******* white people;
hide their racism behind
vapid "opinion".

******* white folks will
argue you can't argue with
results and numbers

because white people
can strip race from the issue
and swear it's "equal".

White people without
culture or identity,
strip it from others.

Call you naked as
they strut in stolen clothing.
Full of silicone.

**** with white people,
find out they know the struggle
by the article.

They can sweat big stuff,
but their racism is in
the cracks and seeping.

Disappointingly,
you can't trust white people for
****, not even me.

Not Bush, not Clinton,
Donald Trump, Bernie Sanders,
******* Macklemore,

Not Bill O'Reilly,
and not Jon Stewart, and not
viral feminists/

white feminism,
Taylor Swift's white sisterhood,
their artists, music,

writers, poetry,
actors, authors, painters and
sculptors and bloggers,
their politicians,
obviously, but also
their lawyers, doctors,
their engineers and
scientists and businesses,
economists or
pastors, preachers, religion,
programmers, products,
video games and novels;
They will let you down.

The rich or the poor,
it really doesn't matter.
They will let you down.

I hurriedly pull my street dusted , golden brown Toyota into the middle of a gas station war zone. The kind that turns neighbors into enemies, fighting to gain the only valuable piece of real estate around – the gas tanks. The drivers collectively sport the exact same exhausted and frustrated grimaces. A rusty and dated “ Exon Mobile” sign stands tall and strong against the sundrenched sky. The day is coming to a close, and the sun seems hurried to set as if it is exhausted from the day’s labors and expectations that it must rise again tomorrow, just like the gas station’s patrons. This station, to most, is just another stop. Another errand that puts itself between you and the warmth of home. This station, is just another stop. Another errand at the end of an endless day. But to me, this place is full of promise. This is the one place on earth that gives us life. It gives us the chance to see the world and to explore uncharted grounds. This place brings us closer to adventure and myseries, to happiness, to heartbreak, to feeling. This is the fuel and the energy that is waiting to help you make it to the hospital at 4 am to see the birth of a child. This old and worn pitstop let’s us fall in love with the world, with what we can see, with eachother.
But there is this silver truck with tires too big and a man two sizes to small in the passenger seat. There is a prominent dent in the left side door that has remained unchanged, unhelped, in weeks. As this silver, dented piece of metal sits in the way between me and my pajamas, I have the chance to stop. Not to stop because I’ve finally got to where I’ve been trying to go. Not to stop to pay the McDonald’s cashier in shameful regret of another broken new year’s promise. But to really stop. For an unexpectedly and disappointingly long time. To stop with no expectations. To be forced to just stop. And to wait. And to look around.

born of blood
from a thorn
of a beautiful flower

from the love
of the horned
adorned
in power

cowering
in the vicious
maliciousness
of the constituents
in the deliverance
to my ridiculousness

saw
twisted shapes
and contorting faces
heard
blurred words
displaced
in hateful slurs
of aggression

and i cannot count the cases
in my tasteless confessions
in my reluctant concessions
in my brutal perfection
of my obsessions

imposed against my will
you're supposed to feel
what they do
right?

opposed to killing
for the thrill
but it sometimes
just feels right

shanky gone unscrupulous

shivering
his shimmied
blood on the walls

stuttering stanleys
still silly stringing
calling for candy
but missed last call
and fell to the floor

as Bruno butchered the boar
in a deplorable fashion

a crime of passion

we were hungry
rubbing our tummies
for the honey
of bee hives

jive turkeys
turning to bunnys
for good times

but we were alive
while others were not

fraught with darkling majesty
sparkling at the seraded points

disjointed
in Freudian
ointments

self anointed
as god

standing over
some butchered
brod from abroad
wiping the fog
of dislodged
eye sockets
from my grog

how you get
from there to here
isn't really a fair mirror
on my intention

i meant to
suspend her
just enough
to face f--k
and with luck
strangle her

but she prayed to be ripped down
in her own way

my f--king way

stripped her
of dignity
wimpering
in little cute sounds

who am i?
but the guy
who spaced

hit her
too many times in the face
and replaced her
facelessness
with ***** toiletries

