At the end of the day
we’re all just
butthole tissue
flesh, bone, and spirits
away from the truth
if there is any, well
we’ll surely find out
at the end of the day.
So keep it clean cause
you’ll never really know
until you do, I guess.
Home » Posts tagged 'soul' (Page 8)
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Alvaro my friend
Alvaro
my friend
you left too soon
but what about
today
has me
thinking of you
is it Jimmies guitar
or my faded tattoo
perhaps it’s the night
as I howl at the moon.
Alvaro
my friend
you left too soon
and I never
got the chance
to say
thank-you
for all the nights
you offered your friendship
wanting nothing more
than good conversation.
Alvaro
my friend
you left too soon
but your spirit
it seems
continues to bloom
within my soul
like divine intervention
so my life is yours
solely by extension.
Which brings me
now
to think of you
how if you were here
you’d tell me to
let go this dirge
and create something new
Alvaro
my friend
we’ve got work to do.
option C
Surely, this, isn’t, healthy
but the alternative just seems
so entirely soul crushing
that if this, is, so, unhealthy
than there surely must be
an option C: since A & B
are now, defunct.
heroine and Burroughs
Watch your soul.
I’d say tongue but I don’t harbor
the arrogance I once spewed.
Give me a break, like I dealt it
in cards, knowing you’d take the Ace.
I am only human, I have no other excuse.
I was scared of losing, most of all I was terrified that I could choose.
Does it feel good to see through me
like spotted glass, knowing your
windows are clean?
And why do I bother to even ask? It’s not you who hold the answer, I can see, it’s I who has stood
idle, waiting to turn the key.
So if you’re looking through the peephole, please don’t make a sound.
I can see your shadow quiver, mine quivers there too.
But I can’t turn that key with a lock full of gum.
Another way out then, ah, hum — there’s a pauper selling candy, eating pizza on 68th next to Sole — so I’m pretty sure we’ll meet again, like heroine and Burroughs.
Another On Depression. (written some time ago) Or something like that.
It doesn’t feel like a weight
or an isolated incident.
It’s more like a cloudy headed hangover.
The mind knows what it needs
but the body refuses to cooperate.
It’s like sitting with a good book
for hours, no wiser in the end.
Or driving aimlessly
with no set destination.
It doesn’t feel like anything,
really.
Just a relative constant
that comes and stays.
Like an uninvited guest – talkative –
with nothing good to say, whom
upon arrival you wish they would go
but on departure, a part of you wishes they’d stay.
It’s nobodies goal to be addicted,
is it?
It doesn’t feel like anything,
really.
Or something like that.
Words Of An Average White Male 