VoidPoetry

he spoke to me of        love and        reasons to live but i had not the heart to tell him i had stopped believing in imaginary beings        years ago

what little point there is to be swathed in hedonistic glory when at the end of each little conquest there's the subtle feeling still of "I love him." despite the irrelevancies the pointlessness the utter lack of hope it remains true to form whether spawning from bed, or bottle, or smoke drenched pleasure some true form to his flawed form or so it has to be believed to cope but rather the subject of awe is content usually perhaps that matters the usually, perhaps, not the content unconditional should not be allowed to exist

Did I take one this morning? Am I remembering today? Or was it yesterday? Every day. I awake less than dead - merely still alive. One little chemical aid at a time. They pile up, line the shelves. Two of these, three of those, and   just four more of the red ones. Then I'll stop. But I say it every day. When I awoke I only remembered the need for more. Five more. Six. Seven. Eight more then I'll be done. But did I take one this morning? I can't remember. I'll never remember. Just take nine more to be sure.

All I want is winter's end, The roads to dry, To fly down a hill, Feeling like I'll die.

        Leafless trees waving in an unforgiving Spring breeze, reminding that Winter had only just passed. But humans, we look at each season as the invitation to the next, not the fading memory of the last. We peer through our stained drapes at the sky, through our dusty glass-paned rims at the weather channel, and wonder why this season is not the next yet. I want to imagine I'm better than the generic coffee-addicted, no-time-for-kids, money-oriented, possession-loving human being. But I'm not. Coffee black, children hating, money searching constantly, home filled to the top with meaningless items&

he was  God for a time before all  manner of it disappeared into tiny  bottles full of all those tiny red  wait no now they're white like angels in the  snow choking down into my throat  begging for 24 hours more with no more  anxiety but, pointless, i know because i still  crave the little red missiles but not as often  maybe so it's okay  maybe.

     She was not my mother. There was something entirely motherly about her deep in the recesses of my mind where my early years flowed together into one single entity of memory knowing no time at all, but she was not my mother. Yet as time went on I turned to her when sick, turned to her when hurt, turned to her when curious, turned to her when sad. She had been dubbed the childish, teasing pseudonym of "Mommy" in times when her given name would not suffice my need for her at my side. I could never tell her "love" except in the form of little gestures, writings upon gifts and cards, in a silent way as I did what she needed of me before she w

 She clutched the books carefully in her lap, as if guarding some secret treasure no other was to touch. A half-finished drink on the table, a piece of cake barely touched. She sat there staring off to space, little tendrils of hair drifting down from the tidied mess above her head and across blank eyes. I wanted to reach out to her, hug her closely to my chest, protect those carefully clutched books for her. But I could not. Or perhaps, would not.