I feel bad for all the books in libraries and in stores that never get picked up. No matter how extraordinary the literature is in between those covers, there is always a better choice or book that gets chosen. I wonder how does the author feel when thousands of copies of one of their books are published, but not all are picked up off the shelf to be taken home to enjoy. It saddens me when I think of all the brilliance being wasted.

I am one day older. July 17
My mother has another year
To her name. The sun has risen,
But time is setting – I am
Getting further away from the
Closest thing I had to bliss.

There is something beautiful
And desirable about ignorance,
Something I possessed only as an
Infant, yet I would ****
To hold it once more. **** –
That proves it. Just how far
Am I from those illusive years?

When I was little, nature's
Corpses would be buried with care,
And we would whisper words
To the Earth about who we had lost.
Now, pests are killed by my will,
And handled with disgust.

Yet, I envy them. Their lives,
So easy to dispose of, and mine,
Neverending. But I am the same
As a common moth.
Crush me.

A picture is worth a thousand words:








You're a library.

'Tis true, 'Tis true.  I do I do
He has a vocabulary of a hundred words
And speaks to me inspirational verse
Which I write down to share:-) with you
This bird I own showed me the way
To verbally destroy and then to slay
The poetic pathetic lesser men like you
Oh bow before me bow you serfs
For I are your artistic master here on earth
I are the greatest living man
As artistic brilliance from my pen doth flow
And inspirational words do poetically grow
All this from a parrot gilded bright
Lyrical inspiration into the night
And who here can compare

My bird as yet has got no name
Please peasants give a name
That all men here will recognise
As belonging to the best bird
In the land

Buy me ripped skinny jeans
And feed me LSD
Maybe then I'll be happy

Earlier this night I traveled down memory lane
Please call my friend Mary Jane
She'll help me forget

I'm in this ****** life I know I'll never win
Unless I get my veins full of heroine  

I don't even know how to keep myself sane
Without a hit of *******

All I ever wanted was to leave behind a legacy
But the thing is I no longer feel the ecstasy
That's supposed to be lingering in my ways

I'm in no position to pretend that I'm holy
Especially when I'm always seen
With my good friend Molly

Cause who am I to avoid all this
I'm just a sad lonely teen
Feeling psychedelic

People at work look
at me in bewilderment,
they must think I'm childish,
'cause I have my fingers
in my mouth
all the time.

But I know better doll face,
it's an adult thing,
an act I love,
craving
delicious traces of you,
smiling devilishly inside.

Play your sad guitar a while
that I may sing for thee
of words that sit within my heart
and technicolour dreams.

Play a tune of broken wings
now healed by tender hands
brought to flight by friendship strong
and moons in distant lands.

Harmonise with me this night
let music be our guide,
you see my soul in different light,
through darkness, where I hide.

Then I'll lift up my song to thee
the sweetest ever heard
and raise my voice in thanks once more
to friendship, love and words.

the clocks went forward
and left me behind
of all the year's changes
this one's most unkind.

less time in bed:
more time to be bad
less chance to develop
new symptoms of S.A.D.

the birds are a-twittering
the cats are a-killing
the buds are exploding
the evenings are chilling

there's no time to linger
gotta pull out my finger
it's time to stop dreaming:
wake up and start screaming!