An old paint job sheds

An anxious energy shoots through my veins,

muscles, tendons, ligaments pulse; lightning,

firing through narrow tunnels filled with water,

propelling these tired, young bones into action.

 

Fists beat on concrete,

walls,

a scratch; no damage of note,

a chip,

of paint,

falls down,

smashing on the asphalt,

a thousand tiny pieces of,

neon orange,

from a picture of a Phoenix,

flames roaring, consuming;

you can't stop it.

 

Occasionally,

a new paint job,

is necessary,

and I live on,

shedding old, concrete-skin,

eroded by sunlight and wind,

even some of your rain,

do you remember the weathering affect,

of all your difficulty and indecision?

 

I don't;

I shed that memory,

with the old paint-job.

the lonely prize

A shadow is spreading in my heart,

viral by nature,

an infection feeding off my memories,

swelling my chest.

 

Blood leaks out with love,

while hope struggles to hold on,

a seemingly endless battle

 

I no longer own my heart,

and truth be told,

I haven't owned it in years.

 

It's been sold to the highest bidder,

time and time again;

the person too intoxicated to understand,

and willing to show me the most affection,

a double entendre of failure. 

 

The auction's up,

and the bets are being placed;

an over-anxious auctioneer,

a lonely prize.

 

The neon life;

tweets, posts, blogs, status updates,

friends, music, movies and video games,

sports, jogging, working out, dancing,

poetry,

nothing works for long,

and it shouldn't.

 

Life is meant to be tackled had on,

hit your bruised forehead again,

on the same dull, white brick wall,

from school of old and the office of new,

until you need a release.

 

What release?

none.

 

Create as you will,

nothing will avoid the end,

not even your art can buy time.

the lonely prize

A shadow is spreading in my heart,

viral by nature,

an infection feeding off my memories,

swelling my chest.

 

Blood leaks out with love,

while hope struggles to hold on,

a seemingly endless battle

 

I no longer own my heart,

and truth be told,

I haven't owned it in years.

 

It's been sold to the highest bidder,

time and time again;

the person too intoxicated to understand,

and willing to show me the most affection,

a double entendre of failure. 

 

The auction's up,

and the bets are being placed;

an over-anxious auctioneer,

a lonely prize.

 

The neon life;

tweets, posts, blogs, status updates,

friends, music, movies and video games,

sports, jogging, working out, dancing,

poetry,

nothing works for long,

and it shouldn't.

 

Life is meant to be tackled had on,

hit your bruised forehead again,

on the same dull, white brick wall,

from school of old and the office of new,

until you need a release.

 

What release?

none.

 

Create as you will,

nothing will avoid the end,

not even your art can buy time.

This Hyde-like Phoenix

 

You're falling apart,
it shows by the way your skin holds your bones,
weakly.
 
You're breaking down,
discretely,
and that's about the best thing,
that I could say about you now.
 
You can dance in the photos,
and try to look cute pouting,
the irony is the realism of it.
 
You're naked;
sad, lonely, cold.
 
There's no warmth coming,
into your fragile body,
not even from a young boy,
or an old lover.
 
I only like watching a breakdown,
when I'm the monster causing it;
we both see the masochism,
and enjoy it.
 
Human life breeds suffering,
and that fuels us both,
what's happiness?
mostly weakness.
 
It makes you overindulgent,
complacent and apathetic,
I don't need any of that shit.
 
I need to run on slow, seeping fumes of sorrow,
live for the harsh bitterness of unrequited love;
you fly at me, a captivating, raging chainsaw,
and I accept you with arms wide open,
you can't cut this skin any deeper.
 
Chunks of skin are shed off my scarred chest,
the chainsaw dulls itself against my bones,
the flesh grows back fast around the razors,
stopping your furious assault in it's tracks,
until my blood leaks down the metal,
combining with my salty sweat,
I rust out your best assets.
 
We exchange periods of unrequited love,
until we come apart at our bursting seams,
and your hatred spills onto me like acid,
slicing away what you found beautiful,
you kill the Jekyll and leave the Hyde;
I roar, scream, tear, rip,
a monster, thrashing.
 
and we hold each other like that,
you corroding, slowly,
me breaking down;
a lover's embrace based on friction,
and resistance,
no harmony.
 
Life moved much too fast for you,
never moved fast enough for me.
 
