Anicca She

I did

but no longer

For her whom, sought after

The next pretty one down the line

Though charming she may be

And delicious she may seem

I saw fury in her stance (that night)

Her tone, her turn, her walk away

Neglected me, such bitter aftertaste

For this

I did

but no longer

On weighted mood I carried her sting

The sting of the night she turned away

For a week (to this day) I ached

On sidewalk, through sun and streetlight lit

Heavy were the steps

Steps stung by her furious whip

A fixing call to her I try

Silence

Oh pulverizing Silence

Be her reply

A Silence that teased my grave nearby

Better is the sight from bed of dirt 6 feet

Than to be trampled upon

For my suffering solo cry

It's because of this

I did

but no longer

For her whom

I liked

Another pretty one down the line

Now no longer sought after

Knocks & Sleeping

I'm bothered by the likes of you. You who I've come to know as someone of incredible worth. Someone who knocked on my door with a knock knock proposal - armed with your syrupy hurrah - to fight fierce the frown delirium and bring me out of the yellow dread of the doldrums sanctum that sits at the top of the stairs. "I'm only sleeping" I'd say but it's to you only and only you I admit I'm not sleeping at all. Knock Knock.

I'm bothered by the likes of you. For that one night I chose not to Yummy Buffet beside you. You spoke of an ill I committed - "But it's not even like that . . ." I try to sayve trailing - you puffed, then huffed and turned away from me, back to your table, to your food. From out of "sleeping", out of yellow, past that door, down those steps - I'm left alone standing. The girl with the syrupy hurrah gone with only her back to me seen. Another bright yes beyond my door wala na. So it's a return to yellow I step up with the claim "I'm only sleeping."

But even sleep in these past few days is hard to come by.

Because so bothered am I by the likes of you I struggle massive to hide, closed eyes, mind silent, inside slumber and away from hearing your haunting knocks on my door. The past joy of seeing your incredible worth lingers steady. It's a constant that jabs my head mocking, "She's still there." But you're not there. You sit away from me, so far away from me with a back turned, your cheer shown anywhere but here. What's left is the ghost of your incredible worth knocking on my door. Knock Knock. Knock Knock Knock.

Why am I so god damn bothered by the likes of you?

It's because I . . .

The Strokes - Trying Your Luck

"And storefronts rarely change

At least I'm on my own again
Instead of anywhere with you

But to me it's all the same

And I lost my page again
I know this is so rare
But I'll try my luck with you"

Bitter Rhythm Garbage

Dispose of me, the mess I knew myself to be

Since stepped out then to stairs down

I've seen the mess of being drowned

In the scary sea where bitter fish swim accordingly

They fire and they turn

I crush and I burn

Not able to keep steady

With

The splintered rhythm they swim so well

Obviously garbage, unwanted, don't keep me in recycling

In this torrential sea, perpetually drowning

As you all fin bitter but happy

Able to swim with unkempt elegance so delighted

They fire and they spurn

I cry and I hurt

Not able to keep steady

With

The crack cheer they've found for themselves

Allow my return to the waste from whence I came

And crush

And burn

And cry

And hurt

To my own accord

Not

To the drowning throws of these bitter fish

Who swim bitter, feasting on the disposable mess

Pass Me The Calm™

Calm is nice. I could use some Calm™. Put it on like a lotion to the dry worry on my skin. But my skin is flaking. The worry aching. There's a cry beneath there somewhere under the beaten desert landscape, a cry buried by trespassers who unknowingly sow into my already shattered ground bombs that boom hurt BOOM hurt!

It's a casual time for them. The routine of littering behind them waste which becomes my drying dread.

"It's life" one says.

And I've got to settle with it.

Pass me the Calm™.