***** ***** on my head
I have good bread
Today beautiful day
I'm on my way

Pretty Clouds in the sky
My friend saying its all right
It's only true
U-hu-hu-hu-huu

***** ***** on my head
I have good bread
Today beautiful day
I'm on my way

Great Rocket in the sky
And cosmos in my mind
Great world today
Great making way

Great trees
And great grass
Great cheese
Forever
no only now just


***** ***** on my head
I have good bread
Today beautiful day
Im on my way

It's only true
U-hu-hu-hu-huu

2017

You didn’t realise just how easy
it was to slip
how you can lose track
lose count and how quickly
a habit can become addictive

Once you get the taste for the hit
you find yourself reaching for it
and before you know it, you’ve slipped
into a dependency - fortunately
this time you’re only a *****
for Lemsip

It all happened so fast. Like most good things in life--the really monumental moments--it's like you float out of your body and come screaming back just soon enough to realize the moment had passed.

I didn't know how many miles were behind me now. It seemed like a thousand but it didn't really matter. I wasn't going to be one of those mindless wanderers--blindly probing my way through life's misery and defeat to one day wake up wishing I was young again.

I'm taking my youth back from the government, the bankers, the Wall Street gamblers and racing toward the horizon like there are commercial airplanes in my blood and skyscrapers burning in my chest.

You can only go to the same god forsaken place to have your soul ****** out of you for so many ******* days in a row before you either become one of them or make your own revolt and

collapse
                 *into a sea of ash
                                              slithering like snakes along the city streets.
You just run as fast as you can.

I chose the latter.
__________________­__


I'm going to do the cliche thing I suppose. Do as many drugs as possible, do as many women as possible, keep chasing the next good time until I get high enough to slap a saddle on my car roof and ride off into the Atlantic--fireworks shooting off in every direction to *** up the stars--refracting radials within the iridescence of the shimmering sea.

>explosions echo endlessly<
[wrap around the ambient rhythm of the TidePuller]

touch! caress! make love!--stare through eyes into deep blue souls and find something of yourself there.

That's how I'd like to go anyways, I don't know about you--.

That might just be this narcotic cocktail talking. I take my pills ground up in a wine glass mixed with cheap scotch. Then I chase with cups of watered down coffee--chugging until ceilings start to undulate and shake me loose. That's when I know I can start the day.

It's usually my most productive days when the ceiling tiles arrange into piano keys. Then I get to create my symphonies and soliloquies before I try to go get laid.

Now that I'm out here on the road though my mind is being blown.

Try waking to the same white black piano key ceiling everyday, to then finally feel the colors of the sky--for the very first time!

A never ending metaphysical canvas for the thoughts and longings of a drugged up DaVinci who just woke up in his time machine to start the 2nd Renaissance in the clouds. It all makes me wish I would have left years ago.
__________________­_


You see, I'm your typical twenty-something passionate kid trying to turn a ****** past into some kind of salvageable foundation for a chance at catching up with the rest of normal "adult" society. But I've got some problems with this whole "reality" thing people are so adamant at upholding.

Last time I visited my human family around the world they were all drowning in debt and poverty; trying with every fiber of their being to find that one bright spot. Stuck. In the deepest, darkest, most cavernous rotting excuse of a day to day life.

All because some meaningless number
on some computer
in some bank building
with their name on it
either is too small or doesn't exist.

Most of my human family know things are bad,

But most in the impoverished third-world are so deprived of basic human needs that they never get the chance to ponder who really holds the key to their cage.

So they are inclined to accept the status quo and the system and try to live inside of it. Failing to find sunshine within the deepest depths of an erupting volcano; mistaking the heat, the burning alive, for some kind of sign that the brightness has got to be somewhere close. So we will just try to sink a little deeper with the rest of them.

Here in America:
Sure, let's go on back to ringing registers for minimum wage all day until my ears bleed and my head wants to fall off so I can go home to watch some television!

Yes, God Please just let me relax here with my box of flashing pictures and scintillating sounds. The only truth I'll ever need.

Just let me relax here with my reality being defined for me by the volcano directors--telling me that I didn't just come in my house dripping with magma all over the carpet.

