Something's stirred
in me
in the form 
   of anger 
   or lust 
   I know not which
though I feel

a need to bitch
about all the shit
ripping
open
a new rift
in me

made of
melancholy and
meagre
mentions of some
kind

of mortal existence
and not the
kind

of immortality
made in movies
for people that aren't
moviestars 
   (like me)

in my own movies
in my head
watching other people pass
through the scenes and sequences
like mannequins
without

any kind of mention
toward my life
or the life
I live
lying
in that famously familiar sort of familial nonsense
that breeds

a little bit of livery
into the spreading
of a nice pair of
legs (that I haven't gotten)
in
so long now it gives me pain
and stress
and dismay
and, aye, something

so inexplicable, undefined
by anything or anyone
in time

since it's so hard to describe
that
simple
stupid
feeling
we call love
but know
is something completely different
and primal and perfect and pricking
in its stupidly divine nature
making me wonder
why I can't just

make it stop for once and all
and end
this ceaseless
litany
of love
and all other things
related
and
alike
to love,

just an ending to end it so that I may spend it well with the ones I love, like family.

I've still got that
same song stuck
        in my head
like

a progressively strengthening note
of silence
herding heroes
toward the gate of dawn,
specializing the mentality
of her own individual knapsack,
recreating some fervent
       desire for peace of mind,
       a piece of heart 
            holding its handles out 
                  toward my hands,
shaped
like

a cauldron
of the ineptitudes that belittle
my persistent 
   wedge
of a life,
breathing deeply 
   into

what nature we see, 
   such a beautiful horror 
      to feel that way,
of anyway,
or anything 
                  that could be
a real
feeling
finding
fantasy 
            expedition,
bringing my head in
down 
         closer to the ground
for until

tomorrow tells me the difference,
I'm still lost in the sound
of my own
head/voice/words.

I have a notion
that my devotion
to lack emotion
has fed me the potion
of my heart's erosion.

For, as I've grown,
my light has shone
that I am go'n
to be alone,
when all's said, and done.

So I sit,
so grossly inept,
weeping promises kept,
letting my weary heart
grow wet
from the tub of tears in which it's set.

Hoping my last claim
won't be in vain
or on the same
wall of shame 
that all fears hang,
crying love, like chess, is a game,
no more important than
a married name...

Instead,
I'll dread
that this path I tread
will be led
by the red
just ahead,
dripping from the heart
and head
of my future, final, bed.

I
sit in the class
with my
ever
       last
             ing
silence beckoning like a shroud
to me,

celebrating
the mass debating
that I look
forward to in
                 infamy,
however now
I seriously doubt the perfection
of my claim, for
it's making more of
a little life for
me, out of
all the
endless bickering

that comes
from soulful
endings,

letting me
    close up my greenery eyes
         in glee,
       with the hopeful helions
           hanging on,
          they have 
                  my ears,
                  my mouth,
                  my nose,
                  my eyes,

I drive
disracted
through the icy slushy roads
      of dream,
like a trial of
loveliness,
       docility,
such crying colors breaking through
                   a scream 
            interwoven 
      with
mockery,

yes I
see
       the inanity of it all,
       the pure boundless brilliance unexpected 
                   from the ally of a
                   faithful driven muse,
                   amusing,
       lastly, the silent little bastard who commands me,
                   gaining me some little bit of laughter
                   from my classmates,
                   though it may be real,
                   or mere
mockery.

It's late
late at night
without things going well
and I'm remiss to find
admissions
more unseemly than my redemption
for a mission that I cannot seem to describe
(more than a thought for such an affliction
that I cannot possibly represent
more thoroughly than
as a reader of fraught filled notions
that I can hardly stick into the cement)
of foundation's building from the ground up
or maybe down,
down to the ground
while this week keeps on growing
taller
and this year keeps on growing
longer
and I try to tell myself I'm growing
stronger

although today,
as every day
and every day
and every day
and every day
and every day
and every day
and every day

I'm more want to tell myself
"Just make it through today,"
instead
of focusing on tomorrow or
next week or
another day,
and while I lose some sleep
thinkin about the freaking past
that I cannot forget,
I sit here wallowing in broken hearts
and fresh regrets

so far in the past that they should be gone
and dead at rest,

but I find myself surrounded
by those ghosts I cannot forget
because I haven't found myself
a confidence building
slut to sleep with
yet because I'd rather wait a while
and find someone I care about
still
so I sit here patiently
waiting silently
cringing sleeplessly
squirming endlessly
and all the while.