening to
Sun Araw yelp like a cat on marijuana
and wondering if we're all the spawn
of some great singular being.

Lying in your work clothes,
lying to yourself about showing up late
working towards that infinite nothing,
wondering why people expect dreams
out of people, instead of just
give some mercy to the suffering.

Talking about age makes me want to die young.

It's pink and orange and soon it's blue,
but it's still the loveliest most childish
painting the sun has ever spread out
for your eyes to see.

Put on work boots for a job that'd
be just fine with sneakers.
Get your ducks in a row,
and let the cute girls with
big eyes and colored hair
shoot them down
one by one
by one.

I don't know what made everybody this way,
but I hope it has nightmares.

For the record most of my writings are lies
and fickle emotions.
You can call me a hypocrite and I won't fight you.

I'm just being ****** to an audience;
It's so selfish to lash out and say I love you,
and I know it.

I think the whole point of life on earth is that the smaller creature
adapts and learns how to eat or destroy the bigger creature;
So mankind is destroying the ******* planet,
and I wonder what was taking us so long?

I've been waiting to turn to a stranger and say,
"Do you feel like everyone is living in some
synchronized insanity, and we all want to scream
and cry and break **** and generally riot,
but we don't just because we're told this is how
things should be?

So we just keep  moseying on in our illusion of security,
and perpetuate the illusion with the people who
reject it...[?]"

A stranger flagged me down on the street today,
and I crossed the street and just hopped over the snow bank
to help an old woman to the supermarket,
and **** me, I can't remember her name,
it was like Nancy or Margaret something old-timey.
I bought an orchid and waited for her to finish shopping,
but she told me she would be okay;

Like sometimes you want to let someone know
you're still trying, you're going to be "good",
but **** reading Bukowski still feels so "good",
and all your honesty isn't truthful,
but it's so sincere.
I imagine everyone else is waiting and praying
for everyone else to just snap and go insane.

Those people will look into you and say
"I get it. You're sad", and miss that so many bricks
and stones go into building castles,
and every iPhone shop in the world looks so
empty, disgusting, and caucasian,
and yet every store wants to be the iPhone shop
and so very few places can attempt to be the castle.

The castle takes time, effort... Tolerance.
Stamina. Weathering, aging...
Yeah it looks cold in winter,
but it'll stand in spring, and it'll
outlive the ******* iPhone shops
for centuries.

Anything that stands for centuries
is literally amazing,

And if there is a God, she is a black woman
and the entire world calls her n#####,
and she cries herself to sleep every night.

We are all the company we will ever have in
all those lonely strangers.
If you've ever seen a cat try to **** another cat,
you might be me,
and you may realize mankind is brave and noble
and stupid and messy and disgusting
and terrible terrible terrible and so much better than
their feeble bodies, but so much
worse than gods and heavens and undeserving
of anything supernatural and kind.

We are a cesspool made of solid gold.

Yet, I've taken down my nooses.
I've made my sharp edges dull.
I look both ways when I cross the street.
I take care of a plant now.
I try to take care of myself.
I get by, and that's my plan.

To get by and be happy.

I don't wanna "live life to the fullest"
with some obnoxious artistic gesture
and "wacky" mannerisms,
I force feed to people who don't care.
Trying to make people think I'm
successfully immature, because I'm not.

I don't want to be some retail manager
and employee somewhere else,
getting it at both ends, unpleasantly,
trying to make people think I'm mature
or responsible, because I'm not.

I can't be Bukowski, and I can't be Ginsberg,
and I can't be Emily Dickinson, or Jack Kerouac.
I might have lofty fantasies, and sometimes I'll
attempt them, but I don't want those "plans"
that blow up in your face when the string gets pulled.

I have priorities.

I want to grace through life on thinning plastic wings,
playing last years video games,
listening to timeless music,
and most importantly,
being loved by the people
I love so very much.