Busy, with an idea for a code, I write
signals hurrying from left to right,
or right to left, by obscure routes,
for my own reasons; taking a word like writes
down tiers of tries until its secret rites
make sense; or until, suddenly, RATS
can amazingly and funnily become STAR
and right to left that small star
is mine, for my own liking, to stare
its five lucky pins inside out, to store
forever kindly, as if it were a star
I touched and a miracle I really wrote.

Sitting alone voices float past me
I fathom what it would be like to be free
To get out of this cage
To turn a new page
Something new
...
Yet in my mind something is askew
There is nothing new
The same old thoughts come rushing to me
Breaking and beating all I can be

I try to be poetic
This is hardly a gift
It's linguistic aesthetics
For emotional rifts

Humble are the poets
Who write with such skill
For they foster heroics
And cry with ther quills

the feeling of loss
not directed towards anything in at all
just the knowledge that the past is over with
that nothing can ever be taken back
nothing can be redone
everything you do is permanent

yet at the same time
we are told that
nothing will last forever
so live in the moment
but to me, the moment only happens once
so I have to make it perfect
and that simply never happens

Lethargy follows the facade
But I can no longer pretend.
This is how it has always been.
How it always will be.

She says that she loves me.
She says she has never loved so hard.
She says that she will always remember me.
She says that she hates her Dad.
She says that she loves small children.
She says that she loves my hair.
She says that she loves it when we make love.
She says it is her favorite thing.
She says that she likes how funny my ribs look.
She says that she doesn't like that I smoke.
She says she doesn't like my brother.
She says she hates her parents.
She says she hates when I flirt with other girls.
She says that she hates my friends.
She says that she doesn't want me to go out tonight.
She says that she thinks I'm an addict.
She says she loves me only after I say it first.
She says she hates my haircut.
She says that she loves all the drugs she has tried because of me.
She says she hates me.
She says that she isn't sorry.
She says that I'm weak.
She says that I can't leave.
She says she hates it when we fight.
She says she hates me.
I say that I'm sorry.

his head grows hot
no heat can hit it
but as he lets thoughts brew and bubble
asking himself the "ifs" and the "buts"
until he is about ready to pop
there is little to do to stop
what is about to happen
he runs from his cave with acid spewing from his mouth
he lets it hit his skin and he screams
he is contorted and wallowing
he is no more than a puddle