This Hyde-like phoenix was retooled,
to feed on all the shit in life,
the supply was endless.
 
Who fell apart,
again?
 
 

feed me something real

There is a confidence problem,

people have too much,

or else, too little;

there are few in the happy medium.

 

People blanket themselves with pictures,

and get the same comments;

"so pretty"

"purrtttyy"

"damnn!"

"qt!! xox"

"hot! lol"

 

Don't you ever get bored of that?

Isn't there something more to communication,

than surface-level interactions meant to stroke,

each other's egos and need for acceptance?

 

Confidence is not relative to the size of a person's self-portrait galleries;

hordes of photos does not translate into high confidence,

in fact, the opposite may be closer to the reality;

who knows?

 

The base-level interactions worry me;

we now have the tools to unite behind common goods,

and we waste it uniting behind fake comments on good looks.

 

Sure,

you might be beautiful,

but I want you to offer me more;

I know,

I'm demanding.

 

Where is your essence;

the artistic photography,

the metaphysical poetry,

the social commentary,

the inspired music,

or philosophical comments?

 

Feed me something real,

not just pictures of how almost-naked you can be.

Leave it alone

Leave it alone,

just let it die,

some attempts were meant to fail,

some mistakes were meant to look honest.

 

The perception isn't always far away,

from the reality,

but sometimes there's a world of difference.

 

I watched you change,

or maybe I watched my perception fall apart,

and you were revealed again.

 

This isn't about anger, sadness, or betrayal,

not about who feels what or when they feel it,

this is about truth and expression,

and as long as I breathe I'm going to record my life,

for everyone to learn from my mistakes and success.

 

What a breakdown from my poetic voice,

I wish I could justify it as freedom of choice,

but I can't,

it just happened, 

I kept writing while my poetic soul was napping,

and my rational being came out to play,

I fear he's gone away,

again,

just like a lot of the people in my life,

there's a build-up of personal strife,

dating back to the time I was young,

when memories would stay forever,

and now it's just the scars that last,

I don't think that's too far-flung,

or rather, far-fetched,

I know in your memory I'll remain etched,

because I threw you my life and dreams,

catch!

And you dropped them,

which was kind of ironic,

considering the way we used to throw around a baseball,

and we were so close,

until we left our ambitions, dreams and hopes fall,

so far away from one another.

 

We worked so hard to exclude each other,

We were both too egotistic,

Lex Luger style narcissistic,

Each other's worst habit,

that we refused to help kick,

out, and there was nothing more to talk,

about,

when our egos occupied the room,

white elephants,

and we'd have shouting matches,

on that old used-up mattress,

where I wasn't your first love,

and won't be your last,

and that's the past,

so it can't touch me now,

I lie to myself,

just like you did,

all those years,

and through all those tears,

when life broke down,

and all you need was to have me around,

but I left you there,

crying by yourself on the ground,

walked away as you fell apart,

like I had no heart,

but that wasn't true,

and that's the hardest part.

 

You had your hooks in my heart,

and you ripped it out as I walked away,

and that was my most difficult day,

or maybe most difficult year,

but who cares about that?

I look at you now and see ribs from the back,

so what's happening to you?

You're wasting away,

malnourished,

living off fake love,

and the young boys who think you're pretty,

and they're not wrong,

but they can't sing a tune to match your song,

but that's where reality kicks in,

you better notify his next of kin,

because you're going to destroy him,

like you tried to do to me,

but he won't handle it,

unless he's too unintelligent.

 

The part was never resisting your manipulation,

it was the fact that you'd try such extreme mutilation,

on the one that you loved,

and that's humanity,

and the soundest argument for the absence of the man above.

 

I wonder what runs through your head,

and if you're just the blackest of widows,

who still wants me dead.

 

Well guess what,

I survived you before,

and I'd do it again,

because in the end,

I'm back on my feet,

and I'm stronger than ever,

that's not just a line in a poem,

where I'm trying to pretend to be clever,

Leave it alone

Leave it alone,

just let it die,

some attempts were meant to fail,

some mistakes were meant to look honest.

 

The perception isn't always far away,

from the reality,

but sometimes there's a world of difference.

 

I watched you change,

or maybe I watched my perception fall apart,

and you were revealed again.

 

This isn't about anger, sadness, or betrayal,

not about who feels what or when they feel it,

this is about truth and expression,

and as long as I breathe I'm going to record my life,

for everyone to learn from my mistakes and success.

