29

Everything I said I was,

turned into slow decay.

Myself on the table,

no more lies inside,

I thought it all would be okay.

No longer in power, pushed whichever way wished.

There is nothing in this life now, that I have missed.

I slowly started moving closer,

smiling more and more.

Until one day you stopped and questioned,

While my bags still lay next to the door.

My friends turned into open season,

Me for you and them for your miss reason.

My ears, they bleed, while I sit quietly.

Begging for the rainy season.

And so I don't fight back, I have nothing left to say.

Because everything I did, didn't matter anyway.

I have nothing left to lose, little left to gain.

"There's nothing left, but the rest of each day."

I've thought about writing, but to me that's speaking my mind.

I've promised not to do that, cause that's where trouble I find.

But this is not a cry, a plea for a need.

This is a just an annotation, for me, just once, to feed.

The hunger for sanity, I've come so close to lose.

Misplace, ignore, and maybe even abuse.

So fix your enemies, I'll keep my own.

I'm not mad, sad, or feeling alone.

Just quiet, complacent, and more or less,

Becoming well known.

Never Mind

Nothing's moving

nothings changing.

nothings losing.

nothings gaining.

stuck on the outside

waiting for the in.

freezing in the down slide.

refusing to begin.

missing nothing,

but energy for angst.

never mind,

Push

I remember thinking things with no end

I remember writing things not to send

things of temperature

good intentions, and frost.

things that even I would look at

and say "that's fucking boss"

but lately there's a block

a road with no cement

pushing backwards, pushing down.

shining like a car dent.

yesterday I threw away,

like a bag of empty cans.

seeping into liver

this proud day after is mans

worst intentions get thrown to the side

as forgotten inventions circulate with pride

the telephone, the news paper, the light bulb and the lock.

hang it up, throw it away, burn it out with a drop.

Of atmosphere from fire

and a breath filled with fear

as feeling creeps away

as you open your final beer.

Drink half, set it down.

you've had to much,

your ears hear every sound.

piercing like reminders

of times that finders

meant keepers.

Teaching History

Like an Ice cube.

Hard and cold.

Frozen, chosen.

Molded, not sold.

Used, abused.

Dropped on the floor.

Kicked to the side,

to melt by the door.

Solid to liquid.

rivers from streets.

There is no utility.

In melted concrete.

Taking lessons learned,

Secretly owning them.

Faking what's concerned.

Now I teach the museum.