YES GOD, just let me relax a little before I have to go to my volcanic, skin searing hell again tomorrow morning. Where they tell me on T.V. that I'm going to find that sunshine I desperately long for. But It'll always

*collapse
                 into a sea of ash
                 to scar the sky grey, silence the sun's rays, blot out the stars, and darken our days*

You just sigh and say "Tomorrow's another day..."
_________________­__


Yeah, I was right there with them yesterday. I was with them for years. Getting brainwashed and ***** slapped by advertising--getting barraged with constant reminders that all I was meant to do was to work my life away--decide to be some tiny insignificant cog in this "economy" they call it.

Looks more to me like I signed up to be some mindless consumerism *****! Sheeping my way along... buying and wasting; buying, wasting; buying again, a bunch of **** I don't need and throwing it away.

We're Living in a society infected with some sort of capitalistic contagion that pretty much siphons off the Earth's life force.

We are conditioned into a reality that the richest & most powerful would like all to believe.

Art-full hearts are stomped on, told to get a job, and plan for retirement. Told to slow down and be reasonable rather than speed up. Velocity of the heart may as well be an act of terrorism unless it's for marriage--and LGBT is on the no fly list.

This is a reality set up predominantly for the endless profit of a bunch of trans-national corporations who won't be satisfied until they hold complete and utter dominion over their ***** and pillaged planet.

Perhaps then they'll be rich enough to fly away in spaceships to **** the next Earth and leave all us sheep here with bargain sales, social networking and reality T.V. as distractions...

Too bad for them some people still read. So I'll learn the different strains of herb from my local library and become a ***** of feeling good, freeing love, and accepting all artistry.

Have you ever seen a painting in the sky? Or witnessed windy symphonies in trees? Hey, don't judge me,

you're the one addicted to killing everyone and everything with your mindless dollar bill.

kneel before almighty god,
mind your founders,
adore their wise countenance,
looking up at you,
re-assuring you,
comforting you,
taking the pain away,
but DON'T RUN OUT!
you'll be back for more.
you'll come crawling back.
You'll do anything for just enough,
just one more fix.

It's got its hooks in bad,
don't it.
___________________­_


PRODUCT-XA110357: Capitalism
DRUG STATUS: Still in Clinical Trials
TEST SUBJECTS: Human Race
PHARMACEUTICAL LABORATORY: Earth
INITIAL FINDINGS: Subjects not receptive, keeps causing: Anger, Greed, Jealously, Oppression, War, Ignorance, Famine, Inequality, Imprisonment, Slavery. Environment not receptive, will cease functioning in the future. Time of Earth Death is unclear. Thankfully it does seem capable to last through the next few fiscal years. A relief, as this is what our stockholders are concerned with.


Symptoms of Withdrawal
Users who are addicted to money and are going through withdrawals may or may not experience a loss of food, water, shelter, clothing, transportation, education, free-time, happiness, fulfillment, reverence of nature, beautiful moments, relationships with friends or families, and love.


FDA Warning
If you are poor, lazy, and uneducated it is your own fault. Being poor and lazy may or may not result in Debt. DEBT may or may not lead to SLAVERY, stress, illness, and an early death.


Poison Control Center
If you have ingested too much debt, slavery, stress, illness, and are fearing an early death please do not call any corporate buildings. Access your phone, computer, or go to your local library to find reputable resources and EDUCATE YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY. Get some nice speakers and start exploring ALL GENRES OF MUSIC. Look at as many paintings, sculptures, forests, and gardens as you can--as often as possible. Lay under the stars and dream about what YOU want to do to make a positive impact on this world. FIND OTHER POSITIVE PEOPLE and AVOID NEGATIVE PEOPLE. If you know someone that is poisoned who you want to save please refer them to the nearest Poison Control Center

-->Smile at the sun--feel its warmth<--

----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------------------

happy hearts:--after love--not money--free from pain--sickness will surrender--
addicted to art, peace, compassion, and empathy--feel the sky get closer--.

