For A

 

You hold on to every guy you touch,
like he is the only thing protecting you from the fires of hell surrounding you;
but the fires are on the inside.
Take a look at your soul.
It’s burning;

almost as fast as mine.

something about loneliness

Stop!
You have the wrong man.
I'm no good,
let's face it.
I'm lousy.
I'm a lousy poet.
I'm a lousy writer.
I'm a lousy reader.
I'm no good at speaking, or talking, or listening.
I'm a lousy musician.
I can't sing, I can't play.
I'm a lousy dancer.
I'm a lousy runner.
I'm a lousy hiker.
I'm a lousy biker.
I'm a lousy aritist.
I'm a lousy teacher.
I'm a lousy person.

I'm a lousy lover.

I have nothing going for me.
I'm no good at anything.
except being alone.
I'm a magnificent artist
when loneliness is my canvas.
Maybe it's my openess for it
or my acceptance towards it,
maybe it's simply because
I can go anywhere, and do anything
alone.
I don't know why i'm so profound.
But I do know
that when i hear my loneliness
when I see my loneliness
when I truly FEEL my lonliness
I almost feel happier.

Sing, read, drink, smoke, dance, fish, hike.
whatever you can think of, I can do,
alone.
I never said i'd be happy
no.
Happiness is not the pack i have learned to carry over the years
I don't want to use words like sad, or depressed, or hateful, or unhappy, or bitter, or blue, or somber, heavy-hearted, grieved remorseful, sorrowful, melancoly, gloomy, diseased, broken, low, down, hurt, feeble, or heartsick
but how can I not?
When it's what i've grown to be.
How can i tell you how I feel?
What am i supposed to say?
"I won't make it till tomorow?"

You say my poetry is depressing.
My poetry is MY SOUL on a page.
It's my SOUL in words, in letters.
I'm a sick, sick man.
My mind has been poisoned with this disease.
It's all i can think of.
It's all i have in my heart.
Suicide is in my head.
Anger is all i feel in my hands.

My heart has grown heavy.
It grows sicker every day
It's shriveled.
It's whitering away.
It's growing weak;
like that of my will to live.

beets

I was like a beet, freshly pulled from the ground.
and She was the one who pulled me,
She cleaned me, She introduced me to life.
to the sun.
and then she cut me,
and boiled me in soup,
without saying a word.

The Death Of a Memory.

I’ll lay around and read these books
cry every time I think of you;

Cut my wrists every time you kiss. . . Him.

I wish I didn’t love you.
I wish you knew me.
I wish you knew my name.
I wish I didn’t write songs. . . about
                                                           

                                                             You.

Why can’t I write about politics?

The president, and the government.
Or how all these parents try to raise their kids good,
but there is so much SHIT in this world.

Or how there is so much blood from all these wars.
How we all hate each other
and how
              Love

                       no longer exists.

See, It’s like the government doesn’t try to solve problems,
they just cover it up with all this war
and all this bloodshed.
The president always wants more,
he always wants war.
Somehow, we’ve got money for war
even though we can’t afford,
to feed the poor.

Well I’m sick of writing about a Girl,
and I’m sick of writing about love;
I’m sick of writing about something that doesn’t exist.

It’s time to write about Hate.
It’s time to write about war,
and bloodshed
and all this un-nessesary bullshit.

It’s time to write about sex,
and drugs.
It’s time to write about suicide,
and depression, it’s time to write about death.

and write, I will.

Mumbled Silence

Where are all the birds?
I need something to show me
that I'm not Alone.
This water is so still, it feels cold
on my toes.

Listening to the sound of my own loneliness,
It's just me, and the silence of this lake
hidden in the mountains.
These movies are getting old,
watching them all alone.
over
and over
and over
and over again.
These books won't keep me awake.

I can't write.
I can't sing.
I can't play guitar.
I can't write a god damn song.
My inspiration IS gone, and my heart is empty.
There isn't any love, and there isn't any hate,
there isn't any pain.
My emotions are gone,
and I'm feeling
numb.

Welcome Happiness

The wind is blowing,
the snow is falling,
and nothing, can drown out my thoughts.
No matter how loud I play, They won't go away.

It's dark outside, and I'm all alone,
here in the freezing cold,
no on can hear me cry.

I should have listened,
when I heard him sing,
   "It's dangerous, to be alone, in the freezing cold."

I haven't had a drink for such a long time.
God how I need a smoke to
calm my nerves.
So I can welcome happiness,
with a needle and a razor and lay in a cold waterey grave.
A smile on my face,
the snow will cover me,
and the note in my pocket will bleed,
but you'll still be able to read
         
               "I'm sorry."

and lord, I will be sorry.

A Whore on 39th

Living.
Breathing.
Stealing.
Killing.
Beating.
Losing.
Drinking.
Fucking.
Hating.

Hating,
            hating,
                        hating.
Hating through smiles,
through tears.
Hating through kisses, and hugs.
Hating through sex, music, and poetry.
Hating through fire,
through water,
through clothing,
through dancing,
through the cars They drive,
and the houses They call home.
Hating through the food They eat,
the women They sleep with,
and even the wine They drink!

Beer,
wine,
whiskey,
voldka,
rum?
Cigarettes, or cigars?
A whore on main street,
or a whore on 39th street?
Hardcover, or paperback?

Seems like lately,
people choose not for their own self satisfaction,
or even the satisfaction of others,
but because They are so full of hate,
They must be the best,
the strongest,
the tallest,
the fastest,
the smartest,
the richest.
They must be better then the man drinking budweiser,
smoking cheap cigarettes,
and sleeping with the 20 dollar whore.

They buy expensive beer and ciggarettes,
but it isn't enough,
neither is voldka,
or even a thousand dollar bottle of wine
 isn't anywhere close, to good enough.
Because They hunt happiness,
with hatered, as their bloodhound.

The real difference
between people,
is this. There are those that go through life
hunting and chasing happiness,
and there are those that just
accept the fact that they will never
                                                      
                                                           find it.

This is the reason why you spend 500 dollars
for a whore on main street.
and I spend 50, for the one on 39th.