From wherein did I say I was something way back when?
Excuse me for my grammar, it's this ******* mescaline.

From here on out where were we before the barmaid came to call?
Before I have another whiskey and demand we hear The Wall.

Ahh, you were just about to leave me where others flown before.
Well please don't let me stop you. Here, I'll hold the ****** door.

Some of us here, write about hope while others write about pain.
Some of us here, write about love and that which keeps us sane.

Others write about Death and the souls she just adored.
Penning out their sorrow, the mournful cries strike a chord.

Then are those who write about things and faces that they know.
Describing perfect places, landscapes wrought with snow.

Me? I'm just here venting, it's a need. This urge to write.
Cut off my hands, if you please. I'll bleed a novel out of spite.

You're gone.
And I have to learn to live with that.
You found what it is you've been looking for.
You're happy.
And you're gone.
Gone and happy.
A wake of loneliness trails behind you.
I used to have someone to talk to.
Someone who would sometimes read my ****.
I told her to go.
I didn't think she'd disappear.
It hurts.
So I drink.
It doesn't make the pain go away.
I just temporarily forget why I'm hurting.

Well it finally happened. I've become too depressed to write.

My legs they hurt.
The pain's in my knees.
Could you bring me a scotch
and my cigarettes please.

Now tell me a story.
One I've not heard.
Perhaps your life.
Spare not a word.

Tell me your sorrow.
Speak of your dreams.
Of soft Sunday mornings.
Or crystal clear streams.

I'm here for you now.
Not always I'll be.
So tell us a secret.
It'll die with me.

How is it I can have 219 contacts in my phone, and none of them are friends or family?

What makes me sad.
Is knowing that on the day my pain stops.
Your pain will begin.

When the moon gets caught in the branches.
When the sparrows have bid you goodnight.
And the night has tumbled before you.
Staring out into the forest.
Think about me.
Perhaps if but for a moment.
And how it is I love you.
Still.
As the air.
As a heart in waiting.
Succumbing to the darkness that pervades.
Broken and wrought with sickness.
Incurable.

The uncomfortable realization.
That although I can do everything in my power to try and maker her happy.
It's me that she's unhappy with.
I had four that I made the one.
I was never the one to them.
The end will be here soon enough.

Love it seems.
Is finding that one tortured soul.
Who's frequency aligns with yours.
And although you see the pain others suffer.
You single out this one person as the one you want to save.
The one for whom you'd give your life if it meant that they would not have to suffer anymore.
And they in turn for you.
Thus cancelling out each others pain.
Only to exist through each others bliss.

Says one who is unsure as to whether or not he's ever been loved.
(sips whiskey, lights up cigarette, and curses the moon)

45 years just wasted
Not a **** thing to be shown
Wandered in on a whisper
Leaving with a groan

No wife, no house, no savings
No love to write about
Nothing ever ventured
No hope but lots of doubt

Heed this little warning
Lest you end up where I lie
Find and hold your love
Long before you die

I go now to the shadows
For I never had the light
Soon to be forgotten
Cause to live I had no right

My story?
I know you didn't ask.
I love two women.
They're both off getting plowed by other people.
I'm trying to drink myself to death because my heart disease is too painful.
Yayyyyy life.

No rapture greater.
No peace more exquisite.
A friend, an enemy.
Comforting when contained.
A demon when set free.
In the absence of love.
My friend the flame

They'll wander off into the night.
For carnal based depravity.
I sit alone no hope in sight.
For no love I have will have me.

Thinking back I have always been the first to say it.
Longing for that mutual connection.
It evades me.
Acting as my shadow.
Always just out of reach.
Playing life's role as Tantalus.
I'll roll and re roll the thoughts in my head.
Before lighting them up and smoking them down to roaches.
Confirming whether or not it's real.
Then and only then will I dare to say it.
Never expecting a reply.
Always hoping they'll say nothing.
Unfortunately.
They'll always say something.
Typically a lie.
Replying in kind or repeating what I've said back to me.
With all the sincerity of a demon who's been ordered to bring back my soul at any cost.
It leaves me feeling void.
It'd be better if they'd said nothing at all.
To instead leave me at the precipice.
Staring into the sun to blind me in assurance that from then on I'd have nothing to look forward to.
It hurts when I hear them say it.
Why bother?
To placate me?
To salvage what's left of me in thinking it's what I want you to say.
Save your declarations for those of whom you honestly feel.
Leave my words for dead.
Because they'll never mean as much to you as you do to me.
So just leave the "I love you" to hang there in the silent night.
Hold your hapless tongue and go.
My ego needs not your pity.