disappointingly
underwhelmed

still in search of a fairy
to take the helm
and ferry me
from this film

disparagingly
just spare me
the tragedy and grief
blaring from the TV

as i mock
their expressions
in my lessons
of humanity
before the flock

to shelter
my anxiety or not

gonna be
a real boy one day
and conform
to the
wayward ways

the way
of sheep

sleeping
soundly
in decay

blue fairy
gonna
marry me
one
day

be
real
one
day

one

day

1


d
a
y

Loneliness is craving love from a person you know isn't right for you because nobody else is around.
It's wondering what it feels like to feel at home and secure in someone else's arms, and if that feeling can truly really exists forever.  
It's choosing men with darkened lives because their dependency brings you a selfish feeling of permanence and safety.
It's a gut wrenching and sick feeling seeping into your bones when you are held with pure and genuine tenderness because you can taste the closeness of your expiration more than sweetness in the moment.  
It's keeping the weak and fearful girl locked and imprisoned within the core of your heart, thinking that it is the only way to exude perfection, while only further losing yourself in the process.
It's missing out on yet another chance of revealing your wounds, and letting someone truly sit beside you and accept you, because you took too long, and no one waits forever.
It's allowing for others to take advantage and treat you poorly, because your self worth runs shallow.
It's asking suitor after suitor what trait it is within you that they find most endearing, and the response is always superficial, making you disappointingly wonder why no one can see what is in your heart and mind
It's dwindling further and further away from God unintentionally and missing the serenity and peace He once brought to your soul.
It's gazing into the eyes of your unborn child and wondering what that moment of motherhood will feel like -when you're looked at innocently for protection and unconditional endless love
It's realizing that whoever my life long companion will be, will not be the one who is responsible for filling these gaps
It's wondering how I am going to win this battle against myself in a cold and lonely world to feel like a stronger and confident women deserving of the beauty and sweetness life has to offer.

Don't try and save me.
Thousands have tried and failed,
watched disappointingly,
each time I've derailed.
Don't set of shore and raise the sails.
Im drowning,
Sinking in a sea of what could have and what should have been
There is no life boat strong enough to take back the things I've seen
withhold my weighty heart.
my soul is anchored in the the darkest parts,
The murkiest waters.
It is held down in the depths
of despair
Save your own sons and daughters.
Im a wasted rescue mission.
Throw down your ammunition
i have enough to tear myself apart.

Have you ever seen a bright eyed
Glowing person
Sober three years
Pull a dime bag out of her purse

It may have been three years
But the person reflected back up at her
From that small mirror
Is not the person in front of you;
It’ll be the same person she was three years ago
It’ll reflects her long forgotten face, but also will be a window into her own personal rock bottom
It is a hotel room key to a tailor made suite in a town she never should have visited
This is not the face she dreamed of growing up to see reflected in her astronaut helmet
Her self-image disappointingly is only eclipsed by passing streetlights
And not the skylines of glitter scattered on the earth’s outline
It would have been a beautiful circumspective background
But she can’t look from aircraft window microscopes now
Now she sits viewing the world through city bus window magnifying glasses
And she worked hard to get here
She earned her urban lab coat and degree from the harsh alleyway lessons
And a life path of two steps forwards one step back
And three here forwards
And a few more back
And really
It’d be a shame to wear out a perfectly good pair of shoes to make this journey all for not

Last night,
Just after the horizon snuffed out the sun,
I raised a fort in my room
With sheets stripped from the bed,
Strewn across standing lamps
And tucked behind an old armoire;
One that’s been rubbed raw
By more hands than a rosary
And could tell you any kind of story
If you just listen closely.
And it’s within this Stronghold,
Guarded by Phalanx of G.I. Joes and
Little, plastic, green army men,
Past the “No Girls Allowed Sign”,
That I worked away on my own personal
Manhattan Project.

I Built a Box
With windows, sealed,
A pad-lock on an old worn door
And nothing more than a hole in the floor.
Then I hung it with decrepit strings and lucid wings
Thrown together using what
little shards of innocence I could find
Sporadically strewn around the room.
I climbed to hang my box from heaven,
Perhaps, perch it on a silver cloud,
The ones you hear so much about,
And use the gold that laced the place to build a gate,
A gilded gate to block out all hate from my estate.

