Monday, November 28, 2011

Hot Potato, I'm Into Mashed

I'm tired of your attitude, your witch's nose and your Charlie Brown's parent voice that you keep bringing around me. Knock it off before I knock you out - LL Cool J cool. You don’t even want to go there, hot potato, I'm into mashed and I'm not affairs to get you back. Don’t tell me to relax, it's done - we're going there, let's dance alien, I am the cowboy and you are the target, water gun power - super soak that hoe… Soulja Boy can't pay his rent but he'll Superman you - whoa. Cartoon fighting, you're seeing stars. Itchy and Scratchy, a little more dynamite. Put your dukes up right away I want to see you try, squirm a little more - attack me with your verbalization of exactly how your feeling, or exactly how your perceive me, I want to hear all your stupid little whispers and your arrogant ways of life, your shoe, the one attached to the ugly soul, has got century gum stuck to it and it's keeping you in the past, but the past is there and it's long gone, and you're in the now, so buckle up - shut up - get a helmet because it's not always going to work in your favor, grow up would you, I dare you, go ahead and try. Take you to the Laundromat, set you on top of this soap box, then will you get it, I can chant and scream and yell at you all you want, your insignificant body taking up space, your opinions', that is fine everyone has them, need to stop being shot at me like bullets, they are rubber and you are plastic, you mean nothing to me. Yet still, I want to watch you crumble, watch you melt under this heat I'm bringing because you will no longer try and defeat me I don’t care if you know the system, how long you’ve been here, step aside and recognize I am not your daughter.

A Pounding of Irrationality

Slip of the tongue, a spill of vocabulary. A new decision in the fingers attached to the soul not just the brain, a pounding of irrationality and nothing to do with sexuality but the sex would be good. The swift motion of undressing everything showing from skin to ambition. Do you have the passion? What time is it in this mansion, that is housing the ugliest mass of prohibited things once locked in the vault now rolling in the flour. Cook me up an explanation and dismiss the fact that the bottles are empty while the tongue goes rubber, the mind expands, filling up with things that should be framed. Scare the living daylights out of me, I want the deathly darkness to invite me in and keep me there. Not all is lost and the things that remain, you want to hide away under cushions and forget them just the same. No basis. All bias. We cannot eat this meal in peace. I'm starving for pieces of you, not all of you.

This Is Not A Break Through

this is not a break through. be cruel to me. louder. louder, i cannot hear you over the sincerity. this is not a break through. harsh reality in the teapot. say something else, stop saying that. step across the room and tell me something nice. you might save my life. this is not a break through. are you lovely enough to stay. accidental happiness, with a burnt top coat of desire. whisper your more intimate secret on my skin, i will not listen, i will not tune in, this is not a break through. save my life, for a while longer, tell me something, something else, i need a piece of your pocket, so i can keep you with my always. this is not a break through. i am dying, can you feel it. i am cold and i am hot and i miss you. undo my buttons, listen slowly, listen a little closer, promise me this. this is not a break through. nicotine rushes and drug free souls, the spaces between us, fill them with noise, music between the beats of my heart. this is not a break through. knee high ambition. sorries that dont make sense. responsibilities slitting the wrists attached the hands that are connecting yours to mine, kiss my soul, the place no one sees, the places some believe don't even exist to me. this is not a break through. question me, so i can give you all my answers. silly smiles, in the dead of night, i am dead, just like this night. this is not a break through. visit me, in my head. disco ball afflictions on the bedroom walls, bite my soul, leave the mark, the ridges providing a trail to a place that was free and delicious, a place that was dressed downed and timely. this is not a break through. feelings. feelings. they are loud. can you feel them. am i found. cup of tea. i am lost, again. lost in a cup of tea. this is not a break through. leaving, love. love, leaving. this is not a break through. raw. raw feeling of sensitivity, i do not wish to be sensitive. candle light passion, urges spark and flicker and move into my shadow. i am lost. i am loved. i am not. i am not these things. a piece of these things slide into my nail beds and rinse at blinking lashes of a need, a need that no one has because it is a holiday? this is not a break through. uneasy middle man. a bad spot to be. a vulgar mesh of help. a help that isn't right. a help i cannot admit i need, i do not want your help. easier happiness. this is not a break through. this is not a break through. i am breaking through.

