A fog horn yells
"hey you in the sweater
what you doing out side lovey,
on a day like this"

and that little sweater
walked away
into the morning drizzle
down the cobble stone streets
the cracks bleeding down,
not across,
Just down down down.

Sweater girl,
looks into the thicketed cloud,
feels the drops mingling on her cheeks,
a smile grabs out at the dew.

An old candle street light,
casting moving shilloettes
dancing in the morning fog,
stands on that corner
by which she sat
smoking hand rolled cigarettes
only adding to
the perversion of her
street side view

The windows
of that nice bakery
glowing,
the smell of fresh sourdough,
tickles the nostrils
drawing one nearer to
the bakers fresh delights

Just over that hill
is that relic payground
with leaves in the wood chips
waiting for Mr. Municipality
to rake them into piles
for children to ruin.

Swinging on that rusty old set
hashing past memories
to the creak
of worn anchor bolts
being bit by chain link.

If the weather would permit,
I venture she would roll,
and wander down
to that swimming hole.

It must have been luck,
first time seeing her
already love struck
now I'm stuck swimming
in this piss poor pool,
those who made the yellow water
must not know the golden rule,
I was looking like the fool,
and was smelling like peroxide
now I'm shedding all the shit,
gonna walk upon the dark side,
its not a long ride
gonna watch it as I pass,
I only got one ticket
so enjoy it while it last,
peter piper packing heat,
got a gun up in his waist,
he's bout to lose his top,
duck into a safer place,
in his face you see the terror,
in his voice you hear the fear,
a little proper paranoia
makes you vote again this year,
politicians pushing paper planes with null luck
hot pursuit of a penny wishing well to wash up
strapped like boots to a pirate of the sea
you can run em all you want to,
but nothing runs for free,

crash landed
looking roun stranded
suspended like the sky
fated always to fall
from over headed under hangs
heven and earth is nothing at all
sentences laid down like courtside commentators
telling you the pots black, and the kettle boils over
everybody went from suit and tie
to surplus shopping toy soldiers
nothing gets acomplished
looking at all the nonsense
 and still nothing comes from nothing
and we call that progress just like in congress
it is a process for producing stress
like flowers are for funerals,
standing on my head over my grave
the summary's fucking beautiful

comforts a word,
but man don't it sound nice
but the reality of the world is
food shortage and high price
on everything from gasoline,
to things like rocks and nails
when man leaves nothing to his back
cept piles of paper trails

forgotten are the heroes
but villians get a full run
strap me with super powers
let me loose to have my fun
humans are re-ran
look at their backs against the wall
we are the angels of the underground
but the ceiling is too small
for those of inside the building
to ever spread our wings
while the blue bird makes his time out
you never hear him sing
the cage door open
and down the case is closed
the birdie makes for his escape
into the photograph for which he posed

all the things tumbling in and in
and down into themselves
lamenting as the record spins
the life of someone else
we are recorded like the times
as the fall upon the clock
then it burns up and goes away
as if it were a crack rock

broken like frail bones,
backed up like breadlines,
a single side of salad,
a double deal on fries
the food makes it to the full folk,
but the starving man dies
and still nothing stands for nothing
and no one's asking why

just a penny for you thought,
give a dime for your time,
just a slap for me to kick
so I can spit my ryhmn

oportunity reduced to mutiny,
the plot for life is clear to see
it all ammounts to minutes
to the details you re-tell
to all the things inside of you
its all the points you sell
I dont gotta pop cops,
or smoke rocks,
or rock a glock at my cock
to hit on the mic with words
that shit is to the birds
and with a pen and a pad,
thugs aint got shit on me
so you can step yout shit
but I won't go down easy

hoes are for yardwork,
gangsters is just house cats
who singing what they dreaming
of being  strapped with real gats
but they living just like us
they add the fuck into the line
just because they like to cuss
booty calls, and champeign
cuttin lines of cocaine

Had some good feedback on this so I'm bloggin it. If you like it, just credit me if you use it. That's really all I ask.

