The Man

The mans collected loves gather
around him in judgement.
Their sentences laced with talk of better boys,
more interesting times.
The depth of the man's thought is irrelevant in this congregation.

In a world that gives people like him no helping hand,
this room will surely be the death of him.
In a room full of nothing but broken pride.
Of moments passed and wasted.
Most of all, a room that is unforgiving.

Every member of this party fully aware that
they are superior to The Man in the only
way that matters most
...they said no.

We are told that there are many important
events throughout this little life of ours,
and yet the most important,
being able to achieve a persons affection
is paramount

Not just any person of course.

That one person that gives your
life meaning for that small space in time,
dwarves every other thing.

With time of course this rejection will fade,
as all things do with time.
However the feeling only fades
nearly in perfect synchronicity with
the next person entering your life.
They also hold that kill switch to their chest.

In waiting.

To Kill the man again

You

It’s you.
Always will be.
The one who kills
me every time you leave.
The one who holds my
very existence in the palm of your hand.

It can’t be anyone else.
Ever.
It pains me to know that
someone so young
can feel like this.
So lost, unloved.

It’s not your fault.
How could it be?
Any man with sense would
love you the way I do.

If they only knew
Who you were.

Talent

I always believed it was talent
That guided us.
What separated the great
From the good and the poor alike

This I now know is not the case.
Talent is a spark.
A spark on its own
Will not catch flame.

The flame comes from the gut.
The fuel that burns
Isn’t god given.
It has to be pursued at every opportunity.

So all one really needs
Is the guts to try.
If they have enough,
It can fuel whatever they want.

Vertigo

I feel trapped, covered in dust.
For too long now I have squandered what
Little talent has been given me on this earth.

I have a skill for appreciation,
Not for innovation.

None the less something compels me
To tell stories.
Pass the words I can muster onto
People who maybe will not listen.

For all life seems to be is a series of
Repetitive events relayed
To people who couldn’t care but will
Act otherwise.

Around we go as we die
Of vertigo

Hell Is Other People

What is it in this life that people
Find happiness in?

The smiles I see as I walk through a town
So swallowed up in self love, and self preservation
Do not lend themselves to the smiles
That people show the world.

They paint the portrait of demons with angel faces,
Waiting to cast me aside when my purpose is served.

They are innocent in nothing,
Honesty is not a word spoken.

When I see the nightlife of the city come creeping from
The gutters and nests they hide in during the day,
I see them for what they are,

Liars,
Sycophants,
Counterfeit lovers,
Convenience friends.

Words once spoken now resonate in my being,

Hell is other people.

Stranger than life

Time, ticking slowly by
Houses burn in a cascade of piety
moments passing obstuctedby the glare of distraction,
hope pulled through the shadowscaked with dust.

A stranger walks, head hung low.
treading carelessly through the ashes of a world
where he has lived without anyone knowing.
he catches the last speck of light as the sungoes out.

Now everyone can share his dark.