zero

Am I doing a good job?

Am I in the way?

Swearing, Kicking the Dirt, and Myself

You should have seen your faces when I tasted my own shoelaces, I was...
stetched so thin, you could see through my skin, see where I end and where I begin,
see the parts of me that rarely see anything but the underside of my pale wrapping,
I am sorry that I spoke, so God help me, if I don't choke, you'll know
I'm slowly learning from my mistakes, I'm slowly learning from my hands shake
so much from such and such and acting tough and no one saying anything but
enough's enough, nothing but barbs and twists, and no lifting up,
no, I could have done better, I could have worn a sweater when it's cold weather,
but I don't.
I just slide, slide, slide, and feeling always inferior and pushed aside,
I hide, hide, hide, and smile because I heard that is what's right.

But every time, I...

Man, I don't even know.
I'm tired, but I'm happy,
mostly, but lately,
I feel like all I do is let people down,
down to the ground,
and I'm being ground down,
it really hurts to
have no self-worth,
and feel so much remorse
for every single word that springs forth.

And I am alone.

Encourage

Tendrils of thought lash out like Indiana Jones' whip and wrap right around you, they hold you tightly and softly, smoothly touch your skin until tight enough and then they pull you in. My lips move like mountains, deliberately but constantly, they speak truth, they make what's gray seem clear and A-Okay. These fingers that you can't see could be so selfish, but I'd rather pull you closer to life than my side, I think I can get by on my own (with God's grace a constant speed dial on my phone). I only want the mutually beneficial, and sometimes that means thinking something different that the usual, you should tell that your clouds have sterling silver edges, not just thunder and lightning like you alleged.

Last Minute Mutterings

I can’t breathe in this suit. The tie, the freaking shirt, tucked in, and my belt…Ugh. It’s on the last available hole. Seriously. I can’t breathe.

Chill out.

You chill out man! You bought your suit like a week ago, I bought mine when I was a junior in college…before they opened a god-forsaken Pizza Hut across the street.

You look fine.

You can’t see the rug burns where the pressure of my waist line is shredding my skin every time I turn.

You’re being dramatic, man.

Dramatic? Do I look like I’m acting? I should win a damn award for this. This takes dedication. This is like when Christian Bale got all skinny for The Machinist. This freaking suit is going to be what I am wearing when I die because if I don’t breathe soon, I am going to die.

Here she comes.

Oh my God. She looks beautiful. This is the beginning of your new life. Congratulations.

and then there were none

and then there were none.
no feelings whatsoever,
no cold, driven by rain
like ms. daisy, cranky,
crisply tapping at these bones,
stripped of what was known,
and left alone, but now,
that feeling is gone.
no warmth, softly soothing,
speaking its soulful
solution to your open ear,
its supple lips inclined
to kiss and make you
want only more and more warm,
but that was before, and now,
that feeling is gone.
no happiness, no sadness,
frankly no feelings at all
gone. numb. speechless, dumb.
and then there were none.

I Prefer Pens to Palaver

My adam's apple gets caught
on words and cuts them up
so that when I speak I stut
ter, and when I speak, I
repeat myself often and
also frequently. It's
also annoying to me, believe.
I sometimes contradict
or say what some say's a
Freudian slip, but it's just
that words stick like
spit to my lips.
Yeah, they stack up like
cars at a train track
and when they see the caboose
and work their way loose,
they come out in every
which order please they,
sense make don't they.
I'm sorry to say, I say
things better this way,
with pens and paper and no
adam's apple or lips
to turn whats black, whats white
gray.

What If?

What if Hollywood died,
and Paris, 1915 came back to life?
What if literature
paved the streets instead of stars
in microskirts and plastic breasts,
fancy suits and provocative thoughts
like who's in who's bed?
What if thinking was cool,
rather than believing everything you see?
Oh shock and awe,
how frivolous you are!
Oh, I know, it's the same now as then
just put in new, plastic packaging,
but I can paint the past as I like
and paint the future hopefully,
with that same paint brush in mind.
Ideals.