People, Penned

Letters penned to people and people penning these letters to people. Eyes reading such letters and scanning the ink. Those very same eyes becoming almost blotchy from the penned letters. Lips, dry and craving, reading letters slowly yet quickly under a hushed tone to hear each syllable kiss the ink within the letter, penned to the people. Everything, never said and said before, in a letter addressed to the door and signed in the most precious of ways, never will be understood when the flick of the wrist lifts the ink away from the page and creases adapt to the letters body and sealed and subtracted from sender to reader and read for an eternity, even if only soaked in once by greedy pupils. Penpals. Lovers. Enemies. Family. Friends. Needs and wants. All slightly sealed and pressed, a momento of what was, what wasn't and what couldve been.


I don't want to be your friend.
The feeling is mutual, this is why we're in this predicament.
Don't make a joke out of the word, sure it mentions private parts..
We are through with private.
Insomnia often leads to you.
Thoughts and messages and telephone calls, not so much anymore.
Makes me think we're really moving on.
But we're not.
We kiss and and touch and still play eye tag.
We've got to stop playing.
We aren't pretending, we aren't in a position where we can be honest.
I'm on the fence.
I really don't like you, just as much as I actually do like you.
It’s an awful thing.
We’re so awful..
I don’t want to be your friend.
We’re good at this make believe friendship.
Every once in a while I even start to believe it myself.
You aren't in a position to say things.
You aren't in a position to do things.
We keep saying and doing an awful lot.
This is awful.
When it happens I don’t even realize how awful it is.
Not until later, but when it sinks in, it really sinks in.
I don’t want to be your friend.
I often have no care for you, but when the care gets a hold of you..
I can't help but sometimes, sort of care.
I don’t think I'd ever let you know.
No honesty.
All games.
You'd think I was an athlete.
I don’t want to be your friend.
I still try though, sometimes.
I still pretend, always.
It doesn't bother me..
I'm pretending again.
I'm your friend, and I don’t want to be.
I'm seriously not being serious.
We're not being serious.
That's probably why this is that much more harder.
I don’t want to be your friend.
I'm not being serious.
We're not being serious.
I don’t want to be your friend.
We're friends.
I'm serious.

Scratching For Correction

Combustible mind, churning the easiest things into the hardest obstacles. You are your own worst enemy and I can't handle either of you any longer. Over the top reactions to the subtle things. A slingshot of emotions falling out of your eyes and mouth and your teeth have no grip because you don't know what you want, but your decisions on the things that may or may not want you have you scratching for correction. Do you feel? I wasn't so sure and I'm still on the iron fence when it comes to your morals, you have no faith. You have no ethics and you have momentary cares that feel shiny in the moment but that is all. You live for moments, your charm is a leach sucking the life and feelings out of all the people you encounter. Encounter me no longer and time delay your mind so I don't walk into the cloud of smoke that all the little devils in your mind are drowning themselves in and tripping me with your entangled web of silent truths and blistering lies and high volume disgust when it comes to your choices on clothing, words, and obstacles. You start the battles but you don't fight them, not all of them, you never choose what is important to you. Your a dirty sponge, soaking up the fever, you have no mind and no clue, just a pit called life, that you've unscripted and renamed - useless drama.

May I Buy a Vowel

Syncing the current of change that is happening within the people you surround yourself with. Feeling their pull on your hair for the words you thought you wanted to tell them. Their eyes, pleading you to remain indifferent to their cause, to their situation, their situation an entirely different situation to you, ultimately - we're all effected. A build up of emoticons, transgression of electronic sympathy.. a walk way for dexterity and useless casualties, the billowing heap of everything once fluid, suddenly becomes chunky with aspirations of actions that we didn't know happened until long after the fact. Begging for the truth, but scolded for the information, wanting to want what you want and getting exactly what it is but not the way you wanted it. Disclosures for the broken heart, the weeping mind, worrying about people and time and places and cuts, the cuts that do not bleed, the ones not visible to the eyes but the current which has synced to your company is resulting in potent results of descriptive pain, you keep answers short, and conversations shorter, disguising and hiding from the worries on your heart, the beating tidbits of information that are feeding your soul with saucy feeling you're unsure of the correct response. May I spin again, forget my last quotation, may I buy a vowel or two, can I pick another case, this game show host looks a lot like you but you're eyes are hoping I win, while the TV knows I'm bound to lose and whatever I do win will be raped for taxes and i'll be left with customary toothpick - but you... if I lose, what will you leave me with, a consolation prize.. a gag gift.. or will you stumble right out of my life and watch me sync tunes to my wounds and feed of the sounding information of shoulda, coulda, woulda. Would Yah?