 

What a breakdown from my poetic voice,

I wish I could justify it as freedom of choice,

but I can't,

it just happened, 

I kept writing while my poetic soul was napping,

and my rational being came out to play,

I fear he's gone away,

again,

just like a lot of the people in my life,

there's a build-up of personal strife,

dating back to the time I was young,

when memories would stay forever,

and now it's just the scars that last,

I don't think that's too far-flung,

or rather, far-fetched,

I know in your memory I'll remain etched,

because I threw you my life and dreams,

catch!

And you dropped them,

which was kind of ironic,

considering the way we used to throw around a baseball,

and we were so close,

until we left our ambitions, dreams and hopes fall,

so far away from one another.

 

We worked so hard to exclude each other,

We were both too egotistic,

Lex Luger style narcissistic,

Each other's worst habit,

that we refused to help kick,

out, and there was nothing more to talk,

about,

when our egos occupied the room,

white elephants,

and we'd have shouting matches,

on that old used-up mattress,

where I wasn't your first love,

and won't be your last,

and that's the past,

so it can't touch me now,

I lie to myself,

just like you did,

all those years,

and through all those tears,

when life broke down,

and all you need was to have me around,

but I left you there,

crying by yourself on the ground,

walked away as you fell apart,

like I had no heart,

but that wasn't true,

and that's the hardest part.

 

You had your hooks in my heart,

and you ripped it out as I walked away,

and that was my most difficult day,

or maybe most difficult year,

but who cares about that?

I look at you now and see ribs from the back,

so what's happening to you?

You're wasting away,

malnourished,

living off fake love,

and the young boys who think you're pretty,

and they're not wrong,

but they can't sing a tune to match your song,

but that's where reality kicks in,

you better notify his next of kin,

because you're going to destroy him,

like you tried to do to me,

but he won't handle it,

unless he's too unintelligent.

 

The part was never resisting your manipulation,

it was the fact that you'd try such extreme mutilation,

on the one that you loved,

and that's humanity,

and the soundest argument for the absence of the man above.

 

I wonder what runs through your head,

and if you're just the blackest of widows,

who still wants me dead.

 

Well guess what,

I survived you before,

and I'd do it again,

because in the end,

I'm back on my feet,

and I'm stronger than ever,

that's not just a line in a poem,

where I'm trying to pretend to be clever,

new beginnings and new endings

 

It isn't my time yet,
the phoenix syndrome again,
burning out my frozen life,
filled with stagnant ideas,
confused thoughts and feelings,
from biting through wires,
trying to understand you.
 
I need a ressurection,
the second coming,
or maybe it's in the thousands,
but who's counting?
 
I wouldn't climb that mountain,
it's peaks are too high and icy,
I won't pay the reaper to go back,
that's far too pricey,
and in the end,
the cycle starts again.
 
I won't pull out a guitar and sing,
that's for the con-artists and kids,
trying to bed you under their favourite star,
or any of them, because he doesn't know the difference,
or how much you've already given away with your mouth,
and all the inappropriate things we said,
as far as he's concerned a lay is a lay,
and if he's got you naked it's been a good day.
 
I remember when life was that easy,
actually I don't, because I'm not like that,
it takes more than a random night to keep me smiling,
and even though sometimes I'm unhappy,
no one ever called me out for a lack of trying.
 
Democracies tend to favour civil liberties, 
but Mill knows what you'd give for me,
to be your overwhelming fascist,
like I used to be on our mattress,
and are those too strong of words?
 
No, because it's important to strike chords,
that'll make people listen,
break out of the soul-battering system,
love and passion aren't dead,
listen to the voices in your head,
Loneliness is a reaction to a need not being met,
and the only way to fill it is to get your life set,
and stop looking back,
that's all in the past,
and it can't help you now,
it'll only drag you down.
 
New beginnings,
new endings,
are we at the end or the beginning,
and what does it matter anyways?
 
I see new wings sprouting from my back,
or they're old wings I couldn't remember I had,
refurbished wings,
carrying me skyward,
and I know you'll come in the night like a thief,
a solo act of wisdom bearing three gifts of grief,
waiting to give away all your worst parts,
packaged with your body, passion, and smarts,
a one-way ticket to take away a piece of your heart,
and who would take you up on the offer of a second-hand start?