-----------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------





­




























"In a state of enlightened anarchy each person will become his(her) own ruler. They will conduct themselves in such a way that their behaviour will not hamper the well being of their neighbours. In an ideal state there will be no political institutions and therefore no political power."
-Mahatma Gandhi

Hop hopeless off the L
searching for hell
"works" "works"
"subs" "subs"
"Bars" "Bars"
"Xanny Bars"
The Avenue Chant
Howl the diseased infected addicted ****
The Avenue Chant
an open drug bazaar is a beautiful thing for one playing the beautiful *****
Requiem for a Nightmare

You ask what I need
knowing what I want
Hop down the corner
You know the best spot
they got the fire
I got a house to burn
You ask, can I get one?
I think in first person with a laugh
perhaps I would give you a leg for one
I see you could use it
We keep walking
you keep limp, limp, limping down....
Cambria
Crutches clacking off the littered decaying pavement
The boys are out in town (when aren't they)
the block is hot (as always)
I wait around the corner
You do my ***** business
Our ***** business
Everyones ***** business
You swing back, deed done, dirt in hand
awwww
yeahhhhh
the stamp is cobra
I remember this ****. mm.
this **** is good
The printed snake swims up and out
siphoned from a tiny
baby
blue
bag
cleansing all insecurities, all fear, all humanity.

We limp along
You tell me how you ended up on these streets
wife kicked you out, job fired you, veterans insurance cut you.
The American dream as it looks, on Kensington streets,
circa2013
etc. etc. etc

I feel bad, but, not really, emotional skeleton,
Numbed.

I leave you with some rocks, not much,
then go off kicking
rocks all the way Redrocks
H>O<W
long can I continue without being caught in crosstalk.

A skinny white privileged boy from the suburbs
seeing his future
trotting away before his eyes
The
everlasting
haunting
crouching
limping
creature of death
A
rotten
old one
legged
......junk
Y

Who knew that getting a Starbucks gift card would turn out so harmful and mean.
When pleasant, harmless, innocent me fell for the spell of treacherous caffeine.

Like a hype with a spike
doing harm to his arm
I  was hooked.
Leaped before I looked,
goose was cooked.

Now I'm here to play the blame game.
Innocent me, walking in free, joyfully,
just getting a coffee.
Then wham!
or should I say bam!
It hit me.
I walked out a quivering, craving, slobbering creature...
maybe not literally but like I said it was done treacherously, maliciously, instantaneously, I was a caffeine *****!

So here are some of the reasons why I'm  unhappy with Starbucks:
--- Starbucks caffeine influenced my body by elevating my heart rate (I'm not sure why I expected anything different).
--- Starbucks crafty, subtley and slyly habitualized me ( Oh god, I'm  a creature of habit!)
--- Starbucks (If possible) is too friendly
--- Starbucks manipulated my accommodating nature (I just wanted to be friends, but now they feel more like, dare I  say it... family).
--- Starbucks slandered me ( by assuming I'm lazy. "Sit, relax, make yourself at home, stay as long as you like").
--- Starbucks  exposed my weaknesses ( l feel naked to coffees influence).
--- Starbucks made coffee hip and cool (I'm  going to go ahead and count that as a bad thing).
--- Starbucks crippled my will power (my will power walks with a limp now).
--- Starbucks  blew up the sun!  
--- And the final reason I'm  unhappy with Starbucks...because they're probably going to sue my *** for writing this!

Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans

Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime

Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies

Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time

Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....

Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood

Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.

Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation

Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *******
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression


Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks

Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ******* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines

In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo

Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
******* a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men

The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’

right now
sacrifice is fueling opportunity
an opportunity to breathe
with an uninterrupted purpose
the corruption of our native soul
stop nourishing it
by constructing whiteness
sacrificing ethnicity
for the temporal indulgence
adrenaline *****
torturing
intensity of dissociation
hallucinating whiteness
the worst drug ever manufactured
forced upon our children
intricate delicate
vulnerable violence
tripping
stumbling
dissociating from an eternity
of survival of the most cooperative
deterring
forgetting
intoxicating
for a moment
momentum of ******

Nudge a numb cockroach and he'll love you for life
just ***** little lemonheads
can't actually survive a nuclear explosion
but can cause catastrophic evolutionary queries
like "Why do the good die young?"
Can you believe
that long ago only the bad died elderly
and were witches with elixirs
potions and spells to make God blush and his **** turn to mush
so powerful
they made people go crazy with
judgement and micromanaging
but I'm the real witch
right-o I ride broomsticks and eat toads for snacks
my back is a lump of coal from the Devil's morning hookah
smoke billows from my ears
cockroaches my best friends
we cut off our heads and run into fridges
my pelvis is frigid except
for those **** roaches.

