Room For Improvement,.

You feel that presence? It must be holy. A single perspective in the form of allegory. Life or death, mandatory
Church was made obligatory. they preach on repeat, listen to these redundant scriptures. Spoon feed the Spirituals or he’ll become a criminal. What do spirituals have to do w/ me becoming CEO? They got passion for Christ and claim disturbed by the visuals. People get tortured every day, they rather be watching jersey shore. They do nothing when they hear of children forced to kill their families with fire arms and large rockets. But when they hear an ancient story of a man who died on a cross they empty out their pockets. Stop it, I’m not saying that religion isn’t ruled by the prophets but it’s fooled by the profit.

I can no longer write, for the ink in my pen is scarce and these waves of inspiration have receded like low tide, poor guy. I began to refer to myself in third person, which proved to be the commencement of my demise. A boy with six siblings but felt like an only child. What do you expect from a compulsive melodramatic insomniac secluded by four walls. He stopped observing his surroundings and turned the microscope on himself, only to get pissed off, He’s no psych he’s a rip off, even if you gave him enough time he still couldn’t solve a jig saw, it’s his fault. It’s his fault that he never once conversed with his old man and asked him how to handle situations. Blame him for the dodging of engagement and the declining of invitations. Let’s face it, its his fault he never took the time to interact with his family. What a pansy. He locks himself in his room and he cries to a Mary j blige tune. It’s his fault he lost faith now he’ll never be as soulful as Erykah Badu. He’s about as blessed as an ‘achoo’. A harsh dude, it’s his fault that one night he went on a rampage and made his mother cry. Blame him, for she couldn’t see depression in his eyes. She repeated over and over that he’s a blessing from the skies, but it’s his fault that her expectations were a form of suffering in disguise. Good god, he seemed to curse god as of he never knew god, while he anticipated death with every tick tock of his wrist watch. It’s his fault that he kept quiet, but when he spoke he was pushed to the side and scolded for his strange thoughts. He heard once that life is what you make it so he was entangled within his own plots. In a world of danger, he’s drowning in self pity. Finding himself silly, he grabs and fastens his belt quickly, kicks the chair out from under him and hopes that he dies gritty.

I’m lovin’ it, no I’m not . They smile like golden arches.
While my insides are tube tied like homosapien carcasses.
Tell tell lies that these are butterflies , it’s just the witch’s brewery
Foolery, they ask for juicy incites and I reveal rather foolishly
Personally publicity is tarnishing this private tree
With every glance and snicker he receives
Result of his fallen and scattered leaves
No pity, on this loose leaf he spills ink,
Injects them with his codeine and leaves them incomplete. 

Elementary actions for those elementary days. Juice box tantrums that elementary rage. Juvenile stares from those junior high years. Junior high scares from those suicide fears. These trials and tribulations that high school possesses. A grain in the hour glass it seems for each high school death.

Lately he’s become a failure fed too many lies
An arrogant braggart who believes he can hit the bulls eye in one try
His motive was, he was considered so shallow, his crime was he dug in too deep
In Over his head with his own thoughts
thoughts that his theories were worth telling and that his reasons made sense
Evidently two seconds was an interval to lengthy for him to not impose his two cents
Perhaps he was better off hooded, engulfed within the crowd
Maybe acceptance was this illusion,
That he’d created so he wouldn’t lose it
Look at him with that attire on he doesn’t skate he’s such a poser
Look at him acting like he’s scared to be left behind, a ‘home alone’ poster

Pisa tower high I get a slanted type of attitude.

One last time for the broken

Environmental trees for the token

Yearning for the past, carefree agendas

Circa 2012, generic teenage dilemmas

Recycle bins to store calendar dates

Prescription pills to play with fate

A newly sprouting life falls due to decadence

Ambiguous poems for the pessimist

More faith than a synagogue

Third person dialogue

Surrounded by the fog to distract him from reality

But its in the fog where he finds himself thinking of it plentifully

In the middle of concrete Jungles

Rollie Pollie Fred took part in a gory story’s end

See I did not mean to vertebrate this invertebrate, sidewalk splattered by his insides

I gave him a couple obstacles, he started crawling like a drunkard, buzzin like a bee hive

I just wanted to befriend him but it seemed he was in a hurry

All I wanted was 5 more minutes, like 7:30 early

He rummaged through the leaves, I admired his dedication

On his back struggling to get on his feet, I aided him, he showed no appreciation

Surely to him a rock must be a boulder

The wind sent a shiver, his tentacles felt colder

So much courage and neglect from something smaller than a thumb tack

He made a run for it, and splat went his back

Flirtatious and awkward glance,

Her foot began to dance,

As well did the thump,

Shoulders were made for trusting,

Increasingly steadily thumping,

Fingers began to twirl,

Stomachs were in a whirl,

Gushes began the veins no

The veins began to gush,

Focus on plasma screens,

But again was the thump.

My bosses are old. They’re an elderly couple. And while in old age they run a Snow
Cone stand every summer. They hear summer stories of beach experiences, family
blessings as well as misfortunes, of adolescent mishap, from these strangers. These
strangers that through out the years have become family. Family to a couple with no
children and consecutively diminishing family members. Through them I resonate the
spirit of summer. To others its a time of ecstatic chaos and elation. To them its three
more months of reassuring fulfillment of life, three more months with the people who
are their last connection with the world. 

Sometimes I find myself lost in thoughts of the hypothetical. Of how you would say something and using previous observations I conjure up your expressions, your laughter, your demeanor. With every predicted, involuntarily predetermined reaction, i see the blueprint of my attraction .

Sometimes I wonder if it was worth revealing. If it was worth disrupting an already established balance. Sometimes I wonder why fate has thrown a curve ball. Why repressed emotions have intrusively caught me by surprise, in the most turbulent of times.