For Mary

The diligence of artists creating,

Focused

Each individual strand of hair

As important as the individual 

A great hairdresser with a bad personality is more unbearable than a hack job barber who tells good jokes.

Sitting in the throne

Being groomed

Pampered

Sharing troubles and triumphs

Bared in someone else's hands

Being sculpted lovingly

In a society, 

Where distances are kept

A stranger rubs their fingers 

Through your hair

Here is comfort.

You stare into the mirror

And you fall through

The world drifts away 

Two hands

Trimming away troubles.

I'd rather a salon chair than

A therapists couch

Any day.

Three O

Dirty 

Another day

Doing what I can.

Yesterday's passed by

Over and over

Useless and leading.

Heartaches passed

Anger passed

Days to months to years

Maybe I'm right

Every time I smile

Basking in the beauty

Under a golden sun

Taking it one breath at a time

Is this all it will ever be?

Nice people make life easier

Each soul I've been blessed

Very blessed to know

Each struggling saint

Reaching but never attaining.

Heaven is a place

Always in my heart for you

Deep where you are infallible

Yesterday's we've lost

Only to be certain

Under blue skies we'll crumble.

Spoiler

How breaking bad ends

With Walt trying to save Jesse

And a chemical explosion.

Two episodes left

You read it here first.

The Poet and The Artist

Dear Eli,
((  ///Ofcourse brought
upon by your words...
about the artist and the poet.../// ))

   Enjoy chasing the life and the dream...

but I'M not so sure if that's so correct...

Cause where I stand what am I chasing really?

Just something comfortable before death..

We have to lay that way forever it seems..

might as well rest in a home owned by yourself

for yourself...

Seems darn right to me... Haha..

Well done Sir....

It's a hell of a battle I'll tell you...

Let's continue to defy odds...

E. D.

You provided me with the perfect metaphor,
the dried, the wilted, the faded
the flowers you decorated your house with;
the shell of an echo of a beauty,
You watch their petals falling
yet you keep them still;

You threw me away instead.

Cat

I see you outside,
and frankly,
you and I have so
much in common...
(for my own personal
reasons I hated / disliked
cats...Like waking up
 with one in yourface
inside a shack, with no
AC in
the Dominican Republic,
and its hissing at you,
and your like 6 years old)

Your quite stroll,
your sheek look...
(which I admire from you
Actually...A pacefilled stroll..)

More importantly,

we both like carnitas' from
Chipotle...
we appreciate a good bath...
have seemingly long canines,
(ofcourse yours are just that
much more)

almost all' hand given gestures
like, receiving food, getting hair cuts,
getting picked up'
(like in a car, you get me)

//////////////////////////////////

Come on guys, stop shooting the local
cat with random shots of bbguns...
(save it for the rodents, I think)


mine was brutinized' by something similar...
(got her at the local aspca, it was like
picking up a pizza)

she's got her issues.. I think by now
I think she knows...


And we still have things in common...

Driving the pace

A beautiful day broken

By the heavy foot

Of the pushed too far,

A driver, a passenger 

On a highway

Where one is afraid to drive

And one is just bored.

Please visit www.bleedpoetry.com (thanks)

Broken Libra Scales

The scales tip

Sometimes,

To much weight

Thrown around,

Excitement and frustration

Abound.

Trying to balance

Till some one presses 

And won't let off,

And I snap

Trying to gain back control.

Overfilled with emotions

The chains of polity and clarity 

Crack under the pressure,

The kinder, gentler me drops

The wrath in me

Takes control.

In simpler times

I could just let it go

Under calmer skies

It would blow past,

But instead an eruption of fury

To make up for the worries I mask,

A spiteful tirade

To hide the uncertainty

In the plans I have made.

And as I calm

Find my center

Mend my own chains,

I hear nothing but silence

Bitter angry silence

From the instigator and victim

Laying inches away.

Please visit www.bleedpoetry.com (thanks)

Letter to my son or daughter

Tell her everything,
tell her your faults,
your flaws,
your hopes,
dreams and desires.

Be open,
honest,
you can't change what you've done, who you are
or what you hope to become.

It will give her two choices at that point. To accept you,
as you,
or to move on.

But if you aren't fair
and honest with her
now at this crux,
it will always weigh on you.

Give her the truth,
if it is meant to be,
it will be,
if not,
then at least you know you we're honest with yourself.

If you ever get to the point where you are holding her hand,
looking in her eyes,
saying for rich or for poor,
in sickness and in health,
you don't want skeletons dancing in your mind as you say
'I do'.

