I've taken to exacting measures,
Ruining my reputation step by step,
Stating line for what might be
Shallow without clever, esoteric depth.
Smell of urine, smell of jack,
Both the same in your knowledge,
Having lost you, rebound to memory,

Remind still of the pigshit inside.

For fear in and of itself,
Tells the tale of submissive spirits,
But fear created in the wake
Of somber situations—a worse fate, indeed.
Look baby, he's not your type,
And never was the type to take the lead,
As your patience, a blanket of his irresponsible
Behavior in others' lifestyles,
Covers a multitude of the bastard's mistakes.
Was it not gossip passed over
From radical parental control
(On both ends I might add),
To aforementioned shit of turmoil?
What do we know from the bitch's mouth?
Have these things been passed on in stead,
Or in instability, a life shaken by overkill,
Animal words, anachronistic attraction?
We are still nubile, ready for slaughter!
I won't bury the hatchet for fear:
I may take his soul to hell with me,
But you are so afraid of your shadow.
Moving along, a further turn of events,
From grief to other sorrows:
Shall the rekindled flame blossom
Where you are removed a year's time?
Alas, he could have written the Vagina
Monologues in three languages, had he made the time.
Work, work, work—a territory less
Discovered than embraced in boredom.
I've sacrificed God for mammon
Before, but not as he.
You will not understand my words.
Your masochism misunderstood,
Your life an open book,
Your presence an awkward soul,
I've had worse circumstances to found destinies.
Perhaps, I've misplaced you for desiring
Stronger companions; I'd almost rather
The unknown be my vexation!
But those of relationships quandaries—ludicrous!
And unyielding as you are,
From the influence of extremists,
In the presence of your unwieldy life's decisions,
You return like an addict.
Psychotic people, love and forget,
As I've forgotten—you're still impervious
(I didn't hear this)—my manners.
Perhaps, I'm still angry:
You are far from me, your friendship,
A distant past you'd seemingly like to forget.
You don't care about me,
So what's the point of writing?
My art is my life and my death (soon coming)!
No vengeance could enlighten my soul,
Lift my spirit from the guttural noise,
In a world of melody and dissonance.
So I'll fuck myself in darkness,
Until another folly (mindless as men are soulless)
Returns to replace your friendship.
We'll forget I ever happened, otherwise,
If the casket reveal my flesh torn and tattered,
From an "accident" or such.
Just to say these things to remind me
Of what I have become, not your heart,
But a shell of a God-fearer,
A shell of a mature individual--
These things, reminiscent, I wait in darkness,
Fucking myself for all the mistakes I've made,
Crying out to a holy God, asking why,
And how, and what the fuck are You doing.
I don't understand people dissociating
From me.  Am I that grotesque?
I am too open.  I have said too much.
You'd pick anyone with God
On a first-name basis, wouldn't you?
That's funny, and all of life is funny.

**I don't mean to be hurtful or offensive in this post; I'm just expressing  part of my pain in a way that's easy for me.  If you do happen to understand what I'm talking about, and think I'm inappropriately speaking of such people, places, and things, keep in mind that this is my venting site, whether you read it or not.  It's through transparency than situations can dealt with, not through obscurity where problems can fester in darkness.