I've enacted a plan in my personal journal
Worrying and fretting is a fraternal ambition
My mission is that my dad can live on
My brothers can feel and feel what's on
His brother's brain
By that I mean I have to abstain
from self serving service
Love makes me impervious
to the shame and the guilt that life gives.

Classical ain't as classy as it sounds.

It's a ***** little thing that pounds you late night.

The best music you've ever heard

was birthed by poor souls who seldom see the day of like.

Like this crazy trumpet lady who had a thing for me.

I couldn't get a date because of crazy she seemed to be.

And that's what I love those most, she loved her painful process more that she ever would for me.

After scraping away rubber with my nail,

I found a hole.

My pneumatic contraption, 100 years old, in ideas,
Had failed.


I sloughed off sheets off ice my old lady had held on me.
Because she was so hot, I had to be freezing.

I wheezed and coughed up a ruckus into rain-soaked air.

After I cough a lot, I could hear music blaring over my ailment.

I derailed, reverse-repented, and spent my next month lamenting in piles of white powder and rotten meat.

After weeks of self hating, I was able to abate from being a *****.

And Finally. Finally, I let her were stick and grow on me.

It helped in as much that It was me see what sort of **** I would be when I enable my own, immature, worst, behavior.

Soft speakers.
Lured.
And held in secret.

Blessed martyrs.
Maybe matrons of
health and hell.

So, maybe.
I should be okay.
And maybe, so should you.

I can't tell.

I tried.

But, well...

It's either a splinter of a crack pipe,
or whiskey glass, flacked and fracked about in my finger.



I can't smell.

I'd guess it's burgers.

Or ******.

It sounds so beautiful, it could even be Schroeder from peanuts.

I know I'm not new to this... But.
I brought noodles,
and I'm remiss out of how I should make me new.

Globbed all up

Knackered about and baked into

an overdone buttermilk biscuit.

I hate getting up,

Not caring is a sin too,

I'm not sure either, but I will see if I risk it.

Yes and no,

Seeds,
grass and leaves,
then dust,
then snow.


Yea and naw

Padded with sight, and saw.
Precognition,
Patience,
Natural roles will play a part.

Snoring,
in sleep,
still stirs others who aren't you.


Storing up sins,
that don't show today,
but they show up in you some day.

Boring isn't a sin.
It's the beginning and the end of
every story.


Nothing, I'm not sorry.
Lost, that's a big negative.

But live.
I don't know yet.
I can't say unless I gave all I had to give.

How silly were you?

How afraid did you act?

I billy clubbed your sugar out of your back,
and I acted liked you were my brother.

But really, you werent.

Sugar you burnt.

And I glowed in a softball saccharin deal.


Still, I'd feel, felt molten stolen molted ****.

I'm sure.

It's the native indian bit.

But I let it all out.
And after I shouted how bad I felt.

But still sticky words held me tight.

And I'm left in the ground.

Without rights.
Without words.
It's okay,
it's absurd.

Just let me go to bed, like it said.
Just let me got to bed. Please. Bed Please.

Sacrificing a seat of sullen ****** brews
and the same path of thinking that you make you use and lose
Like it's a blanket that with cover you
but it keeps you from you life
Wanting is discovering and makes like not worth strife.
I
I
I
It's like bleeding in helpless deer
It's like a fire undiscovered, pain bent on, without fear.

Glassiness is the debt I made in my eyes.
Money's overrated
and so is love.

Love is like a masterpiece
that you see in a show.

It's real nice to be by it
but it'll blow you up and know
just what it did.

Bidding for a fancy life
is a horrorshow
is exactly who I am
and it's all I'll ever know.

Goblets shove all of the leftover grizzled gristle and guts,
Sinew is dry fiber soaked and tied taught.

Hack up with your sharp knife,
shaving diamond dust and uncrusted rusty edges

please pour that toxic oxidized powder into my tea
I want septic shock to leave me without the chance to see.

What's it's like?
What's it like to be okay?
To spend everday
shutting of
everything you feel.

Like a lizard under a rock,
Like a slave covered in lamp black.
I wish I could rock a faithful cover
but instead I'm smother by our over carboned-air.

What's it like?
To hold hate far against your heart?
To never have feelings?
To be the kind of person of never appreciated when your life started?

