Mr. Gloomyhead.

Wake up, gloom.
Sit and stare in my room.
Burnt little scar,
Oh' how wonderfull you are.
cream? cover!?! morale???
Empty shell.
Pride comes with a sting.
Hopefully, see my Baby. Sing.
Up, upon the computer screen.
My Queen.
Oh' how you can see how truly deep I really am bleeding.
Well? Well! If I am stuck in this shell.
And there, I shall dwell.
We'll speak again, with light that is true.
Another day, when this boy is not so blue.

Love you,

It's a darker blue now but it's translucent, more like morning light,
It looked transparent to me slightly, and I was underneath.
The air here makes it wet to breath, flies die in your watery eyes, charcoal rimmed, blacked to the brim.
All of our conversations that didn't quite make sense;
'Thrust me out of my mind, realign my twisted spine, the sky is a diamond mine, shine shine.'
And I said I don't know why; I just did.
And pure bliss from a craving satisfied, year yearning quenched. Whole minutes passed by. Words floundered and cracked.
In this blue time of change you are unswung and wild in all this planned growth. In your light locked golden nights you scatter sleep through the blurred heat of daylight. How everyday melted into one,
You are everywhere, everywhere at once,
Aware only too well that whilst you occupy both places you surrender to being nowhere.
But you write in smudged circles and fail to contribute.
My drowned memories resurface gasping and swollen, and stuck in this muted bubble I burst a thousand minutes fat with our recorded lives.
My mind is an avalanch of words today that only buries meaning.

Come on

No idea how I got here.
Mornings blend
Of caffeine and brake lights,
Cigarettes and stop lights.

Long days broke
n by short nights.

Cold rain bone ache
Bearing the weight
One borne to fate,
Elated I have the ability
To relate this
Tuesday morning feeling.

"great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals—more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that.

-Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky"

I repeat myself
A sediment of sentiment
Past on through the ages
A chip off the old block
Not the diamond but the silt
A voice not of greatness
But one of the common
Calling from the cavernous rut
Where most stand muted in anticipation.

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