not worth the breath and barely worth this space

Filling the Empty Space

Victims of obligation.
This the best way to use our minds?
That Monday Evening Mentality
Searching for a sense of ownership, the chemicals merely blur the lines
I don't, nor do they, know me when I'm like this
And that's the beauty
I think?
The doubt of the author, a bit unsettled
The wavering of an absolute
May i ask how You're taking this?
Is it that seeping comfort?
someone else getting it...
Or have i lost your momentary eyes far before this stimulus lurked down your spine?
Both? Sure.
...and somehow the Star-Spangled Banner has worked its way into my background noise
what a joke of an evening

Conciousness

We are in between the depths of our capabilities.

A polarized world that lives between marks.

Landing between these boundaries in any mixture, at any minute, with any number of unaccountable variables.

Between the backs of our eyes and the work our mind’s can do with a little inspiration and a lot of data.

Masterful work, the manner the mind twines the imagination.

Using countless amounts of sensory data, everything you’ve ever had the capability to perceive. Turning it to love. To hope. To pain.

To emotions. The new ruler of a divided landscape.

Capitalism

I’ve come to find that evil, not good is rooted in beauty. The rays of temptation piercing our eyes. Give us yearning, envy, self absorption. It’s refined with quality and vanity. Beauty entices. A tapered tempist. Built to cut slowly into the heart of you insecurity. Plant a seed. Grow you into a self loathing, falsely perceived, crucial being. The biggest mistake is believing that any of your actions are even in the slightest way important

Sweet Tea

could paint pictures with words. A million segments and cliches, beautiful for the first time on every first time.
There's something slipping through. An art I wish to ignite and burn till the embers no longer warm a soul.
I want to capture breaths of relief and turn them into midnight memories.
a make-shift souvenir I'd wrap around your wrist and smile.
Something you'll trip across years away, something that'll stop you dead and fill you with life.
And you'll miss when it mattered
And you'll feel it so gone
That ache, so unique and twined hurriedly and completely
wrapped around every second that fades like colors in the sun
the light reclaiming everything it brings
And she'll be dead and gone even as she lives

Can't Explain

It's that yellow glow again. Same old songs ring through. Pain whirling through the room. Not one person feels settled. I treck the lonely soldier's track. Keeping wanderers off and never able to keep the worthy around. The same old stamped dirty. I'm respected but never rewarded. Admired but never fulfilled. My eyes are hard and heavy. I fall and rise in a seconds time and this mountain view just doesn't do it for me. Not anymore. It's like running in circles. Doing everything right. And nothing. I'm a fool for hoping and as empty as the half hearted whispers I send to gods I barely know. Even my poetry is lost. Like there's no step up. I don't see it going anywhere. Tabled off. This flattened path. Self righteous. Self destructive. Cursed. If I could step off the edge I would. I'd leap.

Minerva 2

Bright Futures

If I could give up the drugs, I'd probably forget the guns as well.
Buy a house. Trick a wife.
You know...the other American things.
I could lose myself through a TV.
Oh and lie, lie, lie.
And preach against each and every one of them.
I could figure it all out...only to shed it all away. Shit, I bet the paperwork for divorce is daunting...maybe I'd stick it out....for the kids.
How about a job? Everyone seems fulfilled with their work right? Definitely.
And love? Yeah, that's not the same as marriage, you know?
I could find love. Wait, I think love could fall under that whole "lie,lie, lie" plan.
Lust? Check.
Pain? Plenty of that.
Hope? What?
God? Don't insult me...

Dreams? Your dreams teach you how capable you are of the most beautiful, intricate, and decimating lies.
We hate being lied to because we can't cope with the fact that there is no truth.
That every word is so slowly dipped in sugar, crushed through it. And served by someone who thinks they care.
So what do we do? How do you make it through? What makes the morning worth every night's pain?
You know the feeling. All alone. Mind racing. Every beautiful second dead flashing through your mind.
Sometimes you can even taste it.
Ever seen a good ending to a night like that?
How about a good ending at all?
I certainly don't offer you one here.

slivers of summer reveal the smell of a memory.
it breaks down to sounds. shutters of what it felt like.

