Poetry Collection 1

Temperamental/, effervescent/, stately Mozart You,, You're right. I am wrong, and about a great many things. But will you offer me your pride? your malignity shows no pride for any of my accomplishments. Had you an ounce of fervor for my being, I may not yet feel a stranger in my own house. It is only commonplace to besmirch any thought I may possess. I love you. I appreciate you. I care about you. Have you the same feelings for me?                                                                                              always,                                                                                              your loving son I find monsters above the ceiling fan, in the paint. I see demons crawling in the texture, I feel them as my hand glides across the walls. No balustrade can contain my emotional fury. Waking up from a dream is a strange thing. I have only notions of self-worth and simple mindsets of generosity produced to enthrall you. When you see these, they're wiped from the table, obliterated from view by your narrow light. I connect with you on few levels. You shun my face from any sort of optimal value. I am only your son, incapable of surpassing you, such a giant in the wake of men. I cannot even comprehend how holy thou art. Your comments are poignant, so stinging to my face, to my reflection in the mirror. I cannot live in this capricious atmosphere. So many patterns on the wall/ Which one to see? I see that you are tall/ How strange that I am free... I am clinically and dexterously insane.

Now, Awhile Awhile is where I will be, so entrenched in the work of my would-be forefathers. Awhile is how I will view our relationship, removed from the forefront of my mind. Awhile is when I will come back to come see the fruits of my labour. Don't you see what you've become? Don't you realize that I hate what you love? You have an explanation, don't you? That explanation has no meaning for me. I don't care about your cars, I don't care about your house, I don't care about your gods, I don't care about your job, I don't care about anything at all, but your love for me. Let me be your son. Let me inside your house. Let me at your table, so mighty and feastly in scale. I am that empty chair beside you. I am what's missing in the back of your mind. My appearance is lowly to your eyes, but how I want to be apart of the family. Look at all my works of art and marvel at them. Read all of my poems and manuscripts with awe and amaze at my ability to adapt to such strange and conflicting occurrences in life. Give me a chance.

We I see imminent squids. You see water in the hills of my eyes. I pluck the strings, you sing the harmonies. I snip with some scissors. And you light up my eyes with fantastic brilliance. My ears hear no fonder sounds than the utterings of your soft lips. We roll over mountains, fly through the skies, swish the water in our mouths, and sink to the bottom of the darkest seas. All of this is done with you. We creep through the most blinding deserts, the most harsh sand, sweeping through our faces. We brave the tallest trees, escort ourselves through the wildest jungles. We conquer the earth. Giving to all, blessing each other, we take the world.

Your tiny house, Your crazy kitten smile I reach in my pocket and pull out a trinket of some small intrinsic value. You know what it means, and your face brightens up in the light, but my hand stays firmly outright. The trees sway so wildly behind us, as does your hair: it envelops me, with strands singing to the wind. I blink slowly, hoping not to offend. You cannot blink, stood fast in awe and shock. Slowly, I bow before you, and our life flashes in my mind's eye: everything we have gained, lost, accomplished. This is why I must. I feel my body radiate with this tingling sensation. My arms clinch from this, my legs are ready to spring, my chest burns from this connection. I look up at you, and your smile, as it always does, comforts me to no end. There can be no finish for this, what we have.

the definition of I'll never be the same after this. Nothing will ever amount to anything.

The Indochina Peninsula seems to pour from the eastern bend of the Himilaya. I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many things I've done so many evil things I've done so many horrible things I've done so many deathly things I've done so many things. I always have this urge to apologize for holding the human race back. I strive to live for the better of man, but most of my time goes to ill. Save me from myself.

L'Estranger Sometimes I really do think I am alone. I feel like no one is real; nothing is substantial enough to supplicate my mind. It seems like only my brain would conjure up this mess of a place, so full of disorder and random failures. Loneliness follows from this premise, and I am constantly wanting a place for me, myself, to go to somehow find some solace. I feel many times more at peace when in the dead silence of crickets and asterisms than in the camaraderie of my fellows. I feel like there should be something that I should be doing to progress myself. After all, I am just as much responsible as you for promoting this human race of ours. However, I lack the very motivation that brings to light the most important qualities for greatness. I am nothing. I am thinking. I am nothing. I might be something. I might be nothing. I think. I think. Yes, I think. So, you might be wondering where this is going, right? It's going straight into my brain, piercing my cortex, churning within my frontal lobe. It's going to someplace I don't want, but can't avoid. The Stranger is me. I am him. We are one in the same. I feel estranged from most everything and everyone I come into contact with. This increases so much so that I feel as much like a cloud in the sky, so bereft of human contact, as a homo sapiens sapiens ("knowing, knowing man"). The point is, I'm not like you, most likely, unless you share with me these feelings of obstruction and abstract alienation. So, maybe next time I don't answer my phone because I'm walking through the woods on a moonless night, desperately searching for myself, you might understand.

Leave Fair Verona I'd rather have bugs in my eyes, crawling, writhing, spitting, clicking, biting, gnashing, stinging, ringing than you in my life. So leave. Die. Burn. Blow your brains out for all I care. You've nothing to hide, nothing to lose, nothing to gain. I can't do this anymore... I'm wasting away.

Cello Is there no supplication for this life? Some logos that is real, tangible for feeling? Somewhere under the stars, or more likely, within them, there is something that will not be so contrived, so conceived, so thought-upon. The question is: will I be demoted? or shall I attain transcendence?

Sisyphus you can’t sleep enough or you sleep too much   you can’t concentrate or find that previously easy tasks are now difficult you feel worthless and hopeless you can’t control your negative thoughts, no matter how much you try you have lost your appetite or you can’t stop eating you are constantly irritated or become enraged even at small things – and this is new for you

Waste Su vida es la basura.

Truth is relative. I'm a plain piece of shit- nothing to see here. Play with words, play with hearts, play with balls- I have a headache tonight- I feel especially lonesome tonight. Maybe it's due to the fact that I am unhealthy in mind and physique- Maybe it's because I am a selfish consumer. Maybe it's because material things cannot appease me- Maybe it's because I haven't been thinking of the whole of humanity. Maybe it's because the sky is blue. Maybe it's because I am here. Or- maybe- it's because I miss you.

Life is beating Beating, floating, pounding, booming, zooming, glooming, pissing, fucking, stinking, clucking, bucking me off of my horse. And yet, without sympathy, I tread this earthen highway. I don't staple my hands behind me, and I don't take repercussions lightly. Realization is everything. I am regrettably unable to come up with some new form of thinking as of yet in my life, and I am invariably unable to control this world. But I will make something out of this- I will. I am an empiricist at heart, and this life is what thrives me, what strives me for more- perhaps there I will find something.