stuck on a high i cant get out of,
and everyone has left
like the smoke out my window
and i've got bleary days
where i might try
but all the hope
is wearing thin

i'm fastened like a picket fence
seperating houses
in a smoggy suburb
it is a good day to be grey
it is finally silent
and the clouds have stopped moving
there are broken peanut shells
all over the floor
and i dont know what to do about them.
i suppose they should sit there.
but then i cannot step lest my feet parch
and they still sing, sing,
those birds, with nothing better to do
like me.
i'm just a picket fence,
falling over
and rotten
with moisture
the clouds will not
leave me alone
i suppose
i'll have to make due.
somehow.
there are empty tissue boxes
and old books of poetry,
with poetry i hate
and a memory i hate
to remember, all day

i wake up before dawn
and would rather be
soaking wet,
on a vast field of dewy grass,
than in this tiny, old bed.
at least i'd get to see the sky,
at least, maybe, i'd have a chance.
but there is none, so i spend my time cursing
and wishing, my love burning
and evaporating through a chimney.
how i wish
i could be again.

the secret poet

there is a man of many words
of which he never speaks
you may find him,
under a great l.a. sun
waiting for buses,
or walking into nowhere
he may be pale and solemn looking
with jeans and a faded shirt,
unraveling at the fabric
dirty black lo-tops
stuffed into classrooms,
working towards repulsiveness
and he may be repulsed
his fellow man, trudging
and half-conscious
brain so full and bothersome
and may you sight it now
the secret poet, with his drinks and smokes,
he may seem like your normal man
so many do not inquire,
many do not know,
inevitably.
and he may retreat back to his room
small and white, blank walls
to let the words spill out
this small little corner,
belonging to him.
and that is all,
really.

wake up in the city today
id like to see a brighter day
time to take another breath again
and id like to give it away

id like to get to know you
but you walk right past again
and id like to see where youre going
but ive got to go my own way

and you could hurt me
but it wouldnt matter at all
im just a parasite in smog paradise
who is definitely bound to fall

ive got nothing left but these broken pieces
of which i must put together
but i leave them on the floor
for this involuntary life is hardly a life
and for my pieces i say never

so i wake up with pain,
and death is on my soul
and id like to see the rain
so we are pure again

with the winter on its way
we can feel its coldness
everything bright,
drowning in its falsehood

and id like to see you cry
so i can tell you it will be alright
but maybe i'd be lying
for you and me are doomed to see
the fate of our importance

so take this pain and create with it,
all the people that never could
all the streets that are alive
with these empty lives
and id like to make my mark

be human for today
and feel the love
escaping through these gutters
for you and i are sadly seen
as machines to serve a purpose

sip and cringe
until the day gets brighter
brushing off these dusty memories
of a love that could have once been
but wasted once again, yes,
left out with the dumpsters
and taken away.
and what we've got left
are these gutters,
so i drink what flows
through them, and i must
be appeased.
but love is wasted
and floats,
like a spirit after death
finding its place, and maybe
it never does,
but it floats and floats
for time carries,
and time must destroy
the immortality of love,
like all great things,
ceasing to exist.
and i must let you know,
the disappointment of our
expectations are inevitable
so drown them along with your love
what we need now is hardness-
a suffering untouched,
unwillingly subjected,
so maybe you can then see,
yes, what your life is about,
what you figure youve been
placed for,
and let me rid you of your convenience,
a writer, some poet,
probably always,
sipping and cringing,
until the day
must get brighter.