But Heaven seemed to be afraid and must have fled
Because all I found were stars…
Stars that, disappointingly, didn't seem to shine as bright as they did when I was a kid…
Stars with rotted holes.
"Stars, shouldn't have rotted holes" I was told long ago
By a man who molded my thoughts back when colors still seemed vivid.
But ironically, I used them to hang what remains of my childhood in a juvenile fashion,
Glancing back and forth searching for a set suspicious eyes
And developing pre-conceived alibis just in case to my surprise someone
Happened to catch me in my moment of immaturity.

I waited in my Box, my serenity in the sky,
My shelter from the outside lies that can hypnotize
Until a mind's wiped blank, a "clean slate"
In which they carve their "rights",
And their "rules",
And their "Laws" using tools constructed by Machines

That know nothing more than edacity and greed,
That know nothing more than the taste of oil,
And exactly how cold steel can feel when
Grid-locked between two gears and a wheel.
So we kneel to this submissive hold
Of chain-linked fingers
That keep us encased when
We're told that Logic and Probability is all we need to know
To make decisions and grow
Now we can grow in any direction
That our branches are clipped,
Like a bonsai tree.
So believe me, I can grow
but grow to what exactly,
A mechanical humanity?
Now see, that just wont work for me
Because, sometimes, I like to dream
That I’m superman.

So I turned an x-ray eye to a box the sky
My star-riding, gravity defying
Fortress of Solitude,
And it’s here that I'm safe,
Because the only hole to a corrupt world is the one I drilled right through the floor.
The one I peer through at the placid crescent right below me,
In hopes to find a feline running hand-in-hand with a spoon
Or to catch the cow that leaps over the moon,
Or maybe even see the Lunar Man, himself, crack a smile
Anything to dismiss my denial of Fairy Tales
And fling me back to that youthful state of mind
In which my mind would state that anything is possible.
Because the world we live in now tells us that Chapter Book Heroes are Obsolete,
That we should just yield to defeat
And that it takes a hell of a lot less than Kryptonite to meet our demise.
We just know that Nine-to-Five is the time it takes a glaze fade over the passion that lies within our eyes.

If I could just find anything to justify that true love isn't merely a cliché,
That innocence and limitless capabilities of the mind
Doesn't whither away with age,
And that "Happily Ever After"
Is so much more than fading ink on a worn out, final page.

What’s the harm in joining with a crowd of people
United around a rainbow and a passion for equality?

If it’s true that
God Hates ****
Then we’re in real trouble
Under the colours of His great judgment on the party of depravity
Entitling the parade as
Pride
Which goes before destruction

If it’s true that
God is Love
Then let’s not be offended
There is no need for
Straight Pride Day
Unless I missed the memo
Threatening the death penalty for love and marriage

Is it not the case that the driver for Gay Pride
Is that some are treated differently, judged by their inside
When the rest of humanity can step up and take Pride
In their efforts and achievements, and not what they confide
In their most trusted friends so as to dodge that stereotype?

So why has the parade become the world’s greatest collection
Of the loudest, brashest versions of the most extreme ideas
When almost every gay person I know is almost disappointingly…
Normal?

My Gay-Proudest moment was when I gave a job
To an LGBT chairman, who stood out from the crowd
Not because of his leaning and not because of pity
But for being the best fit and better-skilled than the rest

The Day on which we can be
Gayest and Proudest
Will be the day when there’s no need
For Gay Pride Day

How beautiful it is when you smile. For a moment nothing in the world causes me anguish because I know that you are happy.

You kiss me as if you were never going to see the sun rise above the horizon again. As if by kissing me you were going to bring back the Beatles and drive in movies.

You give yourself so innocently, so whole-heartedly. It kills me that I can't give you all that you deserve.

You are an arid, desert piece of earth, begging for a taste of rain upon your lips. I can't be the torrential downpour you need and desire to quench your thirst.