Your Amount of Self Loathing

The savory smell of your benediction mixed with the grotesque amount of self loathing you bring to the table, topped with laughter and stupidity. Put you in the freezer, serve you on the rocks. Shake the shit out of you.. we're still shaking, you're so full of it. Strap you to the windshield, we're talkin' drive thru darling. Stuff your mouth full of cotton let you dry those tears. The chitter chatter of the demons whom rest gently on your collar bone and the recognizable smell of your pity party bullshit. Hot and fresh, right out the oven, baked out of recognition makes this a helluva lot easier then any sort of shuffle. You are a predictable omelet left on the counter, fermenting but still looking appetizing in the fit of a severe case of hunger, but no longer will I let the uproar growl of a hunger within effect the food poisoning that you embody. I rather starve, then eat your crap. I've been force feeding the taste to think of something much more filling but sadly I've decided to diet, cut you out. No more fast past romance, simple long haul, let the stuff stir, slow cooker meal has got me feeling very content. Your dine and dash attitude towards your beloved is upsetting, does she know your using coupons on her services?

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Beg My Heart to Turn Off

The sock is on the other foot and the questions still pummel in, but only while life is on intermission because during the show, we're all in our spots. The passion is there and you can feel it coursing through the sheets but actions always speak louder then words so little actions will have to do to create little voices and little voices with vocal cords that want to say all the things they cannot say and the body has become a vessel of messed up idealistic. The morals, evident. The wants, powerful. The soul, comfortable. You idiot, with your ways and quirks, a disfigured sort of friendship that still has our teeth in it. I'm surprised. You might be too. Things keep happening, as if we've forgot but I haven't - as much as I plead my brain to write you off and beg my heart to just turn off, as much as I aim my passion to a heavier notion of sorts. My magnetic items find your lingering fingers off the edge of beds, in between slurps and sleeps and feet and video games. All too familiar. All just the same. Breaking bones like hearts and getting fragments of what so easily comes in places usually so hard to get to you but in this case, wide open/ on sale. Tired eyes, please tell me I'm dreaming. The head and heart ache isn't worth this funny but the feeling in the moment and the length of that moment stretched over my body like a cool sheet in the summer pricks me skin with an uncanny irony of realism, actuality and the phonies of it. Selfish little people, pretending everything would work in their favor. But while it doesn't happen, we betray our racks of adoration for stealing moments, exchanging clothing, sleeping comfortably, and the loudness in the stares and glares, dance moves and smiles. The enchanting chaotic failure redemption of this heart, stopped. 

A Dialect of Self Proclaimed Hate

The passion to which has engulfed my wisdom. The tedious statue of the isolated and the freedom. The constant bustling to other places, the continuous stepping on other faces, differences begin to unravel into the exact same cases. A dialect of self proclaimed hate, with an anarchy self detonated it is easily considered a series of fates. A tall tale told to catch the eyes of passersby, the time has passed and nothing was worth the buy. The heavy hearted agony of suffering from a galaxy much like this one. Thoughts of the pain are out of this world, but it is merely your intellect drawing conclusions from things you don't know, but dream about, to soften the blow. A gala event, to last the ages, your heart may be prone to give out before you age, choices and decisions, a lost cause on burden and ambition. Flames that won't quite catch, the attire of the things that so needy be burned and turned to ash and float around the sea so that seagulls can pinch and nibble on the remains of the things you want to no longer carry around on your coat tails. The same coat worn for shelter in the verbal bashing of all you stand for and the swift memories of all that is potent distending and dancing into oblivion. God speed said the immortal soul who calmed nothing and had nothing and therefore loved everything, because there was no where to go and nothing else to do but love.

