Sad right?

 

I want to writer something beautiful
for you
and your rusty locks.
But it cannot come to me
as you keep your distance, so it does.
But there you go,
with that other guy,
there goes.
But, no matter. I guess.
you are not the source root of my lack
A contributing factor, you all are,
the blue eyed fools, and mahogany laced
beauties.
But you in your red glory taunt me, with
blind simpatico I fool,
memories are certainly lies,
pleasant but far far too bright.

May my rugged poems fly out to you.
Lined with stupidity that ages from the
first days which I “feel irrefutably in love with you”.
There goes
Attuned my ears are,
to that tune tied to you.
Absolutly my dearest, I will go

 

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Beckoning

Have you ever thought
about walking away?
Ditching the homestead
darting for the hills. with nothing but a bottle in hand
running past the thrills, and settling for nothing oh so bland.
Grabbing that one fucking person,
who destroys the bleak,
that being with, settles your heart,
and being away, sends it wild begging for darts.
But for now I guess, we’ll settle
chasing cheap thrills
rushing and taunting on hills.

Bravo

 

There be the drunkard
mind flying out west.
Its head, tilted as it may, begs for rest,
his mouth is dry and reeking.
It shines a smile at all the women that pass,
and when they meet its gaze he peers towards their ass.
Night in             night out           this is the dance.

The sober are all filled with hate, but
its sanity is pleasant,
when intoxication allows it present,
and all its shields, of selfishness         bravado             angst             care               fear of pain              lack of affection
have been cleansed.

 

This drunkard is unbearable, untouchable, and unpredictably brilliant
but only for those who journey with him,
and those who abstain we fine their minds weak and dim,
they beg out for acceptance “without substance”,
and they see the freedom as mere excuses for           stupidity            greed.

 

Now I advocate for the drunkard,
from a sober stance,
I still admire the freedom of the drunk dance.
But heed my message, intoxication is a reason, not an excuse.
All the girls                    men                  slips of words                tears                 dares                suggestions
they simply highlight character
without restraint.

 

Adore

I adore
every stretch of your body
every ache in your voice
every swell your heart can fathom
every time you flick your hair
every time you delicately caress your own cheek due to boredom induced stupor
every gaze your dancing eyes can throw
every rhythm you produce with your fingertips
every vein coursing through your neck

every twist of your feet, that footnotes at your laugh
every drag I feel pursing through your lips a vibration that echoes down,
every muscle of your ass I feel on my knee
every tone you echo with your words, oh how sarcastic, oh what a pretty nose,
oh what a beautiful alcoholic.
I adore you,
you twisted pretty thing.

A girl

I would like a girl,
A girl to sing,
To dance,
To love.
To write these poems to,
A girl to shrivel my heart,
To ache in the smoke,
To run with me down, and down.
A lover without a grudge,
One who may leave me scarred,
a heart ached with brail screaming my tales.
But such is worth, for a girl,
to sing, to dance, to love.
For that is the agreement, and what we’ve been sold,
the agreement of the lovers, the pain that
requires love, as much as love requires pain.
THE ache, is minute, compared to the swell so whole of the heart,
a girl who would sing, a girl who would dance, a girl one could love,
will cause an aching swell.
For this is the fear, not the fear of loneliness, nor the fear of fate,
the fear resides in the knowing of the swell;
the knowing that pain is merely an inconvenience,
that externalises as a factor of meaning,
for nothing matters more than a girl, who I would love to see dance, sing, the girl I write these poems for, who has not been found

mao

Here I am, behind the man with a plan
And the ex in severe need of a shrink.
Possibilities shaking up my mind and creating fantasies so sublime.
About a woman which I cannot imagine honing a frown,
and images of her I cannot conjure in less than a gown.
Does she calm? Does she wrath?

All I know is I feel numb,
With my heart gone wild and logic increasingly dumb.

A dazzle of light,
A whiff in the dark,
Oh her perfume seems so vibrant in the night
A prewritten tale that seems destined for my lips,
How stale seems the air around the section of her hips,

Mistaken ignorance of the blinded soul

She’s talking to that guy isn’t she?
Just another one, another slot in the in roster.
Another man to take up her time and make you think that maybe you’ve lost her,
Perhaps that your timing was weak, and to remind you that your timing was weak
and remind you that moments fleet.

 

Wait for her, right?
Cause she’s your one. You know that,
you know that she makes everything around you bright,
every aspect of your soul that used to be black
immensely beautiful and abstract.

For isn’t this the girl that makes you feel whole?
Triggering an emptiness that’s always been present into a recognition that events may matter,
You would do anything for this girl, and you my friend are more suited than the latter.
Suited for the girl that brushes past your skin and somehow enters your soul.                                                         she overshadows all.

Steps Of September

The month in which
beauty subtly resides.

In drunken nights,
newfound intimacy,
and recovered love.
Such years prior provided countless means of experience,
Provided it to be, a month
to Love.

 

*

the muttering calls an end
to the ballads and the sideway tens
nights filled with hopes and squandered dreams
life’s ruined by missed opportunities, and misappropriated leans
This mutter turns towards different sights,
different goals,
towards labouring night’s
and wanderers tales, dangling lost souls.

For I no longer feel this, text empty with passion, except I do question how
every waking hour rings me out, to a dryness resembling scorched soil,
every sleepless night a torturous temptation into ditching the world order,
abundance of escapes thwarted by the bitter burn of ethanol and cigarette oil
the girl tells me touching tales about the men who cause trauma to her.