I am merely a transient summer rain. A minute shower that allows you to flourish for a small while, but lacks the amount required to sustain. I will exit as quickly as I came. Leaving you disappointed and yearning for more.

Perhaps, if the sun is shining just right,I will leave you with a rainbow in your sky. A little reminder of my presence.

I may be doing wrong, but for these next few to many months (I haven't decided yet)I need a small discharge of immense feelings. I need to experience the emotions of love and joy, but only one of our words, emotions, and hearts will be genuinely satisfied.

It's not your fault I'm broken. You shouldn't have to fix me. It isn't your job.

It's not your fault that every time a familiar melody with lyrics expressing the joy of love creeps through the speakers his face pops into my head, not yours.

It makes no logical sense. We have so much more now than I ever had with him. He hurt me. He's gone. He thinks nothing of me. If only I could do myself the favor of forgetting him.

Sweet, pure, deceived lover, I don't want to hurt you, but I will. I inevitably will hurt my own self in the process of betraying your kind heart.

Ugh, you deserve so much better than me. If only I could be the girl who has worth for while. You've been torn apart before by the same wrecking force. I took the chance on a bruised and beaten hurt and all I can think about is what I had. How disappointingly selfish am I?

The sun only goes as fast as time. I love you the same. You can't force what isn't there.

I may be saying all of this in vain. You may, in fact, be the one to fix me. The one who finds all of my shattered glass and places it perfectly back where it belongs. I may plummet into a deep hole of love, a place of no return.  

Who am I kidding. Of course one day, sadly, I am going to fall in love with you. There is a spark in your eye that ignites my sense of wonder. I peer into the innermost chamber of your soul when you flash me your captivating green eyes. I know deep inside that I am the only one who can see this part of you. At these moments I witness something magical and enlightening, connection.

You do make make my heart jump, my knees go weak, and if only I could get you out of my head then I would have finished that series of novels by now. You hold me when I need to be surrounded with caring arms and you communicate without parting your lips to utter a noise.

Maybe I can be the long shower of water you've been waiting for. Only time can tell what I cannot.

If only I could realize now how truly perfect we fit together. Like the quiet and the night, it's you and me.

It happens just because we need
To want and be Wanted too
Serendipitously here, spontaneously there,
A true friend I've found in you.

Now friends will come and some will last, but in the end so few;
Are in actuality Ride or Dies
Disappointingly it's proven true.

Lucie my friend, has forced my hand
To write my words of feeling
For untill now there'd been no reason
To attempt a written healing.

♡

A Few Short Years Of Grace

Looking at my sagging face,
And thinking about what I saw –
The cheeks, eyelids and sagging jaw,
And postulating what would be
If I had plastic surgery
With what I’ve seen of movie stars,
The tight, creamed skin,
The scars without, the scars within
The thousands spent during and after,
Smoothed out skin deprived of laughter;

Then I see my sagging face,
Know that I’d have some years of grace
Before the sagging showed again.

Folk who know would shrug and say,
“She looks okay!”
Folk who do not know me:
When they meet me would accept me as I am
‘Cause frankly, they don’t give a ****!

What does some years of smooth-skinned grace
Mean to an aging face
That’s changing every second of each minute every day?
I cannot get away from that.  
I’ve tried to hide, slide, glide from aging, lesions, prides illusions.
In conclusion, and for reasons written;
Leaving out the surgery and thoughts of temporary beauty
This old jaw will have to be
Left as it is (a little disappointingly)
And as it is becoming.

