if you think i post a lot of useless poetry you should see the aborted lines that clutter my mind

the forty stanza odes, the contrite shite that makes my teeth hurt and head spin

sometimes i gleam a nugget here and there

or try and figure out what state of mind forced that bitter swill into the world

once and a while i love the bits behind the mess and reincorporate two or three into one slightly less pungent turd

polish it and play with it until most of the detritus is gone and i feel like it can fly on it’s own

or more likely sputter to a halt

some days it is all trash

today has been particularly unkind

the choir is off key and no matter how i grasp it falls short of the symphonic rendering in my mind

i grab drunkenly at it but all i pull out are rusty nails and tetanus

once in a while it feels like they all come out as dreamt

not that any of it is good

but the sentiment extracts itself from the sediment

one day i will grow deaf and not hear them any longer

i don’t know if that will be a blessing or a curse

or they will always be there and my insanity will grow to the point where i can no longer contain it

i’ll open a vein and write them on the padded walls of my cell

stare at the cracks in the ceiling and eventually fall upwards into them

vanish from sight

until then it is more and more and more of them

maybe i’ll fall in love and only whisper them to her

give her everything and not need to spit them into the uncaring world around me

yeah right

she probably knows i’m out here searching like a blind man in maze of crippling self doubt

she watches from her perch and if i accidentally get too close she shifts the paradigm once again

well aware that if i can find a lightning rod the flashes of agony will abate

until then i have the choir warbling in and out of range

that will have to be enough

and my aborted lines like newspaper to build my nest

laying in the kindling hoping for an errant spark

we will watch it burn together

her from on high

and me in the center of the flames