My nose feels heighted to the burn,
A burn I no longer smell in her presence.
The thought of such a girl, oh how I fucking yearn
to simply affect, or play a part in what fills her essence.

 

She overshadows all

with her cathartic screeching,

and crooked smile; knots my gut into a ball.
*

It fades, and it recedes
The heart of a romantic
And whom it deems.
I may constantly be in love,
But always without it,
Surrounded by an abundance of mules—
Oh so besotted.
If my eyes could leave trails,
It would be
for the distant dreams
of love
and glee that lie within fantasy.
Pucker up asshole, chug another down the hatch;
all those girls you’ve been with, boy aren’t they a catch.
Oh so subtly, I yearn
to pick up the hussies and dive deeper than moans,
to itch at an impulse that resides deeper than an influence from kin-
They toil,
with your heart
cripple it,
toss it to the dogs,
Leave you with your teeth digging into soil.
and with each passing day you mutter, when shall the next come to moan
and scratch at your heart, leaving only grooves of scars.

 

 

*

A cascading glimpse
Is all I wish for
In the nights renounced of winks.
Abstained of chills, and butterflies called on by
words.
Is my heart forsaken,
designed for this?

 

 

 

*

We all think we’re above it.
Experiencing what all experience.
Drinking what the rest consume.
We all think we’re better.
Simply step away, and you’ll realise.
You’re a fucking mess
Just a member
Just like the rest.

 

*

The absentee, and flash of red, sends the end of my month
painful wishes.
Wishes for more,
wishes for others.
Subtle constants, tipping over the edge,
simply by those who do not embrace the drunk.
Sing him along, pass him another, give him a smoke, slap his ass and call him the mule,
but never
allow his idiocy to become a mockery.

 

 

*

Red
daunting,
evoking of the heart.
A dance of words,
covering hopes of intentions that lie
further behind those bellowing eyes.
Perhaps its purposeful,
the pain.
Inconceivable pain, hollowing of the gut, and below of the heart.
Perhaps I just wish to fall delicately into those hands,
logic and chance deceives my heart, faith wavers.
Faith is fleeting topic of my sense,
a blinding distinguisher between those who are born romantic
and those who simply ordain.
And those surrounding my shroud of boozing smiles, and smoky grins,
function in the sense of commonness.
And only when they feel as I do daily, they weep,
but the only tears I shed are that of a bottle,
so poignantly wedged between my lips.

 

 

 

 

*

When your eyes shift the way they do,
I am captured.
By your gaze, empty of emotion,
the damnation of unrequited,
but your eyes speak wonders.
I don’t believe in your lies,
for women of your likes are never untouched,
and with you comes an air of innocence, purified by insecurity,
yet wrecked by the words you speak, and the looks you serve.
Will your swell meet mine?
at the time we spend, stuck with each others company at quarter to 2,
or perhaps when I am tipped by those who have left my heart like brail,
When liquor takes me to your home (and begs me to call for your lips).
For this state, we partake and endorse, leaves me questioning,
Questioning of your heart, of your smile and what lies.
It’s all bullshit honey,
the title of friendship when one can tune another’s soul.
I’ll be damned by unrequited gifts if I allow it.

 

 

*

I wallow
Drowned by indulgence
Overseen by dwarves;
Tortured by temptresses;
Displaced
by
Heart.
Ready your senses,
Parry your ear.
Hold your tongue my darlings
enter a sanctum where death
draws near. Stop the quiver of lip.

At half my lifetime, my heart shall
swell to a close,
A throbbing stop
Aching blow
of smoke and other means.
Ghouls souled with red hair, and beaming eyes
touch my mind
a blissful sorrow.
And the boys,
they frolic along
with their pills and other means of discharge.
And The men they smile down,
filling my deemed eyes with pity and luck.

Pen is standstill.
edging towards
the blank.
You cannot edit a blank page,
the fuckers moan out;
blank sure is a fair expression.
I.Fucking.Wallow,
unprepared by fate and for a heart
of dumb dreams, filled with incompetency.
A lens of blue calls out to you, allowing my,
somewhat of a petty expression to shine through.

The drink will come.
It shall call the bill due.
And smoke will follow,
Cause why the fuck not right?

Brail of romance

 

It fades, and it recedes
The heart of a romantic
And whom it deems.
I may constantly be in love,
But always without it,
Surrounded by an abundance of mules—
Oh so besotted.
If my eyes could leave trails,
It would be
for the distant dreams
of love
and glee that lie within fantasy.
Pucker up asshole, chug another down the hatch;
all those girls you’ve been with, boy aren’t they a catch.
Oh so subtly, I yearn
to pick up the hussies and dive deeper than moans,
to itch at an impulse that resides deeper than an influence from kin-
They toil,
with your heart
cripple it,
toss it to the dogs,
Leave you with your teeth digging into soil.
and with each passing day you mutter, when shall the next come to moan
and scratch at your heart, leaving only grooves of scars.

daunt me

Red
daunting,
evoking of the heart.

A dance of words,
covering hopes of intentions that lie
further behind those bellowing eyes.

Perhaps its purposeful,
the pain.
Inconceivable pain, hollowing of the gut, and below of the heart.
Perhaps I just wish to fall delicately into those hands,
logic and chance deceives my heart, faith wavers.
Faith is fleeting topic of my sense,
a blinding distinguisher between those who are born romantic
and those who simply ordain.
And those surrounding my shroud of boozing smiles, and smoky grins,
function in the sense of commonness.
And only when they feel this comical ache, they weep,
but the only tears I shed are that of a bottle,
so poignantly wedged between my lips.