Overrated, Use to Date Her

I’m not one for the pretentious mirror clinging photographs. The over exuberance of change room antics and the flavorful boast of the price tag, label, mix and match who-ha. The style in the frontier is not unique but mimicked by the change of season’s look books. Labels lovin’ you off for free advertisement, stores creating warning signs in your honor, “no cameras”. We thank you for the effort but we aren’t loving you off, yet. Your ambition might be in the sales bin, and your ego was written off time ago, and you’ve been top shelved – collecting dust, running your mouth. Your so last season. Things are changing and your closeted affirmations for the plastic and the bedazzled are really completing your outfit. A real prize. Quarter machine prize, with a cherry popping IQ of this plus that equals, what? We’ve forgotten about you. Boom. The closed sign is on, doors locked, locked out, you’ve been shut out, we don’t sell your brand here no more, fake shit – bullshit isn’t trending, you can tweet some other shop and hope that they don’t defend me, and while your shopping around for new ways to get limited, you better just remember that you aren’t a special edition, you’re a combo pack – bundle, hurry give them all away, first one hundred customers, we make sure to get rid of you all the way, and stepping on the people to shove you down their throats, the fast they swallow you the fast they digest, and once they get the digest away well toilet bowl the rest, and no ruby slippers but we sure wish you’d go home, no place like a empty place, get the hell out of the zone. Knock off, bootleg, you sure are kind of pretty, in an overrated use to date her Sally Hansen polished way.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

The Sexual Grip of a Paperback

The trouble with this company is not the fact of our clothes. Nor is it the fact that none of us have anything beautiful to say. We are all sort of beautiful. I think they are anyways. Different kind of beauty but the weather is working in their favor because the mundane against the mundane often is left mundane and the mundane across their backgrounds seems, flavorful. The music is doing no justice and were barely looking at each other, its rather amusing but no ones laughing so why start now. The dodging and dashing of sentences and dotting imaginary "I"s in my mind to complete things I'll never say. Amusing, right? The way you can grip a paper back is so much more sexual that the grip on a hard cover, its coarse and distilled but the paper back grip on the house of something your in love with. I'm in love with the words on the pages and the pen the words came out of and the fingers that held that pen to the heart that pumped the blood into the hand, the pen, the paper, and the person... The soul behind the paper back that I've fallen in love with. You are my most cherished read paper back and I love you. The weather to say wouldn't begin to express love to most but you understand, and this company might not get it and neither do you, my paper back lover, but you feel it, the weather. The sudden billowing of something else settling in this stand off perspective I carry around with me and I am ready to actually get involved with some form of action, violence maybe? Maybe I am prepared to throw books, and throw away my dignity. Did that make you nervous? Because you aren't worth my dignity and I am drowning in this high ball glass of Johnnie, he's suppose to make you walk but I'm swimming in my head and I cannot find my feet and I'm not walking Johnnie, another swing only cuts my feet right off and should somebody hurry and cut me off, nobodys listening to me, paper back? Paper back, I cannot remember where I was with that because Johnnie has gotten a good hold on me and the weather is the same and this company is mundane and I'm lost in a crowd of people I know but they do not know me. Movie threater darkness and I'm hoping for a sequeal. Your white balance bracelet has got me unbalanced from the row behind you, and I hope my eyes are crowding you because I can't stop staring at you. Threatical weather on a work day night and the casual lust at first sight I'm having with you physically. Get to know me personally? Stay cool, I tell myself, but I am so into you. And its foolish to say because this has happened merely with the touch of my pupils to your persona. Fantastic affairs on a work day night. Then you step outside and the rain has you feeling and thinking and mending something entirely different, before you even considered the rain a possibility of change.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

The Zen of Something Chaotic

The quickly severed remarks you made in a state of change. The change evolved into a turpentine of spearmint and it knots your senses and clears your memory and zaps you into a shock of something much more than your hair. The compliments of insanity that goes with the knitting on a winter sweaters, these sweaters hope for snow, so they can cling to your body and keep you warm, garment perversion, but an uncanny tactic that has us delivering ourselves to the perversion quite tastefully. The zen of something chaotic. The screaming voices inside the veins of your lover and you can hear them crashing down on your private areas, you want to pound those screams out of them with the contours of your body, but what is shed is an entirely different sort of scream and still you are left satisfied. A journey through trial and error and we are in error here. The gushing pleasure of error. Mistaking mistakes for actualities and the mistake of this actual mistake is mistakenly mistaken for error.