My lungs burn black,
smoke pours in ebb and flow,
the qualities I lack,
are those that do not show,
a canvas of clockwork,
we write our own story,
we often go to death,
and never see the glory,
turn the page, 
welcome to a new age,
life seems misleading,
follow your own path,
create your own dawn,
be a king but not a pawn,
and when the road ends 
just move on,
just move on.

Want it from behind while you play Super Mario Brothers ? - m4w

Newspaper
reporters and technical writers are trained to reveal almost nothing
about themselves in their writings. This makes them freaks in the world
of writers, since almost all of the other ink-stained wretches in that
world reveal a lot about themselves to readers. We call these
revelations, accidental and intentional, elements of style.

      

      These
revelations tell us as readers what sort of person it is with whom we
are spending time. Does the writer sound ignorant or informed, stupid
or bright, crooked or honest, humorless or playful-- ? And on and on.

      

      Why
should you examine your writing style with the idea of improving it? Do
so as a mark of respect for your readers, whatever you're writing. If
you scribble your thoughts any which way, your readers will surely feel
that you care nothing about them. They will mark you down as an
egomaniac or a chowderhead --- or, worse, they will stop reading you.

      

      The
most damning revelation you can make about yourself is that you do not
know what is interesting and what is not. Don't you yourself like or
dislike writers mainly for what they choose to show you or make you
think about? Did you ever admire an emptyheaded writer for his or her
mastery of the language? No.

      

      So your own winning style must begin with ideas in your head.

      

      1. Find a subject you care about

      

      Find
a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should
care about. It is this genuine caring, and not your games with
language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in
your style.

      

      I
am not urging you to write a novel, by the way --- although I would not
be sorry if you wrote one, provided you genuinely cared about
something. A petition to the mayor about a pothole in front of your
house or a love letter to the girl next door will do.

      

      2. Do not ramble, though

      

      I won't ramble on about that.

      

      3. Keep it simple

      

      As
for your use of language: Remember that two great masters of language,
William Shakespeare and James Joyce, wrote sentences which were almost
childlike when their subjects were most profound. "To be or not to be?"
asks Shakespeare's Hamlet. The longest word is three letters long.
Joyce, when he was frisky, could put together a sentence as intricate
and as glittering as a necklace for Cleopatra, but my favorite sentence
in his short story "Eveline" is this one: "She was tired." At that
point in the story, no other words could break the heart of a reader as
those three words do.

      

      Simplicity
of language is not only reputable, but perhaps even sacred. The Bible
opens with a sentence well within the writing skills of a lively
fourteen-year-old: "In the beginning God created the heaven and the
earth."

      

      4. Have guts to cut

      

      It
may be that you, too, are capable of making necklaces for Cleopatra, so
to speak. But your eloquence should be the servant of the ideas in your
head. Your rule might be this: If a sentence, no matter how excellent,
does not illuminate your subject in some new and useful way, scratch it
out.

      

      5. Sound like yourself

      

      The
writing style which is most natural for you is bound to echo the speech
you heard when a child. English was Conrad's third language, and much
that seems piquant in his use of English was no doubt colored by his
first language, which was Polish. And lucky indeed is the writer who
has grown up in Ireland, for the English spoken there is so amusing and
musical. I myself grew up in Indianapolis, where common speech sounds
like a band saw cutting galvanized tin, and employs a vocabulary as
unornamental as a monkey wrench.

      

      In
some of the more remote hollows of Appalachia, children still grow up
hearing songs and locutions of Elizabethan times. Yes, and many
Americans grow up hearing a language other than English, or an English
dialect a majority of Americans cannot understand.

      

      All
these varieties of speech are beautiful, just as the varieties of
butterflies are beautiful. No matter what your first language, you
should treasure it all your life. If it happens to not be standard
English, and if it shows itself when your write standard English, the
result is usually delightful, like a very pretty girl with one eye that
is green and one that is blue.

      

      I
myself find that I trust my own writing most, and others seem to trust
it most, too, when I sound most like a person from Indianapolis, which
is what I am. What alternatives do I have? The one most vehemently
recommended by teachers has no doubt been pressed on you, as well: to
write like cultivated Englishmen of a century or more ago.

