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Laying in the pile
Of broken hopes and dreams
All I know is pessimism
All I hear are screams

Slowly I am crushed
And what little is left of me..
All I feel is anger
All I know is agony

Everything I am
who Im trying to be..
All I know is Im alone
All I feel is misery

Im in a hole so deep
The light is but a speck
And all I know is loneliness
All I feel is regret
I want something that I cannot have. I cannot have it because I don't truly know what it is. I've seen it polished and propped as if it were on display and I've heard the stories of how much time and effort it took to make it look as such. But I want it. I want love. I want the idea of it at least.
I want the fights brought about by events simpler and less important than the time we wasted to have them. I want to be pained by the sight of her pain and know that the feeling of knives piercing my chest when I see her cry is there because I would literally drive them there myself, if only to prevent her tears.
I want our laughs to intertwine over the smallest things and our conversations to stretch our minds over the biggest. I want to see you sleep at night and I'll smile because I know that you're finally at peace. And I want you to smile when you wake up because you know that I'm fighting to make your reality better than your dreams.
I want love. I want romantic love, I want crazy love. I want passion. I want to pick you up in my arms and in that brief present get lost in your presence. I want to be in you when I am in you and have you wish that I would stay forever. I want to be in your heart and mind, and I want our love to be torturous and blind.
I just want love. I want the idea of it at least.
For me, you are Sunday. Today is Sunday,
and tomorrow will be Sunday. Because I am stuck
in gingham yellow sheets, small white saucers
with matching ceramic cups, cigarette ashes
like a crop circle around them as I sip homemade
coffee. The ***** brown liquid sloshing
in the back of my throat, scorching my insides
as I swallow something not nearly as
painful as looking up for an answer to the crossword
and realizing you are not in fact actually there, and your hand
is not on my thigh, tracing the outline of my knee
with your thumb. I am stuck

like a kid on the monkey bars. Deciphering
between reaching my hand out to grab
the next rung or just allowing myself
to fall into the wood chips, welcome
that scraped skin and soil in the worry lines
of my palms. Because calling you,
reaching out to that line, could end with me
face up on my bed staring at the blades of my fan
trying to pinpoint just one to follow around and around
again. Or I could get your voicemail. Or you could
see my number and decide to hang up. How close
were we really anyway?

Or you could answer and we could talk through
how bad the weather is, how we've been doing,
and then get to the poignant silence, that hum
in the background that coils through the wires
into my ear, down the canal, and sinks into my heart
until the pressure becomes too much. Until
I tell you that its Sunday. That I need the 1994
Tony Award winning musical for 3 across, and hopefully,
you'll give me the right answer.
If I ever get my feet back on the ground,
I'm going to buy me a bottle and head on in to town.
I'm going to find me a girl that treats me kind,
one that pays some attention to what's on my mind.

Dollars to donuts, we'll feel real good,
anything and everything will go down just as it should.
No more thistles and thorns, no more raging thunderstorms.
No more boot heels on the ground, no more horrendous hissing sound.

We'll bring to the table just what we've got,
we'll spend when we are able and stay home when we're not.
We'll kick up our heels to those Celtic reels,
forgetting how it feels to be scrounging our meals.

Those will be the days that we'll choose to recall,
I know this is a phase and better times will put an end to it all.
Dollars to donuts, these hard times will pass,
dollars to donuts, these hard times won't last.
god isn't inclusive of some father christmas role managed by a being that designates rewards and punishments, at best it's, in literary terms, defined by a complexity of the ego, after all, the original revelatory principle was staged with a pronoun complex: without any definite rational causality likened to the cartesian imperative: thought therefore being (think therefore be); that cartesian imperative is categorised as a pronoun per se which is enable other categorisations of words to be akin (per se): magnetically misunderstood; which leaves many demented, early on or later on, but in modern times would building a gigantic skyscraper with only one room in it to hide a torso's weight of gold and a mummified body keep sanity on tiptoe? god is a complexity of the ego, as far as words can be expressed, we loose the ambiguity expressed by existentialists, who favoured "ego" over god, to feel less responsible than anyone could allow for the surd-language, the language written down and rarely heard from orpheus' lapping tongue showcasing a sudden thirst for song.*

rapture and rhapsody! rapture, and rhapsody!
overcast heavens  with the moon shy,
and shy indeed i, by the time i reached
ezra's canto lxvii (what beauty was built with
these numerals, greater and more eloquent
pillared, so what greater truths did the latin poets speak;
if latin is dead then akin be usage of a, b, c, d, e...
when the usage of these symbols dies then i will fall dead
at the final blow of their dis-usage as if  belshazzar seeing
fluorescent hebrew written on the wall just when the ****
ended)... and god did not dispute the endurance
of the argument  to keep a and z...
because under the romans no odd architecture
was summoned, and the hebrew nation flourished
by many religious sects of pharisee and the
sadducees, for a religious dispute be born
from the bethlehem star, and no slavery, but,
some might say, idle talk, for christ created
the 7-day-working week of constant commerce
by contesting a meagre collection of wheat shafts
as the adequate rebellion, basically capitalism,
and in a hangar of sold goods, live lobsters looking
at ghosts, walking in aisles of ample goods
wasted, bearably sold, with cheap constant music
heard to hush the "ambiance" of refrigerator lungs
wheezing a pseudo-beehive drone...
where once the land held a unity,
now the one of owning land earning a shelter
of factories over-produce and leave us
staring into an oblivion of recycling
and such feasts that will never take place...
hence i given sway away from silence
and invoking ezra's vampiric trill, with the sole
proof of vampires, r, being allowed
the statement: trill r roll a wheel stamp with heel,
and i too will cast a shadow over my shadow
to reveal my soul...
hence come the vampiric trill from only one
consonant, and let the frenzied atom river of
lost mumble in the other hum, the lost om
of the m tremble the mountains to shave and slide
mud and weight of rocks from its sideburns of
eager explorers anticipating a gratifying view:
let then the trilled r, the wheel, keep momentum,
for the activity of sisyphus rolling the boulder up
the hill, let the trilled r keep his faith intact
with the futility of the prescribed endeavour;
and so i will die making avowals,
and you, you will die making vows, in the shade
of the tree yearning for distinct processes
should it be involved, so minutely animate encrusted
is wholly animate things, in order that by its
minute movements, it would clarify wholly inanimate
things beneath its categorisation of animation via tropism;
where then the inanimate if not wholly god
should the orbits of celestial orbs fail,
and geologists fail to investigate mineral gold,
and should water never govern oesophagus lubrication,
or loose animation of boiling, dry residue at 180°C,
and the bone breaking ice of antarctica?
the only inanimate thing in existence is god,
as based on a theory posed by kierkegaard about
the changelessness of god: indeed contradictory
by categorical filtering to say a stone is inanimate,
and we animate (microscopic perspectives),
but the stone is also part of a stone mechanised to orbit
a shuddering sphere of fire that emits light.
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