I’ve been feeling strange… Can’t find a lane to stay

I brought my umbrella …. Because the sky was gray

But really I just hoped that I could wash the pain away

But when they look at me this way… I’m scared it’s here to stay

Ignorant to the feeling of being desired, what a lowly brute Desperation of a sinner baring souls inside a Holy booth Emptiness of forever feels like time only leaves holes in you Time travel to a younger me…just to tell him, if he only knew… Ashamed of the past I lived, I cringe at all my actions A fraction of what I used to be and I used to be a fraction Shattered fragments of a something that at one point was attractive
Love letters been redacted…I pray for wholesome reenactments Life can’t be this empty, what do I cling to while the floor descends ? The pits of hell just open up and wrought the wrath of hopelessness I hope this ends, let’s wrap this up, I got a thing to get to Fill your time with mammals less you watch the serpent tempt you Why do I search for placement with people I can’t keep pace with? Every dreamscape of utopia has a hell that runs adjacent My idle hands make final plans, don’t leave my fate complacent Every days a triumph… but every breathes to my amazement

I’ve been feeling strange… Can’t find a lane to stay

I brought my umbrella …. Because the sky was gray

But really I just hoped that I could wash the pain away

But when they look at me this way… I’m scared it’s here to stay

Oh serpent sell her dreams, tell her I’m the one she needs Make her long when I am gone, make her heart and conscious grieve A constant cloud of angst and wicked pangs of my disease Make my presence her only comfort, and my arms her lone reprieve

The horrible day still replays in my mind. Packed bags, full of every object I own sans the only thing in this world that I truly desired.

Pride made me leave. I should have begged; I know she would have seen reason but in retrospect the only thing I wanted in that moment was for her to beg me. I lost my best friend that day to an overwhelming need to feel wanted.

How stupid are we to give up love for the prospect of love? I long for her explosive tendencies that gave my life a twisted form of direction; a bear to dance around, but never poke. We were broken but walking on egg shells at least gave my days a purpose.

I don’t believe she ever truly cared for or respected me but the only thing that has changed from me leaving is now I have no hope of that ever happening. Here I stand the brave one that had the courage to leave but at what cost?

Is emptiness better? Is envy better? Is Jealousy? Is loneliness? I’d trade them all just to care about someone enough that they could hurt me.

An Executive level Border patrol agent comes back to work after lunch one day to find a letter on his desk demanding that a major border patrol check point be shut down indefinitely within seven days or there will be serious consequences.

At first he writes the letter off as a prank from his fellow officers but things in his life, both personal and professional start to get more and more strange. The week goes by filled with weird accidents and more mysterious letters as he starts to realize that perhaps he is dealing with a serious threat from the cartel or worse, something super natural?

Over the hill, prime that has passed I’m bitter still, that love didn’t last Alone on this mound, armed with a flask I sing to the stars, about girls from my past

The words, the words, the beautiful words The prose, the muse, the feelings they stir The plays, the songs… dreams that deferred The place where the loving and losing occur

When Shakespeare and Pushkin and Fyodor speak It reads like rebuttals to Platos critiques It gives my mind, often weary and bleak A moment in time to relax and retreat

And ponder the future that’s written by Dick …filling my soul, with Leo and Fitz Laughing with Toltz, I sit in suspense While Enjoying a fright, at Edgars expense

The words, the words, the beautiful words The metaphors, nouns, adjectives, verbs The Dramas, the poems, the wildly absurd The imagery dripping in every verse

Confucius that showed that a thinker can lead Gives a man hope every time that he reads Tolkien and Rowling sure cover a need But Ernest and Dickens are more of my speed

If you see me with hardbacks and wondrous gaze Whether bright with delight, or angry with rage …Know I’m gaining new life every turn of the page Eternally grateful that we have been graced

With…

The words, the words, the beautiful words The prose, the muse, the feelings they stir The plays, the songs… dreams that deferred The place where the loving and losing occur

Oh the passion of my youth the talent that gave me pride The papers I would jot upon then promptly I would hide poetry of a wondering mind of the future I would inquire The lust of a lonely teen the extremes of my desires Played out on the pages Like dramas on a stage Till inevitably they faded And withered with the days Oh how I long for wanting To fill journals with these words Without the doubts so haunting asking what’s the worth ? So pen please take me back Paper be the guide Perhaps I’ll find my courage And this time I won’t hide

The nothingness it comforts me, my ears could hear a pin drop My fears can wait another day, my gears stop grinding tear drops My worries calm, my woes disperse, the Rorschach reads like clear blots A blank page for the author who always writes my faith in have nots In that quiet nothings real…but it’s a battle that’s uphill Because everything holds some weight…and makes a real appealing case It’s the Duality of perception that I wrestle with every day While clinging to every moment that the silence gets its way

He’s weary, sometimes his actions cause him temporary angst But his non pursuit of passions, causes regret he’ll never shake Fear of failure shapes the the man he is, no kiln to make the stone Just clay he cuts and shapes, never bakes, and then re-molds On and on the process goes…a daydream that’s redundant He can’t solidify his lofty goals, procrastination runs abundant He knows Innocence we lose…While chasing ambitions to re grip it Till nostalgia is our only muse, and words…the only way to re live it So our poet writes the sorrow psalms, the “i will start tomorrow” songs The studious but doubtful qualms with his own soul holding out for long …Under the weight of his self fulfilling prophecy of rejection And a waste bin full of paper balls that questioned his perfection Here lays an empty man with heavy hands and no art left to make Saying in the end…we only regret the chances we didn’t take