I write..

what happens when we’ve got nothing left to talk about, nothing left in common
nothing left but niceties and PC conversations
No raw honesty
What now
I don’t hate you
but I can’t say I like you
I’m here because I’ve always been here
but that doesn’t have to be forever
What happens when I become dispensable
and I become neglectful?
what happens when you’ve got nothing left to share?

I thought that this would be painful, but I’m very ready to walk away.

I’d much rather be absent than invisible in your life.
Adieu mon amie, until we meet again

I wrote this poem a while ago, but it’s now got a life of its own.

I’m pretty certain I have got another entry with the exact same title.
RECIPROCATION

In an effort to assure you that I’d never dismiss your feelings requited or not. You turned around and reciprocated the opposite
dismissedmeinasinglesentencewithnocomma’sorafullstop

my work never let’s me down
stands me up
plays mind games

my work is consistent
committed
my default
my crutch
my work

that I won’t get to know you better
Felt like I had known you before
Weird.

was Valentine’s Day.
Just Got Fired Day.
Having a Panic Attack Day.
This is Not Happening Day.
I didn’t miss the chocolates, flowers or kitchy token that Hollywood defines as love. What I missed was someone to call – who would have said – after listening to my hysterical tirade about my nightmarish “Day” – don’t worry it’ll be OK. And meant it. That’s all I missed.
Oh well…

my insults are a form of self protection
I thought if I insulted you enough
left you raw and sufficiently offended
leaving very little room for forgiveness
that this drama might end

I thought if I targeted your Achilles
bullseyed your weaknesses
hightlighted your faults
in the most grotesque
in the most obscenely insensitive way
I might create that divide called
irreconcilable differences

instead it left a bitter taste in my mouth
those things I said I didn’t mean
the irreverence I showed
belies the respect I have for you
belies the respect I have
for any other human being
that walks these streets
that pounds these pavements
that takes a chance on love

you’re not the village fool
or an obtuse drunkard
I didn’t mean it when I said fuck off and die
I mean who calls people ’stupid fuck’s’ anyway?
I got lazy and went for the the cliche’s
a trusted script
a tried and tested formula

I’m sorry
about everything
about my words
I know they hurt
I meant for them to hurt
but I’m sorry either way

directions please?

My minds mouth –

So in my old young age do I find myself incapacitated by my inability to filter my conscious thoughts from my verbalized thoughts. This is a problem in that not all of ones thoughts are PC, appropriate, well thought out, relevant or even at times coherent. I’m like a Math whiz, and that’s paying myself a compliment, in that I don’t always show the method in which I solved the problem, but instead jump to the conclusion leave the gaps in between that give one the necessary marks to be the supposed Math whiz. I’m the plot that is missing the 2nd act, jumps to the third and final act leaving a chasm of confused and not so amused audience members in the middle.

My thoughts take on this pompous put-on high register tone and voice, that everyone, including me, knows is made-up and affected, and I can’t stand affected people. I can’t and don’t allow others to speak as I find any tactic that will lead the conversation back to me and the running commentary on my, at times, mundane life.
I finally let the poor captive walk away, conversation ending only as a result of the distance created between my audience and myself, at which point my body is overcome with relief from being held my very own captive, as the voice that is the understudy for my conscious stream of thought, is acting out the angst and utter mortification at everything that I’ve managed to say in the 2 minute long conversation I’ve just had.

Talking is exhausting, holding a 3 way conversation with just yourself is is a fulltime job – and I’ve been doing overtime.

VOICE 1: Hey, you guys are styling tonight?
VOICE 2: You guys look fucken gay!
VOICE 3: shut up, shut up.
VOICE 2: Ja, but why would a grown man dress like Chris Brown.

Voice 2 always has the last say.

Voice two wins all the time, unfiltered, Camel like in strength, brutally honest at best, irreverent, inconsiderate – obnoxious and could care less what other people think.

This post makes me sound so crazy, but aren’t we all?
Aren’t we?