October 25, 2005

He woos with poetry not of his own
Gleaming words from long dead men
Shining marble across a carefully tended plot

His emotions, though tender, do not fuel my heart
It stays cold and unused, preserved under glass.
A plaque remembers its once warm heat and soft pulse
at times flushing fair skin; those times long past remembering.

In stasis, in waiting, in between time, in between space
in between what once was and what now seems
Out of love but wanting, out of hope but dreaming.
Without cause, force of will; sight of shore, sight unseen.

April 11, 2007: There are cats fucking fighting in my front yard.. Seriously y'all...

It's just an idea, but I suggest you get over your shit.
And you might bitch and say it's not that easy, but
when the shit comes down, it really is. The world doesn't
revolve around you, life could actually be much harder than
you experience on a regular basis, and it really isn't
that hard to make a fucking decision. But you want
to have your cake and eat it too. Or at least, have an
alternative plan, when the bitch goes crazy, and you're drunk
at a party, and things could be better if you weren't so alone.
But you're always alone, in your head, and there's not a beer
or pussy in this world that can change that. You knew that already,
but after a few, it's much easier to forget your better judgment.

An incomplete prose rant with the following disclaimer: Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.