The Madness
If you are mad at the truth, you are just mad and need more help than a lie can provide.
Whole
I can’t.
That can't be how it starts. But wait, let me finish, how does that even make sense.
What I meant to say was This whole I feel, I'm not sure where or how it began.
How can my strongest muscle feel empty? I'm alive, so how can I feel lifeless. My words, and thoughts, and beliefs, drowned. Muzzled and choked. Silenced, and killed, by humorous rage. Filling with harm I swore not to pass on.
How else do I remove it.
I see a whole target. You see too? Or more-- depending on the hole you're trying to create. What are you filling yours with. Or will it remain empty?
That's foolish talk coming out now. It never remains the way we leave it. Filled with neglect some call love. They say one strangers help can hurt the other.
Who are they? Me. I just made that up. I think. I believe that. There is no one to tell me any different. And if there was, I don't have to listen. I know what keeps me whole. I’ll empty when I'm ready. When I see something worth filling.
Mind Made Up
I travel around my thoughts until I find myself.
I see something I believe is better and get lost.
I regain my composure when I start to think for myself again. I stay level because I’m aware of the doubt I carry to crack my foundation.
I fill the gaps through understanding that I am the one who will make me into all I want to become.
Not Too Close
Close
I thought we would always be… Closer than hands with lotion, guiding me to the right direction. Now I’m tilted drunk from the way you left me.
Close
You were the only one that could have me throwing it up. closing my eyes, wishing for the same feeling to hurry and end my suffering. Pleasure has to be reached so we know what we want to experience.
Close
like the fire under your nose. tickling tears watching your future rip. Off like a slippery pedal, bloodied cause what you squirt splatters. Flatlining, the last kiss for the brother on his deathbed.
Close enough to feel you granted his wish.
When a broken heart feels like a pulled muscle. An attack you can’t hide or run from. In and out of love. Enemies seeking peace. Cold or hot you’re served as meat.
GO OFF
Empty the clip jamming negativity.
The spark made me see. Flashes of different men I could be.
Full circle as a traffic light reflecting on images. Under sun or stars, shading determines the type of cover needed.
Same as when clouds cry, then part for a suns comfort. Rays show faces eclipsed with happiness and rage.
Why do women loved being fucked from men like we’ve been caged. Then when we unleash, they want us put away like we’re the nightmare interrupting their fairytale.
NOTE
—The shading I’m talking about are shadows that could be friends or enemies rolling up in their cars, walking or lurking.
—The clouds crying then parting for a suns comfort also refers to women crying then opening up for somebody’s son, which continues on to being fucked from men like they’ve been caged.
Masturbation
If a man says his head hurts. What do you think?
A) He needs to stop masturbating.
B) He needs to stop watching porn.
.
Only The Good
Kids might think they’ve grown passed asking for help, but they never want to feel like their being helped less.
Kicking Shit.
I walk with a limp cause I’m trying to avoid shit I been kicking since I learned my tongue could spit and my hands could make you eat it.
Some people say I’m ignorant, but I do it on purpose and they do it without thinking.
I Lean on myself, so my steps disrupt and sound like moans to anyone wanting a different outcome.
FREAKIN CAT
A black cat crossed my path, and I tried to run it over. Luck is mine to control. I’m Black and I’m the coolest cat I know. If your offended and say you’re a cat lover, me too PUSSY. If you say you’re an animal lover that means you must love me too.
Wish-Master
What do I want
A bunch of bad women to grant my every wish.
A bunch of thorough men to handle the dirty business.
Everyone to wake up loyal but not remember the hell they protected me from.
People to remember more good than bad.
People to have my mindset.
I want what tortures, so I can brag about surviving and become relatable.
I want to live knowing that thriving is what makes me irreplaceable.
Stop the Bloodclaatt whining
Do you know the best part of healing? It’s when know you recovered and not give a fuck about the old weak suffocating feelings.
We all go through shit. Clean up and get the fuck away from it.
Gassed
I got my fill. I have a long trip ahead of me and the road I’ve been on took me to a-lot of places I couldn't remain happy in. Where I stayed longer than I shoulda.
I guess I wanted to feel what it would be like in different skin. But when I pulled out the only color that changed was emotions.
I got High on attention. I left a-lot of people fuming. I made every right turn a dead end, convinced I was worth the wait
How long—long enough to desire more.
How much time— enough to make it right.
How many times—so many I can't believe my lies.
Where do I go now—away, but never far enough to stay.
Home calls me back. The bones I buried leaves bodies falling like tears from an affair I saw coming but allowed, and let the itchy, tingly feeling mark and form a trail.