Experience The Scenic Route

It's an over used saying with a rift that sounds like happiness, pampered happiness that is. What is so scenic about the route you experience? The scene has long and gone and nature is a novelty and the regurgitated experience you are apart of, the experience for which you take part in is beautiful isn't it, beautiful like plastic. Experience this disco. This flesh. This life. This piece of experience is not a route because taking yours got me no where. No experience, no scene. I saw nothing and hoped for more and its all a little mundane, don't you think. I dare you to move. Move. I dare you to make a sound, for your own sound... Well it all sounds all too familiar. I love your dress, it looks exactly like that one I saw, that one I saw that girl wearing, I mean she had two tone shoes on so it was much more flattering. Flattering than your flat landscape of chivalry? I do give you some admiration towards what you've started. It takes guts. It takes dedication. And it takes a love, a certain kind of love for yourself and for what your doing and you really have started to believe in something, yourself even, you've grown this back bone for you and your pen and for that I am a little half smiled for the efforts you've actually put forth. I don't wish you luck because its not that type of celebration, nor am I celebrating for your mild curiosity in the power of the keyboard but I do notice. I noticed this Experience your interested in portraying, I hope it gets a little more scenic though. Go ahead. Experience this scenic route of subroutine love with a flourished bloom of status quo and melancholy. You sure have got a route there, an experience - I'm not convinced and the scene your thinking of is much different then the fairy tell you've got from write to wrong. Speak up would you, this isn't like the fall it doesn't come and go and if you're here then do it, do something already.. I'm so use to the nothing that this might just surprise somebody. experience this experience for it is quite experiential and it's cool if your testing the water, the water that has long evaporated from your scene. your scene of drama and drama and nicely dressed drama and all done up drama, and the drama your surrounded by is the drama you want to be surrounded by, but maybe that's it.. this is the experience of the scenic route, towards a scene your already apart of, nothing new, and an experience your already experiencing. i don't expect anything new and exciting for this experience of a route so often traveled. This is an experience i've left, a route i've burned down, an ugly scene and i do love some pampered suburanized ugly... show me the route! the experience! the scene!

The Collapse of Mechanical Pieces

Upsetting the sky, I’m breaking up with the time and I can finally breathe without the ticking time bomb of all that is irrelevant pulling me into a state of relevancy. Freedom, obtainable and lovable but so feared. Fear, scary and rushed but ultimately empowering. Power. I have the strength and the sky is reaching down to me here, in the dirt, with a handful of stars and a lipstick smear of the most excellent shade finally I am blushing with escaping moments of everything that had me frightened. The shackles are now a modern affair of couture that I will wear like a cross, and not for faith or for this Gothic apparel flare but for the ever reminder of what I am no longer apart of. Breathing. The rise and fall of my clothing to remind me of the mechanics that are inside of be, that make me up and build me up and I am this machine of live. A production of instrumental activities; the blink of an eye playing fluttering sounds to my symphonies, and heart strings I am pulling, a selfish notion creating hiccups of questions to an imaginative playground and footsteps become the percussion of all the little voices who encouraged and discouraged. A human aspect to a less human place where there is a sudden enlightenment, not enlightening anything, actually weighing done the whole existence of whatever is existing. Stop merely existing and live. Live this life for whatever is to come when the darkness closes in might be merely a reboot or perhaps that is all. Curtain closed. No applaud. No laughter. No encore. The collapse of mechanical pieces and the final beep of electronic existence.

We Hear Your Heart A Spinnin'

The sudden miss, like a skip my turn, keep you closer, close the door and throw away the clocks, addressing envelopes to myself and putting pieces of you inside so I'm never without. The distance not so much a troublesome because your ambition kisses me from miles away, sleeping comfortable with the ipod because that's the way you continue to talk to me. Applauding you from my side of the pond - lilly pads under construction resulting in the anchor that has me here, tied to shore, humming melodies that tie balloons to your soles and keep you, your rock of rock and roll abilities, your a fallen star of some sort, landed over there, as if the airplanes can't decide where your talent will be loved the most because all the hearts in the world are beating for your symphonies and I keep hitting repeat. Smile as bright as glow sticks, your glow is brighter than those glow sticks. Missing bus stops to listen to you longer... Electronic conversations that I always give in, requesting you in places where they know your name but to drop the track just wouldn't mean the same things and to miss you from here but to hear you from here... Its worth the waits, your always leaving these fantastic pieces of you wherever you go and we miss you so bold and so brave, and we hear your heart a spinnin'.

