this boy thought he was a man, but he was full of forced braggadocio...
claiming to be the intuitive author of his life, a bland, empty portfolio...
a certain kind of pride that blinds the pious fool to his uncertain claims...
dreaming that the lord was calling names, his destined to a pit of flames...
he screamed in defiance for a definition of sin, a whisper across the chasm...
in his phantasm of awake moments, in fear and trembling his mind did spasm...
so he walks on, pondering philosophies and realities that daily contradict...
because theology finds no place in the lifestyle stream of a heroin addict...
this man reverted back to childhood, while his son watched his father die...
the sole alternative to a maddening level of stress, stepping back to sigh...
a breath of relief? waking next to woman not his wife, someones daughter...
when did he fall so deep? shes fifteen, he old enough to be her grandfather...
child molester, perverted rapist, but he didnt mean to take it that far...
prayed to stars to make it all disappear, she marred by a lifelong scar...
but he went to jail, stone cold tombstone marked with solemn sour hate...
the cord around his neck soaked with his bewildered tears lacking faith...
this woman cries herself to sleep every night wondering what went wrong...
how winter grips her heart and liquor soothes her bluesy morning song...
attempts by her husband to comfort her were far too little so long ago...
shes pushed everyone out of her territory, her short life did plateau...
little did she know the repercussions of her act, a father and son shamed...
her depression, mans transgression, sons dependence, she is to be blamed...
but little did i know, she once crossed paths with the writer of this poem...
i neglected her haunted eyes, sidestepped her gaze on my merry way home...

-other side of a narrow road-

sometimes i tease myself with some of the ideas that flutter between my ears...
inconsistent fears of insoluble tears mingle in my mouth with inexpensive beers...
what was once sweet to me now bitters my taste, a waste of my contorted face...
the merging of our fates led me to believe that it was ok to live out of place...
i write to you or someone else, and i write to discover what i already found...
inspired by revelations of tribulations brought upon the ground where im bound...
bloodied oceans scarlet red, even my estranged father reveals himself deranged...
its been prearranged that my idiosyncratic ideas are me and me alone unchanged...
the only thing that makes us unique is our common lack of a single unique trait..
fighting so hard for individuality desecrates the system of our creator irate...

-dialectic dialogue-

guided by voices and noises, i think its hysteria...
but in this sick and twisted country, its the media...
and this is not an anti-america, anti-life writing...
i am not a political man social justice striving...
if apathy was a religion, call me a pastor figure...
but this nostalgia of america leave me so bitter...
so much sound blasting my head into throbbing echoes...
called like schizos and piercing threw my bellows...
guided by misfits that exist only within fantasy...
the musings of a writer not mine, creating reality...
bombarded with half truths and some outright lies...
numbing my senses to life by deceiving my eyes...

-typical vernacular-