Bored and seeking entertainment. That was the advertisement. Where we entered was tainted and tainted us.
The more damaged you are the more you seek. It’s just too much fun to brag about being broken and in recovery. Head & ears buzzing, like the phone vibrating with pleasure meant for one, but ain't nobody single in the house you live in.
You know how we got here, we lost the fear, of losing each other. Comfort makes beauty positively ugly- mind and body. That's why we change after our sure thing ends. But we still dig that pocket that kept us stuck and in the dark.
We are supposed to pull each other up and gas each other to go further.
Dark-Immortal
Skin. Grave. Eyes.
Glimpse beyond light. Seek the lie, the deception. It’s erotic. Allows me to give raw love, to beautiful women. If they were with a beautiful man, I make love hatefully.
They love me angrily. it’s controlling. When I am tired of their body, exhausted from destruction. They will mind me and seek my lie.
I poke around in their dark. An immortal life.
The BIG Muscle.
I hugged myself. I felt my muscle. I felt my girth. When I let go, I showed and made them feel my worth.
Vet-ERR-ran
I saw a tree that looked like blankets were thrown over the branches.
It made me think of the starving, desperate ignored heroic veterans-sleeping on pavement, built from contracted sins, that allow us to profit from judging and pretending to repent.
I thought of the grinch. And how easily those trees would fit in. Then I came back to reality. No matter how positive I try to be I have to be real about what I see. Another epidemic the world refuses to acknowledge.
Fiends, lost minds, frail skeletons inhaling air like a last meal. Skin sagging-over the weight of life. Trying to remain strong to protect families. Losing what makes them whole without knowing. Forced to kill their inner child-playing with toys that release laughter, tantrums, cries, temper, and wisdom. A simple easy life, complicated by adult insight.
Why are we always at war to control what is not ours?
One rule seems to be followed when creating America’s Veteran—one holds all the power and drains the others sense.
The drug of honor and loyalty creates addicts, relying on the enemy of self to make it easy to feel less—a normal life under this flag we struggle and fight to wave. People get mad when they hear that, as if veterans should be thankful for being discarded by the people, they risked their lives for.
But I know, it’s not yours. I’m just a story you all, everyone, everybody knows. A warning shot, telling you don’t get too close.
You remember? When the wind blew a whisper, and the scent tickled your nose? That day you stopped and admired that person, normally disgusting but that day, they had the same burden bearing shoulders of your dead brother, teenage son or father.
Remember when you fell to your knees when the crazy lady carrying the worlds baggage reminded you of your mother? You pretended you were tying your shoes and hid the seriousness of your pain and injury. Just like a veteran who no longer uses mirrors to see-ignoring faces and words.
The disgust for others is more honest than what we show to ourselves.
Why are these issues not talked about?
Because it promotes you to a problem. The only rank thrown out. The one people turn their nose at and refuse to help or be around-like the convict’s people shun until they need one under their belt.
Now you see what those other people feel. The ones who sing the blues at night so their skin stays hidden. They know through highs, lows, good times and bad, struggle and success- we are all we have.
I didn’t look up the name of that tree. If you see it, you will understand. But you will probably ignore it like your conscience screaming to do the right thing under the moans of what ruins home and the love you always wanted.
What are you battling?
In the pursuit of love happiness and war, I am whole, and my power is absolute. My reason for fighting is always justified. If I rule and conquer it makes me attractive.
My love enjoys being dominated. Clawing scratching. Biting stabbing shooting all night, torn and worn and beat to hysteria. Deliriously floating past problems as a solution.
Bloodshed nourishes my soul. Flesh fills bellies. Nobody imagines they could be sick from pursuit.
Can I be happy with someone's loss? Yes! No! Both!
When a child wishes for someone they love to die so they can escape hurt or receive the attention that creates popularity--do they know what they are pursuing?
When they get it, even if its timely and deserved, does it bring ruin or repair? All battles hurt.
Is it possible to rebuild?
It depends on your love, happiness, and war.
Break A Dawn
Bright morning. Grey days. Dark nights.
Your vices versus the mentality you worship.
The Thrill Never Dies.
Is every day the past and future in reverse?
Today I’ll think of what did, could, and will. I pay with what I spill. Blood, sweat, tears, or children. On the pavement or bedroom floor.
I’m learning to be fluid; releasing things I don’t want before they’re stolen.
At some point, when I can’t make no more, being happy with loss makes me wanna take yours.
I receive on the humble, palms open and outstretched. But giving back makes me clench. My mind chases the wrong excess. Now I’m drowning in what I spilled. I can’t get over the thrill.
It's the only feeling I can legally chase. Don’t screw up today, being stuck on yesterday.