A Few Short Years Of Grace 10.13.2016
Circling Round Aging; Circling Round Wrinkles; Circling Round Vanities II;
Arlene Corwin

There is a secret place
Where I stumble over moments
Bleed out
Small tragedies
Ossuaries of unbirthed dreams
I pick the bones clean
Fat with the bitter marrow
I **** my own ego dry
Always hungry for more
Reality imperious with her stark sun
Will obtrude this paper veil
Lethal
Wasps in the wine
Sting my throat
Bloated
I cough out only lies
Transfixed by specters
The thin skin membrane fantasy
Effaces
I am so…
Disappointingly mortal
Transfixed by shadow Christologies
This shallow breathing
Slow asphyxiation
Of mantras that never rise
Appropriate the faithless
Words that burn
Catapult my personal truth
Against your stone walled beauty
I am ragged
Broken
Imprisoned in this walking cadaver
I call soul
She wants what she wants
There is no beauty in this lie
Only the resonant sensation
Of the inevitable decay
When the secret place that is me
Turns to ash
And blows away….
TL Boehm
2010

Shadow Christologies - is a term often used for Old Testament teachings that alluded to Christ - many Jewish Festivals were examples of "shadow Christology" - in this piece specifically the intent is to illuminate the futilty of chasing shadows when the real thing is available...

There you were on 658 North Skyline drive, visiting the place where you once called home
With those innocent, helpless girls on your restless, manic mind.
At the age of twenty-five, a hopeless law-student drop out
Sitting in the blistering hot Summer Tacoma heat in your battered beige Volkswagen windows down,
wind blowing on your ruddy face.
Wishing you had a flashy Maserati
Thousands of beads of sweat trickle down your head like a waterfall.
Frustrated and exhausted
Knowing the fate what's going to become of the pretty, carefree girls laughing, walking ahead on the street by your car, but they're completely unaware.
The reminisce of cheap beer and stale cigarettes on your breath
As you quickly glance at your velvet crowbar, that resides on your chair-less passenger side, so desperately wanting another hit.

Jittering with panic inside, that familiar feeling surges with an adrenaline rush in your body, going from zero to eighty in 0.01 seconds
You start to get in a trance with self-destruction, panicking with chaotic anger beginning to emerge again, in waves like the ocean.
The entity begins to set in
Yet something abruptly stops you.
Holding a crumbled picture of dear Elizabeth and Molly, you keep your wallet in your right blue jean back pocket.
Yet you don't give in to your double life.No. Not this time.
Letting the devastating, destructive behavior from the entity consume your entire being.
As you begin to have sudden regret ignoring the powerful, impatient fidgety urge.


Ten girls have now suddenly evaporated into thin air, caused by your harmful doing.
Police and newspaper sightings of a certain man named "Ted" have appeared out of the woodwork,
But you keep that identity hidden under lock and key.
Newsflashes pop up at the five o'clock hour, but nothing seems to phase you into utter shock.

Now sitting in an unclean, rat-infested jail cell in Colorado
The walls only seem to know the REAL you
The light fixture is almost sawed off entirely to your liking, for your excitingly filled escape, set for tonight.
Going through the small labyrinth of the ceiling of the jail,
New, fresh, clean clothes on, and annoying coveralls off
You open the front door, as a blast of the bone-chilling cold goes through your body,
Fast, snow falling on the ground, and luckily a car with its doors  unlocked
You now fade away into the blackness.

After you've completed the horrendous event in Lake City that you so desired to do on a whim
There's now no recollection of your recent event, even though you were there.
The trees with the wind are whispering and gossip your horrific acts.
Only they truly know your lawless stories


A couple of years has rolled by,
Trial after trial, day in and day out
Hoping and confident that you'll win, but each time, you've disappointingly lost.
Judge Cowart sits on his throne, tentatively listens
The buzz from the ***** and pills that your beloved Carole snuck in for you is finally beginning to wear off.
Irritation sets
As you razzle-dazzle each individual with your stealthy charm
The time has finally come that the jury decides your ultimate, timely fate


Flash forward to eight years on death row, with that heavy metal that you wear
Living in a concrete castle, in a desolate foreign land
Indeed not Buckingham Palace.
Rowdy, loud, *****, unclean, unshaven men surround you.
Something that your not used to doing.
Not the place you wish to be at the moment.
Body odor and sweat with no air conditioning in a stagnant, minuscule cell might also be Hell on Earth.
While just an old malfunctioning fan tries to keep you cool from Florida's oppressive heat.
You talk to the four walls, that listen when the detectives get fed up and bored. With your perpetual beating around the bush rhetoric.
You wasted  your life on behalf of your destructive behavior and wrong choices
Time is ticking faster and faster when you only have a few days left till death day arrives
Rose is officially gone and is now a long distant faded memory of your failed career of a deadbeat father and husband.
It's been a few years since you last saw her and Carole as they vanished from your life.
Vanished and stolen.
Like the girl's lives, you had vanished and stolen from happy families only to destroy when you willingly obeyed and fulfilled the entity's destructive wish.
Your tears become your lullaby, for your last night on Earth.