Rain in June

All my chemical connections...all ripped out at their weakest points...have spewed dry the moving fluid of life and energy they once contained.

The sun had taken its toll years ago, but those magazines, bright tubes, flashing screens...convince you on and on that you are not and never shall be the beauty of these things.

Surely these things are not people.

But to the youth, these are Jesus. A built up faux religion for masses of desperate minded midwesterners in Somewhere'stownship, MI. A plastic farce built to muddle the mind, taint the heart, as an omnipresence, deeply severing the chords of nature, pride and outward energy.

Diverting lines, tearing them to shreds.

A shit summer storm that has the whole town locked down...and silent.

We all can be sick.

We all have a blackened love affair...kissing at the gnawings of our own pain. Let us recapture the nature of this "death by night" love.

Let us rip it from the hands of a falsity, of a dream, a poorly conceived money scheme, an unbelievably cheap, sad excuse for art. Recapture your pain, your self-consciousness, your misery, your loneliness, your inability to love, your unsatisfactory words, and the pains of the relationships you'll never have or never had the chance to fix. Let me run my own ship ashore. And I'll empathetically watch you misguide yours.

Break apart these roads and let me find the cliffs. Your warnings have worn out their welcome.

Don't you feel like it's all too safe? Too white. Too neutral. Too referenced and....far too late.

In the Wreckage of Life not Lived

We have so many fires to feed. So much to burn. I’d hold your waist as every ember fell. Till all we breathe is smoke. As we choke out the old oxygen and recover in monoxide. Our muscles and blood burning and screaming. Our lungs turning inward to bury inside one another. As our composition changes. As our souls tarnish to powdered ash. A sweetheart suicide pact. A life of solid and decay. Motionless carbon breaths and the fading reminder of all the wrong turns we failed to set right. All the moments we lost alone. The things we never shared. At this point, in these ashes, everything seems so life altering. So desperately crucial. A wrong turn we could never make right and the aches that always keep us up with the moon. The pain we missed together. We breathe this monoxide in air and in heart. Burned out years ago. I’ve surely burned away. Sent the sea a deadly glare and dried out. fluidless, so futile. Breathless. So subtle that death aching behind my eyes.

Clear Visions in Sunken Depths of the Ohio

January 21st

I don't know. I could write all night. Write it like you'd actually read it. Write it like it's really love. Cause for now, it is. You haven't the chance to prove otherwise. But as the barren cold of a modern wasteland cakes the earth with polluted ice, I find the silence of your dream, endlessly deep and dark coating the entire reaches of my mind. The black that stretches forever like an endless pour of oil, or a never ending wind of murky, smoke filled water. My steps and expression locked. Battened down and warm, the ice biting at my skin, tearing through the layers, seem but a mere acknowledgment, no longer sensation. I want to take control. Step into you. I want your dream to overtake me. To escape another winter in your arms.

Smoke

January 13th

The tiny space was lightly coated with the smell of stale towels. Standing on a rug that's cushioning was spent long ago, he hung his head back like a free moving hinge. He thought of her and he thought of this. He sat deep and shivered down the days first drink. It hit cold but coarse, half helping the itching in his throat, half doing nothing but coating his teeth with a film of what he gathered as some type of sugary slime. Along with the days first liquids came the days first fire. Something about the contrast interested him along with how unnatural he often thought these, and other actions of himself and others, were. Smoked rolled consistently out of the tip of this quarter smoked cigarette and he could only think about how badly he never wanted to quit. how he loved the feeling. how it matched his sadness. his friend once professed that it was that deep urge to self destruct. to mutilate yourself. something sinister and natural that burned inside us, borderlined with insanity and psychopathology. His mind was taking a turn for the worse again, so he snubbed the smoke and rose away from the pale winter morning's light. Another year's beginning wrought with the idea of an open door. Now that door seems revolving, endlessly squeaking the grease from its hinges, more of a spectacle than an opening.