I haven’t had anxiety lately,
but this little fuck won’t leave today.
pisses me off and makes me more annoyed
that I care, but isn’t that what it’s all about?
Caring too much about what we can’t carve.
This grey area of non-understanding! So it
stands on top of us and clenches our throats
and squeezes our chests; are you OK? I’m fine
walk with me and do you see how the ground moves?
You have to go, to go. Push on, pushing on. I’m smoking a cigar inside. First time in years. I accidentally put it out in my son’s cereal bowl dish with my spit. I didn’t want that. I had fun lighting it again with a wooden match made of what the fuck fire.
I’m coming to terms with my life. I have terms and Life doesn’t. So we’re both sitting here with this cigar watching smoke. I once read that a blind man wouldn’t smoke because he couldn’t see the smoke rise around him. I get it. I wouldn’t smoke either if I couldn’t see the difference in each rising movement. Those columns are different each time so that’s where we’d miss the everything about what we wanted to be.
Anyway, I type so letters become words around thought.
I’m sitting in my head. It’s my condition. I
pulled up a chair, faced the wrong way, and
here I still sit, waiting. Challenging my
You can’t always do what you want. But you can do now what you will. Grab the fucking book. Ignore that screaming argument pulling your metallic rage sideways and sit in your best possible spot to read words you’ve been wanting to know. Then raise your glass of I don’t give a fuck and cheers the sun going down. Because no matter what, you will either see the sun again, or it’ll never care enough to wake you up.
People are fucking weak. Yet they love telling anyone who’ll listen how to live.
Ask them what they wore two days ago and they’ll talk about how they
plan on painting their walls, because they know it’s time to paint, but don’t bother
asking why the mold grew without cancellation. Fuck their mold and their societal illness. At morning’s age I knew this wasn’t good, but had no claws. And now that later is, I’ll tell what needs to be told. Even if it takes tears and smashed bowls on walls with hatred in my eyes.
Don’t ask how to write
There is no how
Just fucking write
And let them catch up
Listening to the rain. I’m home. The sands of time can go fuck themselves. Each of them. Home wasn’t always a thing I knew. Home was a faint whisper about Honesty and relief. Home was a deepening hole begging you to never tell. Never tell. As hushed mushroom grew in the shower. A blistering mouth spewed throbbing beginnings. – Listening to the rain it’s hard not to love. Now that I am home. And I am home.
when a child doesn’t move and it isn’t their choice. they remove hurt with a pillow missing. cross their heart with thought. don’t tell that child what is. scraping winds picking up their tears. we’ll live again. sink now. the missing pillow gave way. it was never their fault.
I wish you would stop taking your mind off. A man took his bare skin. Again. A non-manipulated child said loudly, ‘nothing.’ The child said nothing. A period of chance happened upon a young stone. The young stone wanted more than anything to be with water. Can we smooth your surface for you? water wanted to know.
Odd Fucking Walks.
While the house is calm your hallway board walks. So simple. The music calms your face. A temple stretches, asking forgiveness, as a walking hiccup with a polished lure
speaks for regulations on behalf of all floors. We placed them so nicely for all to see; now lay your head pretty. Lay it for we.