I know you love her and will forever,
even if things don't work out,
you will cherish the time which you spent together.

It will all be fine.

Stuttering

All these thoughts
Clips of a decent
Into madness
Teetering on the rim of sanity

To many nights
Left alone in the head
Tossing and turning
In an empty bed
Bleeding in drip drop fashion
Passion spurts
Ferocious and fleeting
Juxtaposing the patient beat
Of the heart

We
We are
Weary

Haves
Have not
Knots in the stomach
Writhing in pain
Plain sight
Hiding on the open forums

Page after page after page after page after page after page after page after page after page after page

Meet me where the punch line is the subject is the title is my poem where I hide what I feel in what I feel I can reveal to steal a glance into the mad sadness coursing through my veins to my brains to my finger lingering between keys, trying to explain the unexplainable in the art of me.

Caught
Fraught
Fraudulent
Forced
Cohearsed
The worst
Dredging out fledgling feelings
Somewhere in subtext
You'll find every answer
You choose to find,
Chameleon phrasing
In plane sight.

Wanderful Life

That sinking feeling you get

Bound to head down the road again.

Like my old dog dying

With the prospect of a puppy

 in my head.

The Stranger

When the stranger comes

To town

Nothing to do but walk around

Things better left unsaid

And offer a couch as a bed.

When the stranger speaks,

Answer in cliches;

Avoid the doeful stare

And the awful truth in your heart,

Where pity and compassion meet.

Where resentment and disgust

Meet silence.

Ohh Quick Endeavor,

Ohhh, How
I Bleed..,

The Daily Grind

Grinding teeth
Coffee
Waking to the highway
Traffic jam
Stuck daily
Draining minutes off
Life.

Detour
Through red light alleys
The shamed stumbling
Past decaying garbage
Decades of waste
Denumont in another tasteless evening
The money maid
Filth dripping down
Her stocking leg
Culmination of mistakes made
Stumbles out across a windshield

Flashing lights
In morning's glory
Blood smeared fender
Tells the story
Of screams from a runaway
Silenced by shattering glass
The sun and moon
Share the sky
Balance in the universe
Remains unfair.

Letter to a Lesbian in Hicksville

Picture yourself in a brick wall room
with a window.
The walls are ignorance.

You can push all you want,
but they will still be walls,
intolerant and not understanding,
the more you push them,
the more you will find yourself frustrated. The window is the Internet,
you can stare at it and see the world evolve around you,
you can call for help,
ask advice,
but for now you are still trapped in the room.

There are two ways to escape.

You can feel sorry for yourself sitting in the room,
eventually the floor will crumble,
and a long hard dig awaits you,
or
you can save your money and concentrate on your education,
when the time is right you will see the door,
you will be able to walk out of the room and into the world outside those brick walls.
I can't tell you there are not more brick walls out there,
but they are crumbling,
they'll be easier to spot and avoid.

Green

Greener pastures
Over seeing
All the truth
Of hardship.

Looking at the sun drenched surface
Ignoring the mud
Beneath the leaves of grass
Standing in sand sinking
Looking at a swamp dreaming
It is an oasis
But beneath the exterior
The muddy bog
With hidden crevices
Sinkholes and rodents.

There has to be rocks somewhere
To plant a house
And grow a home.
Drift through the desert, or cross the fence to the swamp,
Either way toil untold awaits
No way around it.

Advice of friends
And family
Will be bridges,
Choice changes outcomes,
Choose with eyes wide open.

Broke Down

Broke down

The radio goes silent

Battery low

The lights begin to flicker

Then the brakes go

Dead speedometer 

The steering fails 

The engine dies.

Coast to a dead stop

Out of control.

Locked in.

Tow me

To a better place

Out of the cold.

Take me to the greasy spoon

To while away the day

Well I should be working.

Fill me full of coffee breakfast

Give my aching back a rest.

Perched, poached

Another roach under drop ceiling tiles

Loitering patiently

Waiting for someone to fix me

So I can get back on the road.

A day like any other

Only broken in routine,

Broken eggs and bacon

A cure to this disease.

Broken down

In Limbo

Somewhere out of time

Where the pixie flits gracefully

Among the male patrons

Pouring coffee and shilling BLTs

Singing with the radio

Knowing names and orders,

Exhausted and refreshed in every familiar face.

I'm a stranger here,

Yet it feels like a place I've always known

A dime a dozen and one in a million.

Minutes pass like dollars

That will pass through my hand,

Every time stability feels close

The scales tip again

I'm thrown off.