      

      6. Say what you mean

      

      I
used to be exasperated by such teachers, but am no more. I understand
now that all those antique essays and stories with which I was to
compare my own work were not magnificent for their datedness or
foreignness, but for saying precisely what their authors meant them to
say. My teachers wished me to write accurately, always selecting the
most effective words, and relating the words to one another
unambiguously, rigidly, like parts of a machine. The teachers did not
want to turn me into an Englishman after all. They hoped that I would
become understandable --- and therefore understood. And there went my
dream of doing with words what Pablo Picasso did with paint or what any
number of jazz idols did with music. If I broke all the rules of
punctuation, had words mean whatever I wanted them to mean, and strung
them together higgledy-piggledy, I would simply not be understood. So
you, too, had better avoid Picasso-style or jazz-style writing, if you
have something worth saying and wish to be understood.

      

      Readers
want our pages to look very much like pages they have seen before. Why?
This is because they themselves have a tough job to do, and they need
all the help they can get from us.

      

      7. Pity the readers

      

      They
have to identify thousands of little marks on paper, and make sense of
them immediately. They have to read, an art so difficult that most
people don't really master it even after having studied it all through
grade school and high school --- twelve long years.

      

      So
this discussion must finally acknowledge that our stylistic options as
writers are neither numerous nor glamorous, since our readers are bound
to be such imperfect artists. Our audience requires us to be
sympathetic and patient readers, ever willing to simplify and clarify
--- whereas we would rather soar high above the crowd, singing like
nightingales.

      

      That
is the bad news. The good news is that we Americans are governed under
a unique Constitution, which allows us to write whatever we please
without fear of punishment. So the most meaningful aspect of our
styles, which is what we choose to write about, is utterly unlimited.

      

      8. For really detailed advice

      

      For
a discussion of literary style in a narrower sense, in a more technical
sense, I recommend to your attention The Elements of Style, by William
Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White. E.B. White is, of course, one of the most
admirable literary stylists this country has so far produced.

      

      You
should realize, too, that no one would care how well or badly Mr. White
expressed himself, if he did not have perfectly enchanting things to
say.

      

      In Sum:

      

      1. Find a subject you care about

      

      2. Do not ramble, though

      

      3. Keep it simple

      

      4. Have guts to cut

      

      5. Sound like yourself

      

      6. Say what you mean

      

      7. Pity the readers

      

Music video by Nirvana performing Heart Shaped Box with Richard Bell, Anton Corbijn, Rochelle Ford (C) 1993 Geffen Records

Those who look for love,

Oft' find that nothing's there,

Life pushes and it shoved,

It seems like its not fair,

So If you come to find me,

just know that I'm not here,

and if youv'e come to love me,

THEN WHY THESE 18 YEARS?

Fuck your valentines and romance,but mostly fuck your love, for even with no one to hold, I can rise above

They say Hate is the opposite of love. This is sometthing I strongly disagree with, for both love and hate require commitment, obsession, and time. For this reason I look and see that they infact, are the same force, the same fundamental idea. The true opposite of love is lonliness. In lonlinness you have a void, this deep burning fury that either emotion, love or hate can fill. Whatever one fills that void with is a deffinition of his character, their true self, a heart set on love or hate can find similarities in the relationships that define themselves. It is when that void remains empty, the burning sting of feeling like your the last person alive, no matter how many people are around, that is what makes a person crazy. The rapist and the married man both have a void filled with some level of satisfaction, it is the one with emptiness who is truly a danger. He is the walking, breathing, ticking time bomb of  internal and external loathing, disgust, resentment. The mind of the man who is alone slowly unravles, revealing nothingness. In many ways, we are all alone. We're all fucking nut jobs.

There I sat typing
Words from my finger tips flow
no ideas came.

We can look around
a world full of despair
make yourself happy.

It can all make sense
The puzzle pieces can fit
Just apply yourself.

Freedom can save you
Break off the shackles of law
Live as you see fit