Shouldn't we all be studying?

dedicated to M M Jones from Montana,
where I guess big skies make people think
about big questions and young poets thrive.


the butterflies of child-awakening
to the certainty
that school and
shame and embarrassment
were only minutes away,
once again,
is as fresh as
the flowers my love
buys every Friday,
fifty plus year later.

I would awake,
climb into bed with my mother,
telling her I did not feel well,
that my
stomach felt gray.  

I could not tell her that
the mocking I received by
my richer classmates at the
multiple lines in the fabric
of my corduroy pants
where she let my pants down
made me cannon fodder
for what we call now
bullying.

I could not tell her
of the heartbreak
when somehow the parents
of my supposed suburban friends
forgot to
pick me up for the weekly swim,
leaving me to watch
the sunset fall as I sat
on the stoop of our old house,
tucked away in an out of the way,
unfashionable street,
the shame still wet.

I could not tell her
of how two bothers tortured me
as I sat in the back seat
of their station wagon,
spitting seeds
on me like curses.  

Their older brother died of cancer
when that was still unusual,
and the mother wrote
a beautiful book
about his life.

I still hate them, those two,
fifty years later and it gives me
unusually great pleasure to
announce it to the world.

So I studied.  

Not my schoolbooks,
but lovely and ***** literature.
Friday afternoons, three children,
me the baby brother,
(anonymous, for they nicknamed me
brother as if  I was nothing but
checked off category)
to the library went.

Five, five was the max
they the austere librarians
and their coda of holy silence,
would let me withdraw.
(god I can see my library card still).  

By Friday night,
I had finished one or two,
ruining my eyes in
the lousy lamp light
in the living room,
falling asleep on the couch.  

this, reading addiction,
which afflicted the entire family,
I did well into my teens.

I have stopped reading
which amazes the very few
who know and care.

do let us re-pose,
let us repose,
the question:

Shouldn't we all be studying?

the answer of course is
yes and no.

my studying blue period
is long since ended.
now, my biographer,
will call this my red period.

for red are the memories that my remembrances
come back to me.
crystal is the clarity
of the indignities
I recall, though red,
is the anger
at the shame and
abuse I took.

now I can write what I have always held in my heart.  

those two awful brothers,
who loved to torture me,
I was glad their
wonderful brother died.

so this is my red writing period,
when the studying of a kind,
has long since ended
but the smell,
the memory of
fresh textbooks still can
make me nauseous.

Yet, I still study life around me,
as I clean countertops,
walk deserted beach isles
in early September...
this studying,
is the product of years
of studying the inside out
of me, and turning that study
fruitful into poetry.

why?
why am I writing this at 2:00 am on a Sunday morning?

I did not pose the question.

but it posed me,
and the dialogue in my mind came
sugarcane fresh and tumbling out
and will be both
recorded and recoded
("in the truth will out eventually" file)
after a fashion.

these days I sometimes study
my older poems,
whose titles I recognize,
but whose content
I cannot recall.  

so double digit delight
when I
meet again old words,
wondrous and trite,
that make believe
that all my studying
somehow paid off after all.