Yet the continuing faith

It will all be fine,

As naive as Voltaire 

Carving mountains into molehills.

complete

Pourquoi dois-je chercher ce que j'ai deja.

Ou ce que j'ai dissmissed, et demantele.

Si elle est brisee, et vous pouvez y remedier .. puis le fixer.

Si elle est brisee, et vous pouvez recommencer a zero avec l'ideal de ce que vous y tes arrive a cet endroit, en premier lieu ..

Qu'est-ce donc ..

Maintenez cette pensee comme un lession, pas une punition.

Le poids du monde est assez lourd pour l'ensemble de nos mains.

Le poids est simplement notre culpabilite, ou comment vous dire nos pensees inexprimees nous alourdir.

Je suis le reflet de l'homme que je suis vraiment.

Il se cache dans la haine, dans les cris silencieux ..

Aussi forte que Stanley.

Cache par les moeurs, et les portes de la terreur exposes.

Pourquoi suis-je encore ici?

Je ne suis pas seul quand je suis hors de moi.

Je ne peux pas construire sans aide.

Mais je ne peux pas construire avec rien non plus.

J'ai besoin de dire quelque chose, ou je vais me perdre.

Perdre le sommeil sur une réponse que je sais.

J'ai construit dans le commutateur qui les tiques et les rayures profondes dans mon ame.

Me disant de se deplacer,

Je suis trop poli sans dire.

J'ai besoin de sentir vide pour creer.

J'ai besoin de besoin de manger, de se sentir.

Je dois cesser de sentiment.

J'ai besoin de cesser de se sentir comme ca.

Je trouve entiere satisfaction subconscienciously a ruiner tout avant meme que je recommence.

Je suis sur une voie destructrice de l'enfer.

Et je ne veux pas regarder tourner la merde.

Je prefere etre seul.

Pour vous faire gagner du temps, sur la construction de votre vie jusqu'a que le mien tombe en morceaux.

J'ai ce profond, sombre, etrange, fasination pour mettre fin a tout cela.

Cesser de me taquiner avec la vie, et la danse de la mort, et la mort vient le gabarit tieburn.

J'ai accepte la mort de plus de succes.

J'ai accepte la mort sur ​​le bonheur.

Mon vrai bonheur se sent mort.

S'il vous plait laissez-moi revenir devant le trou ou vous m'avez trouve.

Retour a la inexistant.

Ou suis-je complete

Desole

Business Note

It is better to sell five sandwiches at a three dollar mark up then no sandwiches at a five dollar markup.
Keep it simple,
Don't confuse.
Don't abuse the price gun,
Always someone to undercut.
Don't fool yourself on value,
Keep your shit tight
Counters wiped,
Cash out of sight.
Value and values,
A little virtue may make the sale.
Stay stocked and fresh.
Take good advice.
Realize most rich got there by saving and slaving and hate to be ripped off. The poor will only buy expensive things if they think someone will notice.
Fads that lack form or function whither quick.
Any one who tells you they are giving you a good price, could give you a better one.
It is okay to reach out over the ledge and grab, if you stand on the wrong side of the ledge be prepared to take a fall.
People hate being stereotyped, I think you see what I did there.
Realize you are not an island, people can and will change if you are drastic in your own changes.
Smile. Wash your hands.

The Patron

The patron sits quietly
Not knowing what to give
Wishing he had the riches
To buy time to spend.
Wanting to offer more
But spent by the days end,
To push sysiphus' stone up the
Hill again tomorrow.
Wishing he could afford
To lift Atlas' burden off the back
Of his passionate friend
So he may flourish unfettered
By reality.

The artist judged the patron
As a patronizing twat.
Without the struggle
Where is the pleasure?
How could a man in a bubble
Appreciate the air?
It would stale and pale the spectrum
Of experience.

The patron meant well
Labouring on...
The artist painted his picture.

The patron had nothing to say
The artist painted his picture.

Because my new puppy is pretty awesome...

http://obichanshinobisan.blogspot.co.uk/

times like these...

Honestly, I don't know what to say.

What was lost

I never met you

and you weren’t  mine

but I’ll be grieving you

for the rest of time.

We felt you kicking

heard  your tiny heart beat ticking

cherished the image of your outline,

(is it a boy or a girl? A girl according to the plan!)

So excited for the next scan.

And what we lost we never knew

but we all, we all we all felt you.

And though we never got to meet you

or got to know who you would be

we all love you eternally

blessed baby

blessed be.