to potent poetry and your insides

trying to bring poetry back.
i would rather prefer it not to lack.
perhaps cut potential artist some slack.
cheap rhyming is cute,
kept short and acute.
reword the words that are considered crap,
because craps at the base of many hindered minds.
put a cork on it. wrap it. cap it. slap it. maybe after, tap it.
these can all be said but no one can act it.

these feelings just linger
and forgetting is of random occurrence.
time will tell, but time is irrelevant as hell.
my time right now, right now and now
does not care for later,
later date; that wanders and waits.
my feelings don't remind me, because my feelings are always binding.
and when behind me, they still are behind me,
they follow and lead.
its not like a piss, that reminds you to piss.
it is an awareness of things of nothing, and so much to think.
like constant wish pending
or multiplying sadness without consenting.
my feelings have no accordance with my records set for ignorance.

the problems of feelings retire in coffins.
so long as i live, i will be secret somber.
and rejection of somber is a sober disgrace.
because the best and worst things eventually fall from or to sweet mellow grace.
i impose the prose.

my feelings arose jumbled together,
a tornado with wild wind driven by spirit.
it is a twist of emotions with the potential for destruction.
but it leaves my body, it leaves for a while, it visits my skin outside and shows it how to feel what it had been feeling for a while.
i can now see what i've been feeling for a while.

for me it lays on my palms and it drips with words from its causation of shame and betrayal.
words to describe feelings that made me turn my face.
and words that describe feelings from turning my face.

this is my soul, it migrates to words.
my body now blank

my spirit now mellow,
my face now unable to gesture a polite and contrived cheery hello.
my canvas of lies, a long labored process;
amounted to nothing, it fell down and sank; temporarily banked.

outside is my face.
my face sees and expresses
as my face struggles to face.
it lies.
it buys into faces from places of people who also lie.
owning so many faces, only seeming to abide.
but when its honest, it cries.
and when it cries my face is inside me.
it sees and it expresses
the truth thats inside me.
see the world, it acts to do.
face the world, it longs to subdue.

reflections in mirrors, scissors, spoons.
reflections in clean windows, dark glasses, large watches and shiny tin spoons.
reflections in places that surprise my attention
of places for reflection that only denies its objection.
an autonomous face; it seeks its own objection: correction; a subject for retention.
a reflection of me, is not a reflection of me.
a reflection of me is a controlled subject to please.

my true face shows when i've lost all control.
rolling down a hill:
a consequence from a stupendous stumble as a consequence from running in thin heels as a
consequence from stupid troubles with no heal.

it is not my honest face that yields me popular embrace.
my most prominent face is not my ominous face.
my ominous face is a sign of bad fate.
when i loose my face; it gets trapped in my mind.
my expressions divulge to those faces of hard pensive minds, my ominous mind.
minds that are exposed to the most treacherous times
times that yield existential denies.

a bizarre and mysterious place my face faces.
i don't blame it from running.
post facing, my pacing increases.
escaping the trace it naturally leaves me.
oh such dirty highs
to be sought for replacing my facing.

if a spirit is made, i am of good spirit.
a superlative for cheerfulness; a deception to my dreary state.
but my spirit is not fake.
my spirit is just highly swayed for my flesh and my skin and my demeanor of all relating things.
my face speaks such things, from my mouth it kisses men who hear such things, and do not listen to such things. for them, my spirit it swayed.
narcissistic or highly linguistic.
whatever it may be, narcissism is all that they care to see.
i would be less narcissistic, if i was more narcissistic; my confidence confides in its own confinement.

when i'm drunk, i let loose and it all leads to accidents.
linguistic narcissistic accidents.
the kind that happen in ones youth after acne
the kind that dent and bruise mostly from mackin.
both my skin and my mind are alive, so alive they're outside me; i am out of my mind.


i feel slightly urging to run.

just urging.

just slightly.
a subtle urge one feels reminded of the human deal.

in living your dying; its my constant spiel.

urge to not run just slightly, but an urge to run verociously so strongly.

away.

this urging feels purging
catharsis catharsis, i've stained my own carcass.
just a stain. away from me.
a purge from my breast,
so deeply embedded with love that attests to those who have deeply embedded my body and bed.
knowledge of truth
knowledge of dead youth
knowledge to disprove any knowledge of good use.

my body knows what my face attempts to encode.
dancing is physical remedy.

and sex sometimes too.
but one must be aware
of the conundrum unfair.
to him, she is outside him.
to her, he is inside her, as always, no matter, indifferent of love and true taste.

dancing is for equals.
it seeks and it gains euphoric momentous embrace.
momentous in time, visually sound for a mime.
perspire of sweet sweat filled with poisonous regret
composed of once hopeful now painful lost bets.

hot oil rain springs from my chest and drenches my inside with comfort and embrace; the pain's poignant edges are smoothed and sadness occurs.

shake it off, shake it off.
it feels better to take it off.

strip down to your soul

that now feels the beauty of remorse in your head,

as all things take its course in your head.

hot oil rain springs from my chest and drenches my inside with comfort and embrace; the pain is not yet gone and sadness occurs.

my tainted innocence has succumbed to hopelessness that renders me in a state of helplessness, subsequently making me bitter,

then hopeless,

then helpless again.

vulnerable has made its way on face. genuinely on my face.

publicly worrisome, and some will worry, some.
an inevitable disease to be fought.
thus help will be sought,

but help wont be caught

behind my face. fake face leaves trace of its supposed succession.
deception deception, i've stained good intentions.

hot oil rain springs from my chest and drenches my inside with comfort and embrace; extrinsic pain is gone; intrinsic me feels wrong. sick song i breath all life 'til death.

attention attention, i've stained my recession, i've stained skin connection to me.