Dear October

The calm and ominous clouds of October skies

Dark and gray, l’ombre filtre sur la terre

The bittersweet droplets of Autumnal rain

Cascading down pleasantly through the air

Silence weighing heavier over the season

le murmure de le vent, singing through the trees

Through my jacket sleeve, and caressing my hair

Gently pacifying my emotions in the breeze

Imagining all these things as my element

Forces of nature representative in me

Quiet gentle Autumn, Somber skies of gray October

Carrying and cradling me to deepest sleep.

Non-linear Thoughts

Gratitude is payment, Payment is a vice

Everyone has vices, Making us feel nice

Feelings always change, Rolling of the dice

Sometimes more than God, Sometimes less than lice

Fiery the passions, Numbness cold as ice

Causes have re-actions, Actions have a price

Prideful as a lion, Modest as the mice

Thoughts are sometimes broad, Sometimes they’re precise

Not always enough, Though they may suffice

They can hold you back, And they can entice

Minds are so complex, Not just a device

Home of our perceptions, Matter with a spice

 

 

Last Words

“Never contact me again.”

“Fine,” I said, and proceeded to verbally assault her, spitting my intoxicated childish insults in a rage, feeling hurt and betrayed she would react in such a way. My last words to her, and to this day I’m ashamed when I re-read that text and I’m painfully reminded of how stupid and petty I was in that state.

“I hope you sober up and realize what you’ve done.”

That one came the next day before I was awake. Upon waking and reading I denied my mistake. I couldn’t solely take the blame for this thing, when I considered the original text I hade made, quoting John Lennon innocently enough, something about “Love” that set her off so rapidly.

We don’t talk anymore,

And I can’t say that that isn’t how it should be, but I can’t help but regret what the last thing I said was. “Never contact me again,” she said, and I obeyed, not wanting to make myself a problem for her, but also not willing to admit the one I had made, knowing she’ll remember me by those last things I said.

It’s over forever now,

Unfortunately that’s just how it has to stay. I can’t replace or erase my regrets from that day, but I’ve so many regrets from the choices WE’D made, and too many fond memories that get in the way. If she wants to hate me I guess that that’s fine. I can’t help but feel I still love her some times.

She Only Appears In Parties

She only appears in parties,

Like an actress portraying a molly induced hallucination, she’s vivid, shimmering, and delightfully playful.

I can taste her aroma,

The tantalizing mix of cigarettes, vaginal secretions, and sweat. Potent, attractive, an ashy pit of decadence.

Yes, I like it a lot,

The bitter sweetness she contains of unfiltered filth and fun. Leather wrapped amorality, unashamed of her flesh.

Pleasantly annoying,

I admit the masochist in myself enjoys how she irks me, flirting and skirting around at her leisure.

I should have that,

I think, as though I could store her inside my dresser, Like I could call her out to play as I desired.

She’s like a rainstorm,

She’s ominous and pretty, only following the whim of nature. I like getting caught in her when she comes.

She only appears in parties,

The life on which she feeds and regurgitates back for everyone. A pretty apparition of social lust.

But nothing more.

Daydream Addiction

My brain stained with nicotine, restraining my dopamine, sustaining my hunger for more stimulation.

My pastimes are clarified, and leaving me pacified,  weak with desire to embrace simulation.

My daydream is perpetual, absurdly conceptual, and substantially  real from my perception.

An Ego in in fantasy, cradled in infancy, constantly feeding my selfish pretension.

Useless but exciting, dangerous and inviting, a handy device as life substitution.

While leaving me pitiful, actions are critical, time doesn’t stop to embrace my illusions.

Looking at Us – my first real poem

I look at Us – Us as in a unit of measurement, unused to anything less than surface level attachments.

We who share a meaningless experience every year and call it bonding, as though bonds were only material.

As though DNA, and being raised, are debts to be re-payed, and anything less is nonsensical to communicate.

I need depth – as in more space with which to relate. I can’t create attachment within surface level space.

Understand this – I know why this lack of space exists. I’ve analyzed and think I’ve diagnosed our neurosis.

We’ve existed for years un-acknowledging each other’s existence. We’re well practiced in pretending we have no inner substance.

Unless of course we’re mad – that’s when we feel comfortable right? And free enough to express our discontent with life.

Sensitive as we are, we could easily arrange a fight. Perhaps we need the chance to strike each other with our spite,

But I’m not even angry, I just think that if we’re joined, we should make some space between us or there isn’t any point.