They'll arise, the people I knew.
Most will get a coffee.
Others may light up a cigarette.
They'll ponder the day ahead.
Their jobs, their kids, their lovers.
Grabbing their phones.
They'll check their messages.
Assuring themselves they have everything they need.
They'll begin their commutes.
Destinations known awaiting.
Acknowledging their coworkers.
They begin their work.
Perhaps lunch for some.
Thinking about their new favorite shows.
Eventually closing out their workdays.
They may make a stop or two on the way home.
Walking into their front doors with dinner on their minds.
Three or four of them may pour a drink.
Discussing their days events with their families.
Netflix will help them while away the evening and escort them into the night.
Others will make love, some will drag on butts while staring out into the night.
Eventually they'll all retire to their beds for the night.
Maybe one of them will think of me.
This being the day after I died.

That time I gave away the words you said to someone better than I.
Or the moment I awoke from that dream I had to realize it was a lie.
The other is where I can't go and you'll tell me no one is there.
I'll smile you'll laugh and gauge my expression while I pretend to care.
I'm not what you want while you keep insisting the opposite is true.
And as with the universe, love, and ***, I've arrived without a clue.
This thing of ours can't be described and is sometimes a little unnerving.
It's not what's said but what's left for dead, that I find a little disturbing.
So tell me this oh shaman so high on peyote and I think paint thinner.
Who wins the war who comes out on top the saint or is it the sinner?
Her love for me carries no weight for it's like that of a bottomless vase.
Pretty to look at though utterly useless it lacks reason more than cause.
You're a vapid source and that says a lot but my patience is wearing thin.
Just tell me the way back to her arms and what bets do I make to win.
The shaman knew nothing so now I'm lost and I can't find my way to you.
Standing before me dripping words so sweet but alas which ones are true.
I think I should go you can leave the door open perhaps I'll find my way back.
This poem is an abortion of random thoughts and desires that have gone off track.

It's crossed my mind.
Perhaps more often than I'd like to admit.
The thought of stepping through the door.
If for no other reason than to see what lies on the other side.
It's a two lane road.
The cars are travelling in opposite directions.
Just gotta swerve five feet to the left when you see the next Peterbilt.
Two objects travelling at sixty.
Meeting head on.
To know in an instant what awaits a tortured soul.
Would you remember to put the silver on my eyes?
For the ferryman.
These thoughts aren't birthed by sadness.
It's more of a "I'm bored. What's over here?" feeling.
One day.
One day the Call will shout over the other voices.
The ones that say "what about?"
I can step off into nothing.

To write you what I'm thinking
would be nothing short of forced.
Words of wit and wisdom
adamantly coerced.

Albeit about the moon
or the stars to be admired.
Amber rays of sunlight
and those things so oft desired.

Hummingbirds aloft in flight
remind this knight of thee.
Alas my heart sinking
in the eyes of an emerald sea.

Or could it be what it is
a mutually assured destruction.
A simulation of our own design
our perceptions in construction.

So there it is I told you so
my wording lacks in flair.
When I all ever wanted
was for you to know I care.

Tell me you hate me.
If you're not going to touch me.
If you want to stand over there.
Say it.
Tell me you hate me.
Let it out.
I'm not here to kid myself.
I'm not here to contend with me.
That's been done.
Now say it.
Tell me you hate me and let's be done with it.
It's been for too long for I.
And yet I have a nights ride ahead.
Before I finish this drink.
Let me hear it.
If it were ever needed to be said.
If but for the sake of one time.
Just say it.
Tell me you hate me.
So that I know you once loved me.

There's no rapture here.
No balm in Gilead.

Synaptic starvation.
A void within a void.

External stimuli extinct.
Internal stimuli forsaken.

To what then do I owe the pleasure?
If there's no pleasure to be had.

A loveless existence.
A spirit left to dry out over time in the pursuit of futility and meaningless exchanges of niceties and things need not said to people for whom we do not care at times we don't have to spare in a world left so cold to the idea that it could save itself if it only tried that it reeks of contempt and suffering.
Everyday people suffering and mired in the things that haunt their essence of being on a level they rather not have to contend with because they know the truth is anything other than what they hoped it'd be and any attempt at reconciliation would only be a foray into a vacuous madness.
So wrought with strife and teetering on an edge of a knife we choose instead to adopt the illusion that best suits our needs so that we can just muster enough strength get out of bed in the morning and swallow that bitter pill that we can only hope will help mask our never ending desire to see an end to it all so that we may at last find some peace whether in this life or the next.

So many lies to tell.
The black lies are the ones that matter.
These are the ones that destroy lives.
Reinforced by the need for the illusion.

There's a reason they call them little white lies.
Because they don't matter.
So is that what we are?
Little white lies.

So therein lies the problem I'd say.
Stop. Telling. Lies.
Or, never start to begin with.
What would life be then?

Still a lie.

So little time afforded.
Life lost to necessities and chaos.
Pulled to shreds by people, places, and things.
What is left for us?

What of ourselves do we get to keep?
What do we give away?
What parts of ourselves do we sell?
For how much?

Do you even know who you are anymore?
Are you who I think you are?
Are you who you want to be?
There are parts of me I left to rot in your hands that I'd like to have back.

Hoping the answers I get are wrong.
Hoping those voices from the dark recesses of my mind are wrong.
To all these questions.
I'm just so tired of asking.