Remaning

people strive to have
some kind of company
i need to remain

My isolation
reminds me of when i was
happy, better off

but who really wants,
that. loneliness is a killer
that i often lust for.

if the silence takes you then i hope it takes me too

then after all of this,
you will be happy and gone,
me: I'll be remaining here.

Tripping in and Out of Our World and Theirs

Rusting pipes drip filthy water onto the cold concrete floor.
The world isn't ending,
it hasn't even begun yet.
Each trip sends a tremor down my spine,
Where am I?
What hell is this?

The clouds above hold saintly presence above us.
Heaven is looking down,
and we are looking up.
I am walking around in a dream,
Yet wide awake?
So damn awake.

While the rust breaks the pipes and the clouds shelter the people
and heaven is watching and the world is ending
and we are straining our necks watching
and i am walking around,

i am tripping in and out of our world and theirs,
and theirs isn't much worse.

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Sweet Melodies Once Sounded So Stale

the wind carries dusty leaves as they blow
to unknown destinations
in the middle of the road,
or an empty parking lot.

the wind carries sweet melodies,
once sounded so sweet,
a poet's heart couldn't contain his joy,
but alas, seasons like in life change,

the wind carries dusty leaves,
as dead as the pulse of the melodies,
that now sound so stale.

The Newest Fantasy

sparks explode underneath my eyelids,
while shattering thoughts shatter like shrapnel:
a new fantasy is upon us;
the newest fantasy.

you ancient men and your romances can keep,
to the pleasure domes and texts to the ocean's deep,
a new overflow has begun,
the newest fantasy.

this sacred stream flows like my thoughts,
out out of the tower blasts like ink,
blotting the page alongside the written word,
the newest fantasy.

no longer can my instinctual desires,
hold back any longer as all cascades,
outside of any man's natural realm,
and it all rises, falls, climaxes and sinks,
into the newest fantasy.

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other shattering evidene of thought

there is a low moan on the wind,
as the window panes threaten invasive actions
while i sleep.

there is a low moan on the wind,
ponder on sentences
(written about ghosts searching for somewhere to finally rest)
while i sleep.

there is a low moan on the wind,
there is no disorder, nothing out of place; the ash is in the tray,
while i sleep, my fingers stain
as i smoke one last fag.

the ghosts wander the streets.
a search is no different from a dream:
(we just look for things we want or need).

while i sleep,
the ghosts roam, the window smashes in with their windy moans:
but there is other shattering evidence of thought.