Some say 'shyness is pride'
Some say 'shyness is cowardness'
Well what do the shy say?
They are well guarded,
With a wall so high and thick,
With traps and the unknown,
A fortress concealing what?
If shyness were pride,
Could it conceal great weapons?
If that were so,
Will those weapons bring benefits of utter destruction?
Should it be regarded as selfish or humble?
If shyness is cowardness,
could it conceal weakness?
If that were so,
Shouldn't the shy be regarded as being strong in a way?
The shy are mysterious and often misunderstood,
But really, what do the shy say?
We might never know,
Considering the fact they never reveal anything,
Be it great or not.

I came home to find that the
Oven had been left on
And only the burnt crust of the brownies
Had been left uneaten and
Poor Jose had gone to bed drunk
Before nine

I opened Jose's bottle of red wine
Because it was owed to me
And I saved all our lives by turning off
The oven and I sat at my computer watching videos
And thought of how Charles Bukowski's voice
Reminded me of the Disney version of the Jungle Book
Low and soothing and liquid
That you couldn't ever grab hold of
But lived in your memory
And the wine made memory sweet

Poor Jose drinks and his memory
Hits him like a stingray
Sliding just beneath the wet sand
His life is twisting and turning upwards
Towards some horrible nesting spot
And It's just like how sometimes
The cat's mewing seems deafening and
The more pleasant someone is the more you
Wanna pull out their eyelashes
And the cream colored paint on the walls
Is moments away from driving you mad
And with all that **** dully hurricaning around
Who's got time to turn off the oven?

I feel as if I'm not as smart as I used to be,
And cannot handle difficult work.

He was tired of the ordinary and he wanted something new.  
He wanted to hear the sound of the moon.  
He wanted to taste the tides.
     The sound of the cacti growing in the desert was like music to his ears,
but he could not remember anymore exactly just what it sounded like.  
He wanted to go back to when he did not have to remember
because he could hear it always,
but he could not go back.  

Time had put him where he was
and he could not turn back time, but it was not just a matter of that.
  He knew that somewhere he had lost his understanding of himself, and with it
his conception of the world
became skewed.  
He did not properly understand
the instrument with which he experienced the world
so he was not appropriately situated to judge what he experienced.  
Once he understands what he is
he sees his flaws.
he sees other things too.
    
The rays of the sun fell in a multitude of rays through the trees,
the canopies acting as a colander; taking up most of the rays
but allowing some to slip through
where small trees and shrubs seemed to congregate.
One of the rays fell on the boy
and as it did he opened his eyes
he was no longer a boy.

is that even a word?
literaturely?
who cares really?
It is now, to me

I have oft complained
the seductive heat
of tar and ink
that has literaturely
clogged my veins
and in turn
gummed my brain
often touting screams
that proclaim
NOT SANE
is here to remain
but I was wrong?

When last I cut my wrists
the pain ran Red
and inside my head
I literaturely turned Blue
Who knew?
that all things unsaid
are put to bed
on a razors edge
cutting my soul in half
that never once
turned on you

I literaturely turned gray

I paled beneath dying embers
of forgotten burning fires
dulling as ash coated remnants
of long ago desires

I now step back
from the fray
I've had my weak
my day
and upon the hour
where the clock strikes
the 780th minute
13 leaves a sour
taste in my mouth

turning all good things South
swimming in blackness
in my new ruby red
bathing suit
that literaturely
turned white
I literaturely died
tonight

Now a mute
blood red in vane
I sit and stare
at the bones
of my soul
that remain
A ghastly caricature
of a misspent life
that can't negotiate
the road at the bend

I literaturely can
no longer
comprehend

It's happened again
cupid has cycled his laughing cast
Without discretion, displayed in viscous currents

One man finds a mate
through an easy game of chase the scar,
Lazy frowning and statued emotion

Her eyes sparkled in such a kindred flame
Artificially, just as the sad boy does
rebounding desperation on both parts

He as the hermit,with a minimal compassion
She played the role for all affection
Drove her half mad, cutting lonely

A last chance to see him to the dance
pupils strayed off, eating the smoke
For a couple months, I think, maybe more

Distance was death for the loving seperation
Caring is old, the premature pleasure maker
Chakra cats and Vampire disease

Chased with blood, drunk on a rhapsody
The girl dumped the filthy ****** baggage
Humbly fornicating with a more fitting fellow

Similar in grace and taste
Aspirations and dependence on denser levels
Red to black or black and blue

With a new foundation built
Companion demolition, scheduled for certain
Love sued the suit and Brothers close at heart

It's happened again
Cupid has cycled his laughing cast
Without discretion, displayed in viscous currents

I've grown so weary over these bland days
Of derelict caverns in the smiling youth
Engrossed within this perpetual phase
Of this disassociation from will to mouth
Its vain to be kindred with a free spirit
When you're the only person to hear it

These unending conversations with no reply
Have left me content with an arbitor silence
With my questions and answers in short supply
This depravity ridden with failing patience
I could write a fitting quote that is all my own
But,it's better to be stepped on than left all alone

I once heard those words in the presence of god
He laughed in my face with a screech in my ear
Shoved hell in my view and I gave him a nod                                                    
For the terror it shows is all that we fear
This is written on walls with blood as the ink
I saw it that day and I began to think

What will we take away from this earth?
Can memory live longer that a thought?
Could we remember our life before birth?
Or will we just blend into void and rot?
I begin to ask what is the greater release?
The pleasures of relief or to merely cease?

... And,These weeks go by without a single toil
I wake every day just as the sun will set
This world turns and waits to be spoiled
I fail to see how resistence can be met
When existence is naught but the dawn of the end
A handful of dust and our pride to defend