do not disturb the angst-ridden bard who shouts profanities out of windows, cars

On a different plane of existence

Where pain is more ubiquitous 

Than transient worldly pleasure;

And even in these times tripping through lovely leisure,

I try, in vain, to please her: I think to leave her

By leading her to lead bellies, sad livers, and city lights.

While we kiss & touch & live through vivacious, dead

Prophets we’ve not yet met, and seething

With regret, dead-set on traversing, tiredly

Toward a heaven in a cage with cold days spent

Teetering between rhyme and centuries out of mind

While you dance your fingers down my spine

With each sultry line dropping, strangled

Below the pure porousness of this pallidly, poignant page

As I stand above burning sage,

I simmer to an old throne, a seat to sit

Where fingers restlessly drum, unceasing this life, a lifelong

Queasiness of bitter feelings from some place with in me;

Taking rash rides above torrential wind

& tides along with love laughter, mysterious misanthropy and

Prolonged hate for this train, derailed – the twisted fate of a turn

Taken too late. And still melodies of moments softly sway and

Play between the grasses hissing, mind’s misled, by masses kick started

By the crassness of pent-up passion. The kiss of death

Is just the normal reaction: while eyes close, lights fade,

This sadness slouches across the spirits of the living, unforgivingly

Until your mind is made, the corpses are innocently laid

Out in rows riveting with robbers of graves

Of sundry souls, unsure, uncertain from what to be saved.

The road to nirvana, hence is paved with the skulls of

Fools caught in this disaster of an age

As I sit in chairs broken, empty – left unengaged while

Staring at a sun, specters split, critics & spectators

Calmly spit on a risky bet, a wage warranted in diminutive

Amount on whether or not I’ll go on again, a -dying

Lackluster & trying to swallow the sun to combust the despondent dust

Off this, these, & every single fucking page

Once more to the sad rivers to finally drown.

I’m chattering cold caught on the cautious chuckles wild with weariness of a wound

Where all that is left on a blank page is this fit of viciousness:

Savage wounds from fleeting fountains full of

This fucking deadly Youthful Rage.

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