Karen

you never judged me.
we were both outcast,
beaten down at a young age,
by what?
i'm not sure.
you came closer to humanity,
then any of these women ever will.
i could show up on your doorstep,
at 3am.
drunk,
with a six pack of beer,
and some gummy bears.
welcoming me with open arms,
and when i was too drunk to remove my clothes,
you would remove them for me.
we never hugged while sleeping,
but i could feel your warmth radiating
off of you
and breathing in your scent
made my brain mad
with laughter.
you were my lush,
and i was the drunk,
together,
roaming bars,
consuming like thieves.
pinning you to the floor
in the middle of the living room
and removing your clothes
piece
by
piece
slowly letting momentum build in us,
and the night would flame
with that eternal fire.
rug burns marked with lust.
in the morning,
over coffee,
we'd talk about anything,
and mid sentence,
i would stop,
and see you,
gazing at me,
with love in those big brown eyes.
my insides would melt
and my heart would tug at me.
my heart tugs now,
it tugs at me,
because those moments are burned into my brain,
and although your last day here,
i was at another woman's house,
i secretly wished i would of made the right choice,
and stuck by you.
the way you stuck by me.
i knew what was right,
what i should be doing,
and where i should of gone,
but i lied
to you
and didn't listen to my heart.
when you fly home pretty bird,
i'll be waiting for you at the gate,
with flowers
gummy bears
and open arms.
i know for you and i
it's never
"too late"

Night Terrors

the death of the last cowboy,
riding the plains,
with leather bound book
hanging from his neck,
where every incident worth recording,
is done with the uttermost importance.
he who falls last,
settles the dust.
the great prize fighter,
fighting himself.
the lone gunmen,
wishing someone would shoot him.
the plastic woman,
wishing someone would give her life.
the scotch in glass,
waiting for me to drink it.
the lonely cock,
smashed, bruised and bloody,
rolling around in the back seat,
with no one to play with.
the bank teller,
on welfare.
and the hopeless
watching the sky.

I Love It When,

i love it when,
women say they love me
on a deeper level,
but go home to their boyfriends each night,
slide into bed next to him,
and let his hands glide all over your body.
i love it when,
people ask me
"what's wrong?"
like if they can't see for themselves.
i love it when,
no one apologizes,
or if they do,
they haven't a clue what
the apology is for,
and it's a half assed one at that.
i love it when,
people lie to my face,
even though i knew the truth,
and never confronted,
because i wanted to see,
how they would worm their way,
out of this one.
i love it when,
people use the word
"inspire"
as a cover up,
to lift anothers idea,
and do not have the intelligence,
to make it their own.
i love it when,
people pretend that everything is fine,
even when i can hear
their heart
screaming
for me.

The Sorrow in That.

and what would happen?
if i disconnected all the cables,
that carry sentiment and empathy?
by choice,
putting the bottle away,
selling the typewriter,
and checking out
of my own mind?
letting
everything
go
nowhere?
watching Greys Anatomy, American Idol & the Jersey Shore
eating healthy,
organic,
and plastering
the friendly passive smile
to my face?
losing all value
worth
longevity
that i fought for?
buying a new car,
using women
like currency,
and never pushing farther out,
than comfort would allow?
becoming everything i loath,
allowing the venom to
postulate
in my veins.
i would become
the greatest
walking ball
of shiny
mass
that this world
had ever
shit out.
oh,
the sorrow in that.

Nothing Comforts Like Your Own Validity

&
Nothing destroys like silence.
when everything written,
all things collectively accounted,
dismissed and value relinquished,
enslaved by judgement
and
force fed by sinister eyes,
as they shovel the sloth
from hand to mouth.
as the savages reek havoc,
validity ensues,
the score of man
will be settled
3 - love.
tension mounts,
as the weak minded,
are sucked into the whirlpool of falsehood.
he will stand alone,
overlooking life,
forged by enduring the
hate
that is washed down from the gods
to separate
the deviants
drunks
and undesirables,
into neat little stacks,
of clay.
clay men fighting molten wars,
and
plastic women
indecisive in action,
with smiles molded
into their blank faces,
as their pupils dilate,
and recede into contempt
for anyone muttering words
about existence
that isn't their own.
time will run,
according
to those who make the rules,
and everyone will wallow,
through shit,
with heads slumped on chest,
and bullet wounds
will be a welcomed pain,
back to reality.
we'll be reduced back to grunts
and eventually
silence
will cover all of us
in that
long black veil.

-silence is the killer more so than a long handed blow of words.
-everyone loves the writer, they admire the writer, want to be nice to the writer. it's all fake. at the end of the day, the writer drinks from his bottle, racks his brain for ideas and sleeps alone in his bed, with no one around to extend a hand. it's like watching someone self destruct themselves from behind glass. it's voyeurism on your side.