Addicted to Love
She used to slowly caress my hand-
She would send chills down my spine-
We would indulge in white lines as ecstasy got us high-
One journey of a heart established in her lies-
In her eyes I could see the twisted world that she believed-
So drunk on insecurities highly clouded by ****-
This is the devil’s disease-It is the devil’s fortune and fame-
In love with a substance-I became in love with her name-
Thin haired needles puncture love to my veins-
My heart would beat with tweak-
To the rhythm of the dope game-
The rhythm of the dope game-
WAIT-
What was all this ******* for?
Saying you love me as I lay incoherent on the floor-
The steamy smell of three and half turned to four makes way through my body escaping my pours-
Till the core of my soul lays alone in its own cold-
And what was all this for?
It was a ***** stained love as glass pipes held dreams of hope-
Torched lit fires turned ambition to smoke-
LSD became creativity-till the pits of hell were roamed-
And what was all this for?
It was for love-
It was for drugs-
It was my only way to cope-
Understand?
Under gram erections stood alone penetrating holes I’ve never seen before-
Moans of stupidity released thoughts I ignored-
But I adored the feeling of evolution elevating me to heights un-soared-
Where lands of all man reach limitations to explore-
My body begging me to stop but my mind is begging me for more-
Refugees and causalities lay naked on the shore-Track marks leak the scent of and all and out lost war-
And I’m still not sure what all this was for-
Maybe it was for the thrill-
The thrill of submersing all my rotten thoughts that plague my good will-
My will to live among humanity and grant myself the freedom to walk among all of G-d’s family-
But tragedy strikes at the heart of the lost kind-
Where bleeding bodies are buried by the sands of time-
Where a generational cry turns to generational screams, where a generation in denial becomes generational fends-
And bitterness soaks through her cream where lost visions of the future become a long distance dream-
And the subdue substance that once claimed me now allow me rhymes of exploration,-exploring things I’ve never seen never dreamed never thought I’d ever be another statistical teen-
But I’ve grown-I’ve grown for the ignorance-The ignorance of believing I can make sense of life and relevance-That the heaven sent failure no longer has remembrance and the continuous hell bent world that destroyed me now gives me a halo of sense and for the first time-things make sense!
So I set myself forward down a road of reflection, reflecting on things I meet at my souls introspection-inspecting deep dark thoughts that beat my soul to redemption and I question-
I question why I stand here ready to go hand to hand to prove I’m a man when all I really want to do is show her who the **** I am-but I can’t-
So I close of my angels and reach for the devil within and its plaguing me why can’t G-d see that I don’t want to live in a dream-I just don’t want to be-
Please-
Allow me ease-
As I dream of moments with my old love-with my old drugs-with my not giving a ****-
Like why the **** should I care when no one else does-
So instead of the drugs I will pick up a pen and write a rhtymatic flow about the places I’ve been-and now-the only addiction I have is writing my hymns-
For the hell hath no fury for the devil within but in the end-
Well in the end-
She slowly starts caressing my hand again man-

I now have a funky heart,
My nurse calls it a ***** heart.

All seemed well,
And I felt swell-
Until I stood, that is.

The funky heart grooved,
The ***** heart moved.

I fell,
Oh hell-
The nurse's name was Liz.

The doctor told me I'd be fine...
But he cannot feel the pain that is mine.

By: Cedric McClester

When ***** changed
From noun to verb
And it invaded
The suburbs
That’s when
The thought occurred
For us to say
My word!

Much to
Our despair
Now that
The problem’s here
It’s becoming
Crystal clear
We have reason
To fear

It’s not just them
It’s us
The police
Could come to bust
So we’re convinced
We must
Change our focus
And ******

Our children need
Our hugs
We’ve lost the war
On drugs
It’s no longer
Just them thugs
And perhaps
That’s what most bugs














Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015,  All rights reserved.

Pillow Talk-
I want to hold you tonight-
I want to consume and make love to you all night-
I want to kiss your lips and caress your hips-
Show you how your love gives me a ***** fix-
I just want to pillow talk-
See your eyes light and conversation spark as bodies lay in the dark-
I want to grow to know you-
Your tender ways-your loving grace-bless my days-baby stay-
Lay with me tonight-
Candles burn-My body yearns for all of your insight-
Lay fright at the door and allow my body inside yours-
Tonight is for lovers to soar-
And I adore the seconds that pass-And I grasp everything in my path-
This beautiful women maybe perhaps will be the one to outlast my everyday man crap-
Because the beat moves are passion-Sweating bodies pumping in compassion-
How fast and beautiful actions send attraction to the mental state of relaxing and all I am asking is for you to stay tonight-
Nothing more-
Just tonight-
Like I said before-this is for lovers to soar-
Making love till the sun breaks the shore and in the morning-Baby-we could do it some more-
And then we could pillow talk alone-
Conversations of life deeper than the baritone-
And tonight my body is your home-Saturated against each other in a zone-
Truth be told-
This is the greatest love I have ever known-
And I don’t want to let it go-
Because you are so beautiful-
And tonight is for lovers to soar-
So let’s pillow talk-
By:
Richard Itskovich