Different Different Different

a different kind of clean with speckled adolescent flair. a different kind of deviancy to violate your hair. a different kind of vision, a different kind of scene. a different kind of moment, a different kind of gleam. a different kind of this, and a different kind of that. a different kind of time, there won't be none of that. a different kind of elevation, a different kind of song, a different kind of lyrics... a different kind of wrong. a different way of thinking, a different way to see, a different kind of different, a different you and me. a different kind of drink, with all the fixings, a different kind of appetite, with just the right of mixing. a different kind of shoes, with a different kind of soul, a different kind of atmosphere, a different kind of wrong. a different kind of feeling and a different kind of melody. a different kind of angry, a different kind of fear, a different kind of embarrassment a different kind of want, a wanting different something different, a different kind of place and a different kind of god, a different kind of saving and a different kind of spending and a different kind of fix and a different kind of crave, a different kind of moment and a different kind of insanity. and a different kind of a prosperity and a different kind of rich, a different kind of mood with an ultra violet flip. a different kind of heel and a different kind of heal, a different kind of sex appeal. a different kind of look and a different kind of haunt, a different kind of trick or treat, a different kind of flaunt. different different different different.


The crumpled leaves blow across this street like pieces of paper, once attempted letters to people we loved. The breeze chills me to the bone. I can feel its burden in my feet, making this tragedy hard to speak. The moon is giving off a good light, a light that has me slightly mesmerized and enchanted stream pointing far off in this scene and I might be past the point of no return. To return those crumpled letters that have fallen off the trees, like leaves, to their owners like library books without the fees, for they are long overdue you see. And the shadows that have suddenly engulfed me, must be dancing with this breeze because they are moving all the same. The stars, usually so far, seem to be closer to my head tonight for their heat has got me bewitched and the witching hour that causes sweat doesn't bother me tonight, but the headlights of a distant item, casting sounds like rusty swings, has be captivated by the moon to pick up those leaves, and read their letters. The lovers, they do howl, for their letters are astray; on rooftops, streets and lawns you see, they are searching for a way. But that is what they'll try to do. Fall and fall and fall again, for tis the season to be falling in and out of the way.

Nonverbal, Best Plan

biting the lip until it bleeds, stabilizing the conjured structure of the very language that allows you to breathe. desperately hoping for the change, but too many lives have encountered yours, asking things… telling things… forgetting things you want to forget. the continuous struggle of self vs. self and self vs. you and self vs. self vs. you… a tribute to the words you wish you could’ve said but didn’t say and want to say and want to scream, the things you want to say. there must be a place, somewhere, perhaps a black hole of words and things and ideas of things I didn’t say, wanted to say, want to scream, a grave yard of all the things I wanted to say; not just to you but to you and you and you and you and the one you know and the one we use to know and them and her and him and it and it and you and that and them and this and all the things I wanted to say have gone to this graveyard to die, and it’s full of all the verbal death I have once wanted to say. they don’t always go there though, and sometimes not immediately, sometimes the things I want to say they build and build and build until I can feel them right at my esophagus, I almost choke to keep them down, and sometimes the things I want to say simmer on my skin and I can feel the prick of it’s heat burning me inside and out and I just let it happen, carry around the burn and not say anything, never wishing it away just wearing it away and when I suddenly don’t realize it’s intensity anymore that’s when I know its long gone and left me and died and is off in the black hole of a verbal graveyard I have out there somewhere, and sometimes when it rains and when the right conversation strikes I want to say these things and I cannot find my discarded words so I sit in silence or make up new things to say in their place, or if the rain is just right and the conversation is to a desirable flame I see the words fall on to my clothes with the lightness of a raindrop and sometimes I absorb it and spill it out and then I wish I was dead, wish I could just die and lay nicely in my verbal graveyard, it doesn’t happen much. the verbal graveyard must be under a nice heavy lock and key and it’s grave keeper must know me all too well because to not give me a map might be it’s most nonverbal best plan.

Soundtrack of the Rain

As if the raindrops have voices, they are all screaming, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Dancing on your shoulders like fear, bullying you into something much more severe, but you keep a blind man's ear to the raindrops and listen to them scream, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Blinking through the blinding stains, as if your looking through dirty window panes and as if your feeling subsequent pain it is fully ironic that you're sharing your eyes with an inanimate objected labelled with the heavy feeling of the beating rain, all the while it's screaming into your eye lashes, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Shielding all of the most intimate things because somehow the rain can drive them out, and hoping something doesn’t slip out of your trench coat doused in weather, to squeak and shimmy on beautiful pebbles and slip and fall and bump your head, the old man will still be snoring while the rain is screaming, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" the cars are screeching from near and far causing you to stay in your bed, soggy puddles of ideas form on the floor, tripping you up on bath robe hope, searching for comfort food in a weathery daze and were does the sun go when it decides it is allowed to rain, wondering, while listening to the soundtrack of the rain, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!"