Was it the men or was it my mother?
The ability to avoid or slowly smother,
a lover of some thing or another.
oh brother,
where art thou?
We drop trou, you skip town.
It's done now,
no rebound.
Fake frown,
I'm only sad because I can be.
Smiling got sappy when the melody turned dandy.
Like bitter sweet soy candy,
and grand master of the land he,
avoided to reprimand me.
I swallowed the caramelized concoction we consorted.
Reported the effectiveness and only got retorted.
I will board up this self doubt in the room next to the bathroom.
Similar vagrant patrons.
I can't conclude anything here.
I never finalize anything, including my writing.
Nothing ends with a punch anymore.
I'm just here to bore,
feel shitty but be adored.
Poured the last of my pay check to a plane wreck.
Crash landed spiral center in the back deck.
Some say the past is set in stone,
set to roam the equator zone with half a cigarette and shot of patron.
Partake in the vivacious contagious derangement.
Instigating the plainness with prominent page containment,
blatant pain bouquet arrangement,
studied inside the mind just to relearn what mundane meant.
Dis associative repayment,
let me spell it out in wet cement,
with this shard of gem dripping with melodramatic discontent.
You.
Aren't.
Here.
So fucking live with it.
There's an old saying that what goes up must always come down.
Like that time I tongue tied your smile into a frown.
Or that other time you said you would but never came around,
Maybe souls leave soaring but crash directly back into life,
and if that's the case then truly how permanent is strife?
You're fucking right!
Lookey here, he's pulling up the big one.
Gave the boy a gun now he's all delusional from the fun.
Pop, pop, pop,
goes your fucking skull cap.
I can't believe you shot me once I fully turned my back.
O