I've dreamed.
And pictured a fragile rock.

So, I picked it out,
and sent an image of footage.

I sent it out.
I did..., I thought... Why not?

So...
instead of peace...
instead...ugh..I thought...
I figured...
ugh...
I just...
I must
ask...
What?

So I'm sorry.
I'll go back.
It took a long old little sory
to finally fight back.

Flabbergasted by misguided altruistic zeal isn't appealing,

neither is kneeling next to a half-hearted neighbor,
and spilling your guts.

Nothing will work, and it's nuts.
But, making is like living without taking up more than you need.

And even then, it can suffice avarice, greed, by allowing the self
to make and consume one's until, with out outside help or need.

But, callous and canvas can't stand lack of work,
so the stork of labor swaddles on over and dribbles out a bindle.

Carrying a button, a bun in the oven,
an warm hearted creature in need of some lovin'

So, start shovin' your sorries and stories away in a heap,
because someone
might someday
rely on you
rely
on the silence and peace of your sleep.

Patterned after the shapes she had built apart on my broken blanket.
Thanklessness is a fuel cabin held hostage.
Pottage is porrige in brittle built cabin cages.
Assuaged by buildings who have gas and hate as weapons.
Sectioned in air, I reckon bullets and hell will will hatred.
Stated in being
With gloss eyes seing
Saying
Praying
and bitter built being.

Baking egg whites in my oven

was a sort of ashy quiche.

Making my laundry stay white is often

missing the beast of the moment.

Lowing out offers and staking a bill in statements made for really
bad, bad memories.

So, let's see what else can be made out of rotten, token failings.

Never, it's an assailing makeshift shower show.

Blowing in orange air, blessed with care and kinder coffers.

See what lot make little out of over laundered linens,

baked in waxed winnings and pinned under our armpits.

Lit with gas and kerosene and left leaning on our most flammable bit of prized literature.

My passion project as of late has be to not hate who I am.

Bastions of souls hold in cold hell, burn higher than I've ever been.

Sinful shame bends rays of shelter, over arching our heads.

It happened on a fragrant feast.

It happened in a tree

I felt when a sore had burned

I felt it beneath me

Under a sort
Under my breath

I felt a kind of knee

Like a bump
and Like a lump

Lumpy it came i see

I stuck a butter knife into my childhood tree.

Just to see.

Never. Not ever would be me.

I'd rather die that gleem a glob of hate after a shaft had held us fast.

I'm Sorry.

I'm boiled water that would never last and stack us upon stale oxified office keys.

Please. I'm sorry.

Just send me to bed.


I'd rather be dead than answer a question that held my soul in remission and stuck me on a hickory sticker post caked in hate and held up with stagnant sand.

Salted in my sausage casing was my dead best friend.

Had he oinked much sooner, he would be a grandpa then

Light,
with blood and crackers
Like written in stacks
of paper and billets.
Pallets and the bit of bullet lodges in the gullet of my pasture horse.

I pretend that I live
I live in in a box
Only answering
To lots of anxious knocks

I live in glass globe
That makes me so perfect
I live a life in strobe
God it makes me sick

I don't want be
I won't be who I am
I won't let life so see
I bleed life like a lamb

Goodness...
I hate to say this, but I partied pretty hard in the woods the other
night with two super big intoxicated squirrels.

They showed me that doing ******* can live alongside a productive life.

I didn't believe me, but I asked them for a selfie anyway, I can
say that I'm finally growing up and learning the truth.

I blew up a glue gun in highschool.

One, owned by my chemistry teacher.

Met with high heat, and overclocked ambitions.


So I knew from others

That I was a fool to believe

That I never knew to look in a mirror.

\
I feared I'm the steerer of hate.
Of how I fell.

Of how I'm in charge.
I'm the one to ring the bell.
And make sure that everyone knows.

That everyone knows about everything.

To show that everyone knows about everything
and anything,
and that is always how is goes.

And that just goes to show how quaint, quiet, and simple
everything can and should be.

I use that idea,
I use it everymorning
to wipe the gunk out of my eyes
so I can finally see.

Little, battered, melted thinking.
Held deep down in the fry,
is a glob of batter thinking.

Bitty, little, shake-ups.
Held hard, and soaking in a basket.

Tiny little baked goods,
turning stale as time is passing.

