Cornered
Small
Help me
Please
Don't be like him
Cause he broke me
I'll make it up to you I swear
Fuck. What can I do
I've been here, I know the plot
Last time I got it
But if I get this, than I lose you

Response to the Hollow Men

I am stuffed
With straw
Yes.
But I find myself
No hollow
Filled rather
With golden straw
That gleams
And radiates
Like sunbeams though the canopy.
Perhaps this is lost, though
We are lost
To the sunlight on the ruins.
But the broken gods
They dance in beams
And so appear to delight
In weaving the straw
That streams from the sky.
So who is hollow then
If not us?
Perhaps the brilliance lost
Stranded, without fear.
Dear Bobby*, Dear Allen**
We beg of you be kind
Forgive us, as we know not what we do,
For we are not hollow
Filled with straw
And its glow.
In the light of ourselves
Our self souls see violence
But unseeing to the lost.
We forget
About those broken gods.
And so we lie
And we die
Unopened to greatness
That spilled from you like straw
From a scarecrow,
In a long untended field,
That split
With a bang




*Bobby Fisher. **Allen Turing

Different Winters

In summer I will wait
Wait on you
I will be patient as leave turn to flakes
Of snow, that drift gently to the ground
And as they pile, and melt from coats before open fires
As children return to school, and thoughts turn to green
I will be patient.
I know you have a long way to travel,
For me the cold heralds being reborn
To you the dead and dying trees call
In the same snow we see different winters
But as the sun shines though
So will joy with you
Though December we will part,
And I shall miss my heart
At the touch of spring we find again
Our paths to merge.
Let the sun open your eyes to me
At the touch of spring.

Wussy

I’m scared
That I won’t be enough
That I can’t fix
Whatever makes you sad.
Of love, I have no doubt
Maybe that’s why
I worry so much.
I wish I could make you happy
In all things
Though I know that can not be
But still, maybe it’s enough to try
If I try hard enough
Will you smile back at me?

needs severe beating

This time, distinct
Shall forever be
In memory of certain things.
In a pothole on a road
That leads to your house.
The crunch of the gravel
That brings you to mine.
I remember days
With the scent of pine
And dirt, and doing
Nothing.
Just nothing.
But sometimes those are my favorite
There’s no story to remember
No dialogue thread
Just you.

Bitchfest 2

There’s time, alas, I have only in dreams
When I wake I find with discontent
Something I forgot to do it seems
I’d weep, but for a lack of time to rent
In frustration, I find my efforts fail
To elicit a glimmer or reward.
I’ve no soul to pour out my sad tale.
No hope, no dream, that I may move toward
Still in dark, I find myself a light.
And towards you I tread, feet touch only air.
In this walk, I move away from blight
To the end of time, I’d follow love there
For you, your love, I would give all my self
Until, of never, it become the twelfth

Bitchfest 1

When midst the clanging and the sound, I find
My words are brought before most unkind judge
I find that my company hath maligned
My care from that of Kings to Fools. I trudge
An aching path with no reward. Losing
Faith. It is with envy I view those on
A more mundane path. I weep, for falling
On such wretched times. I must be withdrawn.
Still, at these points of no compare there’s joy
Oh, yet to be found. I can think of none
No gem nor luxury that can deploy
Such love in my heart that can’t be undone.
So though darkness sometimes will soft call
For your love I would, with joy, forsake all.