Sorry, then.
Maybe
it is true what they say about
people using each other up.
But I'm so used to it,
the thought... it doesn't matter.

I found a way to use you up in death.
Nothing good to say, though.
Nobody will know
the secrets.
That's why I can't stand the look
you trained me how to spot.
I know just when they're lying.

And it's most of the time.

Which is fine.
It's not as if I don't have my own secrets.
I try to spread them thin
through free-verse half-truths
but somehow to feeling always comes
running back to me.
That they're eating off the crumbs
from my infected dish.

Scrub it clean. Once more.
Rinse, revolve, revolver.
Bang.
What a waste of a record collection.
What a waste of a wasteful life.

I beg for the flood of inspiration
when I can barely stay afloat.
I beg for conversation
but I only get replies.
Telling me I'm deep.

I know I'm deep.
I'm drowning.
Abyss can't cover all the black I've seen.
The fish don't even light their way
in the places I have been.
They set up shop.
Labs. RV's. Spots. A thousand names.
I've been condemned by a god
I created,
and all because I thought that he might kill me.

Attention seeking behavior.
That's fair.

Mixed messages, you phoenix ****.
I'll put it all down on paper
and then eat it.
And my death will come from
ink poisoning.
I'll even plunge a couple Bic pens
right into the ventricles.
Live by the pen, die by it.

And now I'm living poetry,
for the few moments I knew I was already dead.

Each one you write gets better and better. I love it, but you knew that.

this is fuucking great!

Awesome

Don't ever stop rambling...Awesome...

Yeah Man!!!

Ditto.....

If this is rambbbblinggggggggggggggggg then bring on more Ramble