Chewy little fractures,
can turn up and **** all truth.

My life is full of *******,
made and kale and Baby Ruths.

Gently pressed into pages on our family bible,

sprayed with Pam and Lysol were stages of life held in suspension.

I didn't mention the Giger counters,
mounted up meters of stone cold serial serious business.

Still, I'd be remiss to miss our beauty made of grass, and dusty weeds.

I hate to share.
To bare myself on all sorts of losers.

Everything thing is new news to them because they've never stepped out the door.

You're welcome.

I'm happy you paid so much money so you can ignore your own emotions and latch yourself to mine in order to find what it feels like when you live like a really real person.

I'm tired though.

And I appreciate your immersion because it pays the bills.

But still, i have my moments when I feel really mad about
how a human can by feeling.
Using the money that they had to take the place of who they are.

And I have to pay rent.
So your cash goes real far.

I reckoned,
I picked apart a soggy brick building,

I second-guessed why toad-lickers
seemed to matter so much to me.

I beckoned an olive branch out of
folk who I really hate.

And had to stand against folks I can't stand.
And although their impatience debrides and embitters me
with scores and scores of confused self-conflagration,
I've found a way to abstain from immolation,
and make the best I can out of the friends I have, and who I am.

How often
How dead
How instead
How it fells
How bullets
How much does lead poison
How much does noise begin to
How often hearts often make
How much does it rake?
How or may or not be dead?
How instead?
How often when I won't be there?

I placed a well woven blanket on the edge of a window sill.

It was well made and warm.

I stormed apart because impactful starts had shorted out holy night.

I shared a napsnack of overdigested hellholes branded in fire patches.


It's ok.

I'm left forgviving hell in firepatches made of dust and stool.

Crippled, I griped a being
Let me linger, let me hate
I hate the sort of seeing
that makes make berate
I bet a kind of action
is a sort of betting worth
Let me mind my faction
Let me have a opinion sort

Soreness only engaged extra forces.
Let reason and shake
show force unlike
any that has ever been seen
obscene was british command.

Let the biggest brightest take command of larry in clinton.

I swear.
you are
you are
the 'shy *****'

let your general wonder how who you are.
you're just poison.

the reason we lose.

who would take position the commander of chief once all the soldiers die and we have decided to submit to british laws and decide a

Boiling Boiling Boiling.

Rolling caustic water.

Boil.


Boil.


Burn up the most peaceful thing.


Wait for them.


And boil them in water.

Do it.

Do the most hateful thing.

Turn the kindest element in the world into a cauldron full of slaughter.

I slipped on a pair of sneakers,
Waxey, slick-soled.

Obviously mottled with bleach blots from mopping too many floors.

Made, canvas first,
the cured in a patina of labor.

They're comfy, and rugged, and they will probably last
twice as long as me.

If my shoes could see and endure the future,
do me a favor:
Please don't ever tell me what they will see.

I'm in a thick and
terrifying.
Time bomb tiring
Ooey Gooey Depression.

Less is more.
And salt crusts up on the ocean shore.
I stored more stools and sores for a very long trip.

****.
Pick apart pants and leftover bits of rotten leggins.
I ****** myself.
******* at myself.
Rocked off of a shelf I sat on for over five years.

I grabbed all my groceries without a bag after I heard half a revolver full of bullets pop off.

My meat bag soaked a paper sheet and started to lose integrity,
ripping at the seams, and it seemed normal.

So, I freaked and I bailed, after I showered, my drain looked like a rusty glitter parade and it made me feel *****.

I'd love to live in a rat's nest
Besting the next rat next to me
Making meals of apathy
Slovenly licking off plague fleas
Please let me live in a rat's next
Living on cheese and liberal arts degrees.

Slippery brightness tentacles wrapped around a wine cask,

After I'd rafter out after a picture stacked over oakboards,

Storage stewed, porridge renewed two towers of overbrewed ideas.

take me take me..
I hate myself.

Take me I hate myself for being a girl who
has to be brown.

Take me take me.
Please take me.I
Im not a bowl of noodles.

I'm youre girl.

Don make me die.
I'm a real person.
I dont want to die under a pile of sticks a soiled water bottles.



Please.... I'm in a lot of pain.

I'm going to die....so sorry. so sorry. Oxygen is for the fun.