January 24th, 1989.
Your expiration date has arrived.
Rowdy, drunk onlookers are at your last hurrah
The warden swiftly comes to your death watch cell and wakes you up from the unrestful, anxiety-filled sleep you had gotten
Are you ready? He asks you.
No longer now is a handsome forty-two-year-old, but a shaven bald gangly, ailing man, with the appearance of looking like a sixty-year-old who's unrecognizable to one's eye.
"Deadman walking," the warden shouts.
Emotionless expression looks of people that you've once known in your past are now seated in small white chairs
As officers restrain you in the infamous wooden chair, of the many in-humane men who've gone, years before your time.
Adjust your electric crown
Nerves begin to quake internally like a rattlesnake
And in less than a flash, with two- thousand volts, you'll be gone from this world forever.
At approximately 7:16 am, you're pronounced dead.




Alone & Forgotten.

The strength of people's voice, loud and clear
Can any elected representatives speak
As loudly, as clearly as the people?

True courage and democratic freedom
When people gather and march unconfined
Not cowering in their corner
Only to hear their pitiful squeaks

If it must rain, let it not drizzle disappointingly
Let the trumpet sound from the hills
Not under your bed, but let the light of freedom
Blaze fiercely

Always doing things
Hand up my skirt
Down my best knickers
Inside my lovely bras
In fact !
At it forever
It'll never ****** stop
But !
The strange thing is
And so disappointingly
He doesn't do it daily
Only !
When they are on my line.

I could be a dog left out in the rain,
Hungry and counting every minute
In sevens.  
I'd wait for you for days, through
Nights, never giving up.
Raising my wet head at every and any
Shadow passing. Hoping. Hoping.
Hoping.

I'll wait forever for you to trust me.

I could be a single seed, windborne,  
Then dropped in just enough soil
To crack open and whisper myself roots
As faint as mere thought at first.
Growing, drinking, bathing in sun,
Bending with the movements of
Earth and air.

I'd grow forever until you trusted me.
I'll wait forever for you to trust me.

I've hurt as many people as I've shaken
Hands with in this life.
Nearly every important choice I made
Was a bad one.
I take full responsibility.
So trust me.

I'll never lie and say I'll never make you
Cry. I love you too honestly for
Truthlessness. No cloak and dagger,
No lie less white than Girl, these flowers  
Are not for you.
I am as disappointingly human as
They come.
Men.

I'll let you down, I'll make you wonder,
I'll see you question your own
Judgement, and taste in men.
I refuse to pretend to be more than I am.
I'm too old to fake.
Too old to care too much for  
Opinions and impressions.
So trust me;

I'll shake my wet fur on your new coat,
I'll jump up and lick your face,
Leave strands of hair and smelly
Wet smudges all over you,
As happy as only a dog can be.
Trust me.
Take the leash and walk me home.

I've been waiting forever for you to
Trust me.
I'll wait forever for you to trust me.

I'm not even tied to that pole.

externally,  I believe in masks.  pull at my ******* when I have them.  pull old man.  you are my soul.  happiness is the impossibility of incidental sadness.  tell happiness to child one through child four.  too many tear too tamely at the face no goddess dies in.  a time honored receiver is disappointingly brilliantly a sponge

living off
your mother’s hand.

I jetted to Italy
last week to interview
sweet, dead Juliet.

So how is
that true love thing
working out for you,
I asked?

Not well, she replied.

Romeo is grown
old and cold,
his fingers like ice,
his kisses like stone
his ardent desire
sadly has flown.

I pointed out,
in all fairness,

You realize that
after 400 years
you are mostly dust?

Well then, she snapped,

make him into
a vacuum cleaner
that he might
**** upon my sweetness
as he did before.