With wings like barn doors, perched upon the tower and scathing
The king fell, the Earth moved and let him drift slowly to death
Bukowski on the bedpost sang rosy melodies through tin can headphones
and the daffodils of a thousand fields wilted at the news of her death
Needles fall from the *****'s arms, a rain drop escapes

Coca-Cola bottles strewn on a green carpet, smooth under foot
and the festival casualties drift aimlessly to their scorching cars
Pills fall from pockets as a forlorn criminal collects coins
The clouds disperse from the estate, reggae disrupts cats making love
Bass that resonates, crumbling cars and the warring between neighbours

Lay with her as the coffin descends, gun crime statistics
Spinoza makes accusations from beyond, ethical misappropriation
Stop talking, for your voice could make an angel weep
but the children still scream, running, frenzied on the lava streets
Cracking bull whips at the backs of a slave, ******* passion, weeping
and the sun sets in the East, proverbial ******* to the populace

Franzen now teaches me how to live such a lonesome life
While the night holds me like a mother once would
Until I pass,
and the arms of Susanna Blamire beckon
Hold me close
I'm scared

Ten thousand feet above any other breath
I have ever taken
Easing chilled eye lids close
Savoring the clarity of the moment
A running start
Front flip off the front of the falls
Water pausing in mid-air
Then rushing past me in a deafening roar

My stomach turns in knots as I watch him eating
They call him a geek
Glass, copper coils, iron nails
His plumber is famous
A broken light bulb scatters before me
Now it's my turn to geek out
Placing a jagged shard on the end of my defenseless tongue

Dancing orbs of light scatter across the festival
Grounds ablaze with performers of all talents
Dragon breathed, tattooed, freaks from the circus's sidelines
All of us blood children to the flame
Blistered, scarred hands twirl above me
My fire hoop twisting up my glistening body
Heart entranced.
Fully alive.

Like a ***** looking for a fix, the unconscious man sticks his nose where it doesn't belong, looking for energetic salvation but he's going about it all wrong.
You are not the supplier, not even number 2, just a crack fiend for vibes, with your little ***** spoon.
Forever a user and always an abuser, your rotting discoteque of flesh bleeds at the sight of salvation, all the kids dressed up in love are aware of your eternal damnation.
It won't be until you sweat, puke and die a thousand deaths that you are set free, forever an energy vampire until you breathe, breathe, breathe.




(alt.1 where he can't afford rent)

If I could
I  would 
But I can't
So I  won't
--Be the carpenter to the building up of your ego.
--Shower you with confident praise, umbrella you from dissident things.
--Figure out the high and low moods of an adrenaline *****.
--Nod in agreement, like a court jester, to the latest exploits of a drama queen.
 
 Its a constant chore I abhor just to get you up and moving out the door.
Push you out the nest to fly,
throw you in the water to sink or swim, to try.
It's what we do when children are all grown,
NOT what we do for girlfriends who are afraid to leave home or be alone.

It's  not a keeping score point system where I'm giving more than I'm getting. Its more of a witnessing to the feeling of the allowing and the letting.

If I could
I would
But I can't
So I  won't
-- pave a yellow brick road through your misgivings.
--Smooth off the edges of your indecisions.
--Give you the cowardly  lions courage he got from Oz.
--Lie to boss Hog that your sick in bed.
-- Tweezer out the splinters of your perceived injustices.

If I  could
I would
But I can't
so I wont
Cottle you, bottle you, can't promise you or promote you. Must remove you and remote you, no longer develop you or devote you. Your on your own.

And in the end, dispite what I  do and the might that I  do it with... the final road is one we walk alone.
  I have to let you go now.