Why do I try
why do I write
why do I keep
trying to thrive
it just feels so wrong
it never pans out
I’m sinking lower
deep into doubt
there feels like
there’s nothing
nothing about
why do I bother
why do I shout
nothing really matters
at least not in the end
the books still unwritten
paused in my head
like something will happen
any old day
but then I remember
why I’m waiting again


Make it up
write a story
sing the words
for no glory
don’t impose
the thoughts or rhymes
don’t sing songs
that change with times
talk of flowers
powers you don’t have
drink of sins
you don’t intend to choose
drink like a fountain
long after disuse
make it up
write it down
tell the story
sing it loud
don’t forget
you aren’t centered
you don’t need
to hold that shit together

All of it

It’s all the same
it’s rather lame
these little rhymes
the words and lines
they’re all the same
nothing knew
just old and plain
another played out kiss
in the rain
it’s all the same
everything I say
it never gets new
rearranged still true
it’s the same sad muse
who called me yesterday
it’s all flesh moonlight
and bills to pay
all the same
ever verse is played
rewind and made today
just like it was yesterday
it’s kind of lame
but easy to fake


Blank pages, white screen
I have words I sometimes think
write them down like poetry
write them down consistently
then they stop, stop so suddenly
a blank page sits right in front of me
minutes pass then hours go by
words that dance but never abide
settle or structure or even really stick
words come in floods flashes extreme
but then there is none, no humidity
the well has gone dry, no more bleed
just pages being filled with black space
and tantrums

Daily routine

A woman in white watches slowly through the windows
watching the street she knows just where you go
sees you everyday about half past three
she knows you’re having an affair and with who it might be
a woman in white no she never leaves her house
she’s watching the passers by through the window right now
sometimes from the living room and sometimes from her bed
she knows who you’ve been meeting with and the time of day
she knows what you’ve been doing on your lunch
when you started your diet and when you’d cheat on it
the world is so predictable when you have time to watch
she is watching all the time and is even writing a book
a woman in white watches slowly through the windows
watching the street she knows just where you go
and when you least expect it something you can’t believe
a book comes out rather haunting about your daily routine

Stone days

everything I do
a joke for what
no one consumes
a portrait
of desperate be
a broken doll
American poetry
and obvious
lack the list
to kick the trick
the dragon flying
the pen is dying
words that fail
meaningless prevail
for every win
for every loss
the meaning of
a pointless cost.

Burning white

I breathe
something useless as words
I breed
the creation of things
things that mean nothing
but everything
words that dream of being something
I bleed
and rainbows drip slowly out
I cut
tell you what creativity is about
hell is
a fire that never dies
words that refuse to thrive
a rhyme with good time
I bleed and dine
in white

Creating magic

Every line is magic
when you know the trick
click the rhythm over
make the brain drip, drip
give over to the main beat
it all sounds like the same thing
make the feet keep tapping
we flow so sick
we rapping
when you got that magic
you write the words like tragic
Shakespeare would be stabbing
starving from the grave.

Sweet dreams are made of

We once again find ourselves falling. Crashing, really. Graphic and Wicked collide with a roof and then with a couch though with roof under them it really doesn’t matter.
They’re surrounded by the old world, the old, old world. Picture frames still hang on the walls, trinkets lay out on tables, and a fireplace sits before them with a radio on it’s mantel. The girls don’t see this. They don’t see anything at all. Graphic sleeps, deep and hungry. Wicked’s waking up, but she can already tell-they’re no longer in Kansas. She finally understands what that means.
Eyes still closed she reaches for Graphic, “Dude… you alive?” smelling the air: it’s entirely foreign. It almost burns her nostrils and then she remembers.
“We-we went over-we went over!” eyes burst open, “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-wake up!” pulling rubble off her slumbering friend she feels the burn of untempered sun, she’s panicking.
Her skin’s growing greener the previous expulsion long gone, it’s effects rendered useless. Grabbing Graphic by the shoulders she shakes her violently.
“Wake up-wake up!“ she tries to keep quiet afraid of what could be around.
Graphic doesn’t stir only mumbles and drools. Wicked’s eyes bulge, her heart’s pounding while breathing in the heavy acid air. The freshness is killer. She looks around, it’s just a normal house. A normal centuries old house. A dead person’s house, a long, dead, person’s house. She prefers the sewers. As she looks at the dusty walls all the pictures blank destroyed over time-all the colors faded, hey mouth goes dry.
“Graphic get up-please-please wake up you bitch! You have to get us out of here!”
They should be dead-completely, and utterly dead. Wicked bought the warning: hook, line, and sinker. They’re in the dead zone and her only way home is dreaming of fried chicken.