Messed up,
and found in her ruffled nest of hair.

I found lightning,
made of flour, dust, and air.

So, I got up for a drink of water.
And later laughed a lot.

Because I became a herb-smoked doughboy
That smelled a lot like bergamot.

Cramming little boondoggles along long ladden trails makes missing pain and loss a love; makes it a lot like other efforts pretend to  matter because if the potato fields thought they didn't matter, we would rather have a foxhole shell be a dud, that
Auntie Helper revive a dud.
Wet fire responds with "Thud"
Our life fire lives in mud.

A mud of fear and hate,
with a net that cannot shelter.
Abated by billions sounds great, unless you cannot eat.
Auntie helper puts them to bed.
But, her machines can't cloth you. Nor make socks to clothe your feet.

Cold.
Uncle helper reminds they're not dead.

One time.. I helped my uncle build a bed-shaped casket made for the dead.


Reading red as luck of fortune only made me much more mad.

Because, I bet (even though I'm reckless)


I am not the only one with a

mom

and

dad.

What can I do when she wouldn't leave?
I know you're cool but we need at least ten years,
so how,please how should I grieve?

I googled how to bootleg, so I can learn how to sell my favorite movies and have all the free ***** I need.

Pardon me for saying that I should have found out how all by myself.

I used my first batch of wine to pickle my corneas and sear my kidneys.

I'd tried over ten days over, to master how to pick apart a pickle jar.
It's a travesty to see a grown fuddle over glass and cry.

Still, I've had a chance to see my life through brine-stained glasses.
The passage of time is an ******* who steals all your good jokes.

Instead I stay coked up and well-fed.
And I no longer bleed red.
Instead I'm a bleached blanket of white socks and sorries.
It's not how large I am.
And not only how smart.
But my language can be best felt
in all my stories.

Sometime.
There would be a time I would walk home.
And i would not let life stay.
Occasionally life sprayed away.
Like a cacophony.

Nice noise, ****** boys
Noise, boys, noise, boys.
****** ****** barrels.
It makes me so sterile.
Life on ears.
Like potent steers.
Will make aggro hearts so sterile.

God, godly
Good so gaudy.
Goodness, good have brought.

Gauly, galleries have a lot
I take my pence and a ***.

Potted in a plantern
Patterned in ***** herbs.
I don't fell my motion
My love is undisturbed

Waking up
On the edge of a sandbank
stinking
and pulling stink bugs out my hair.

Waking up in the desert
sweating
and letting scorpions build a lair
in my tent
and in my boots.

Shooting hares and ravens,
for meat.
For a thrill.
It's not with it to go through it.
But still I ****.
I knew..
It would hurt but I would live,
but not in peace.

Living.... with a shiv in my ribs made of the bones of all I hurt.
I'd rather nerf my brain a brain and build hut made of dung
A yurt padded with bad memories, and hurtful lovely beings.

I had bad manners, but I scattered a couplet of culinary dealings into a platter of shaky masses and unironed dresses.

I had crispy dishes stacked in the sink,
and it stunk. So, I plugged up the matter whole to show that I'm still think about how hard life can be.

So, sorry...Lemme see..

I had bees in the garden, that polinated my assets, so I could finally see.

But that's all.

Im starving.

I no longer want to be but the brisk shiver air had spared my whisker hair, but after, I'm sorry. I'm left in a pile of knee-highs and overcooked fries I left sitting on my seat after a retreat to the nearest McDonalds.

I'd soaked my sad *** in saline water to see if sins bubble up.

I had had bad noxious knowing notions while wretching up a sip,

A sip of sour, mineral remissings caked on cornered eyes.

Salting, sour corners of mourning lives.


So, instead of feeling something,

I poured molten oatmeal in my bowl this morning,

Just to stay alive, and feel something warm.


After my fifth cup of coffee,

I got bored and stormed out the door to challenge all the

Vagrants at the park to chess to buy a case of ramen noodles.

There's three stacked sticks stuck in my back

That were put there by a little rat

That rat that rat sang songs to me

Now I'm pickled in a vat

because that rat ******* me

Time, sorry, it's time go going to bed.

Instead I grow tired of waiting, so when it
shall will be uncertainty, let me pour into my camp and let my swell into sticky built hell who hole upon all of our hell built being.