Bloody Sapiens

They talk and they talk,
They tell me how my hair should be,
They tell me how my hands should work,
They tell me which direction my nipples should be pointing,
They tell me how to talk, how to 'convince',
They tell me how deep the grave goes,
And try to nudge me into it,
And then they top it with
'It will be alright.
It's just the age."

So much for adulthood.
Are we there yet?

Let's Phyme!

Wait,
Poems are meant to phyme!
Or was that rhyme?
Now mine does,
But then again, for how long?

Arias

It must be the music,
That makes me wade through the night,
It must be those three chords,
Making me want to live through
Just another flea infested day.

There are more compelling reasons,
I ponder sometimes;
When my eyes meet hers’,
Or when the same thought
Slips out of two pairs of lips,
At the same time.

It must be the gamble
Of private messages,
That lay suspended in the air
Till someone else comes along,
And pollutes those unsaid words,
With self indulgent presumptions.

It must be the hope,
That little inevitable spark of hope,
Even when the night mumbles
That some things are just
Not meant to be.

Or probably it must be faith,
Who lends wings
On a 10 minute trial basis,
And plucks on feathers,
When you fall off that precious edge.

The night, the night!
She sings arias and puffs her worries,
The smell of her hair lingers
On cheap black plastic and steel,
And hopefully soon,
On my pillow.

Ah the night,
Think I will credit her,
For seeing me through,
Just another day.

My Appeal

A spell one August,
A unicorn's horn, is all
I need for the cure.

Beauty in the eyes of the Beholder

"No go", they say,
"Got bolts in your head?" Some ask,
"Are they blind?", I think.

Like Liquor Helped

So I finally
Drink myself silly, to find
More emptiness.

There She Goes

That funny feeling,
Again in my chest, I know
My heart's wandering.