in the group of dewdrops which crystallize loose boundedness
whose coercive force is unmatched among standoffish streets
we maintain the latent misgivings about our absence
Sorplaisitese was his name
he was moderatly poor
and happy. He had aweful luck
with woman. So he thought.
One day he meet one of his
former female freinds
and became wise
to plots against him.
He learned his family members
would corner his female freinds
and ask had he consamated there
relationship citing a faith that lead him
to beleive certain things.
This would
make spectical of him and cause
the woman to be whorish with him
and mean. Instead of being the
woman he needed due
to the meddling of strange and
unwanted questioning
it would cause strain in
there fragile condition.
Dumbfounded he absorded what
she said and made mention of
it to his father. Well his father
told him if ever this would happen again
he would try to help him
resolve the matter.
My friends are my rock
I feel lucky around them
They teach me a lot and i teach them a lot
They are the audience to my talents
They are receptive to my weirdness
Around them is a place of freedom, my freedom
Although i can feel left out i never feel rejected
One's small or big success is felt by the others as well
We are each other's worst critics but fiercest defenders
I can feel our different and polarized consciousness subtly blending every day...
It's beautiful, the whole dam business, the circle,
the new and distant friends, the words formed,
which blow away; like Zeek and Ike and Calloway;
and the dark sky, rests; and I find a jilted tree, not
far from the buzz, and the busy blue-breezed, hussy;
the chicken on the step, persisting its gibberish neck;
but, heavy in eye, I melt into the lavatory; with its
pirouetting flies, and dark satanic skies, of cracked
vermillion tiles; nonetheless; this is my life; thank
you for the friends, the words, and my wonderful wife;
the sweet afternoon-wind kisses, my old locks, and spent
near-misses; and the quality, rhyming-time ; and I can’t
disguise my reprise, my dread-locked naked smile, and
goatee-spilling beard, latching on to the fertile, busy-breeze,
and its warm fertile ease; but despite all this; I’ll wait; I’ll wait
for the borrowed lies, the perky anchor’s, version of the news;
her treated, trusty lemon skies. I'll wait.
Seems like people
always love that one person
In a group of few,
When it was always meant to be you.
Even though you sit there quietly
and by yourself.
Can't wonder why,
That man where everyone is with,
Why can't it be you.
You ponder once more
and know that man in the group,
Your own blood and all,
Wonder why isn't that you.
While you wonder this,
People pass you by,
You screwed up the chance
To be that person too.
Even though you try and try again.
It happens the same,
Wonder if I can be that man this time,
Or maybe it will happen again.