You may call that
true love.

It was a disappointingly
predictable interview.

   ~mce

i


who would have imagined i´ d
have my very own computer
we had wooden pens in a class
of sixty..
two a third of a pint of milk every
day
(though i never made monitor..)

in the summer the milk could become
disappointingly tepid
and in the winter
the blue **** fed on the icing cream
thus rendering it unfit..

(though we drank it any hows..)
we all found that very charming
and did not begrudge their ingenious
ness..
(they who had no breakfast drank

sometimes three bottles..)
we had abacus or what ever the plural
is..
(i don´ t care..)
which if i am correct
was a system of mathematic
invented by the persians
or so..

but my favourite lesson
was propelling paint by
a straw..
(i was a budding pollack..)
the random and sub conscience..
and some old newspaper..oh yeah..


i used the same method years later
to wean myself off *****..
opening up pleasure
that had been sleeping..
stimulating and fused..
now,i have a computer..!

Aches and pains hurting.
Family abandons us.
Disappointingly.

I am Wet and Cold.
I am Cold and Wet.
On weekly nights like these,
It seems that is all I get.
I shiver as rain drips down
From my neck onto my back.
My head down, all I see
Is the street--a shiny black.
My hair sticks so tightly,
Like a lover, clinging to my face.
Is it possible for me to find
A more disappointingly lonely place?
These walks back home, I know,
Are slowly killing me,
With rain and rust surrounding
As all I ever see.
I made it to the bridge somehow
To watch water touch itself.
I cannot seem to comprehend
How my life became this hell.
My feet dangle over the edge,
My elbows rest upon my knees.
The cold ice in my chest
I fear, just might make me freeze.
I jump without a second thought
To the river down below.
Just as I hoped, it only gets warmer
The further down I go.

Pianos are crashing inside my head as the yellow light of the city and the sun force me into an excruciating halt. An affectionate young man- who is now old, yet remembers the skin he shed- sighs about ****** premonitions through the medium of digital frequencies. A car edges its way to my side- my father tells me “we’re almost there”- the car is positioned in such a contrived way that should I turn my attention exactly ninety degrees rightwards, I would be obliviously vying for the driver’s attention. The thought unnerves me, so I encourage my divagated musings elsewhere. Why did my father tell me that we were nearing our destination? Did he meekly say it, with the meagre velleity of keeping me aware of my surroundings? Where else could my head go, but up?
Pedestrians, their knees adorned with snow trinkets, fall within my periphery. As our car fit itself into a fleeting crevice on the cliff face of concrete, I adjusted my vision into a volitional telescope, narrow and explorative. Among the constellation of humans lay writers in poses denoting propriety, cigarettes suggesting esotericism, and face begging for denial. Facsimiles of these characters dance between the ivory-laced walkways of the interconnected district. I am disgusted by this labile beauty. I am fearful that I will witness its extinction.
I crossed the indifferent street, sure that my haste wasn’t apparent, and therefore, non-existent.
“Disappointingly, the record store sat waiting, knowing of my excitement”, said a fool, pricking my ear. I almost ran for an officer, indignant in my role as a victim to his verbal impotence. When I regained my composition, I paid full attention to the unassuming door between a burger shack and some unidentifiable after-thought-structure. This door, pedestrian to most, contains within it what a common walker would consider heaven. It is, to me, a strenuous Sunday stroll of impulse and and opulence. There is no point in resisting that which makes me happy yet unstable. I could not do without it. To deny is to doubt the music that I loved, and am currently beholden to by chains; the lobotomical sort.
I scoured the store and bough the prized possession. It was quite probably a Tim Buckley record. Here comes a man, quick and close, with a chartreuse disposition.
“I see you thinkin’ kid, it makes my brain throw up alllll funny things. If my erradition ever had anyin’ ta say, it’d shout that you’s too rowdy a rider.” Good sir, a sharp mind and apt humour is all I need to keep myself from harm. I wrote that down, walkings as if the stiff block was nothing but. Such a misdemeanour, to be so passive. I lingered forward and onwards.