Can't back on words.
Flare for the dramatic.
Static mind, stale smell
As Winter dies slowly.
This is the part where
I would beat me up proper,
Being a proper fuck up,
But refrain, abstain from
That for just one night.
Sun pours down as it
Tells me It will leave me soon.
Thanks.
Feels good.
So does the beer.
You know, I'd be a better drunk
If I could afford it.
Budgetary deficit will
Only allow a shot of brown,
Two or three beers,
And maybe that can do.
Found out some things today.
Two wheels feel awfully nice.
Pity it was only to work and back.
Found out how much it all hurts.
But if you sort of step back,
Check your limbs and breathing,
Stay away from the heavy rhythm,
Then it might just be okay a while.
There goes the sun.
Told me goodnight.
What an old man.
I won't be to bed a while,
And beat that son of a bitch
To waking, and workout, shower,
Spill coffee on the counter,
And be bound for labor
By the time he stretches his limbs.
Easy job. Probably good benefits.
Singular perception.
I know his game.
I play it to.
To burn.

I can't write my way out of myself.
Don't like who I am.
Don't like what I see in the mirror.
Don't like being bad to
A good heart when it's near me.

I'll take myself into the wood
And kill or conquer whoever this is
That's taken my body
And made a mess of my life.
A stupid boy. A scared shitless,
Little coward who delights
In the curse of tragedy.

I give up. No more words.
They are as knives that cut
The best intentions into pieces.

How many are the shades
of dismantle and recovery
in the human heart?

What lengths, what brevity do
these features seek to transpose
themselves and tear the very bit
of what we have left to fight with?

I imagined a triumphant upbringing
of my self before my old self,
standing tall and taking no shit,
but here I am chock full of trouble,
wading inside a lonely pool of confusion.

What lengths must the heart
achieve to withstand a new semblance?
Where is the safe harbor hidden?

Tastes that last and tortured thoughts
that forego any avenue of originality
transpire to cause me strife in this
hour of an evening now measured in sadness.

Sensory perception from across a small
universe reaches out to me and asks if
I'm alright. I might be broken beyond my
own belief, but I will last the eve;
carry myself into tomorrow somehow and stand.

Robot looks into the mirror:
Sees reflection, greenish blue
Hues, with a belly ripened
From some age and loss
Of the inner workings he used to abide.

Day by day,
That bot sits somewhere inside,
Trying to remember what made
Him tick, the honed refinement
Of a concentrated measure
Of the world for which he's made.

Factory life. Day starts early,
wades through monotony,
Ends in saturation and short circuit.
What once was a brilliant machine
Of golden glow is now a piece
Of metal, rust and mold,
Daring nothing, rattle bolt and
Sawdust resignation, optics,
Movement, throat.