Perhaps

Perhaps when you wish to speak more,

you should think less.

Angry Rhymes

Can't you see the pain hidden just beneath my eyes?

Can't you hear the shaking tone that rattles through my lies?

Can't you smell the fires that burn deep with my soul?

Can't you taste the passion when you and I are whole?

Can't you feel the softness of every breath I take?

I can see, hear, smell, taste and feel

everything you fake.

Altered

We all, 

we and me and you 

we all want to look back, 

to remember the good ol' days. 

If such they were.  

If such they were good, I mean.

Do you remember now?

The innocent days. 

The carefree, careless, stoned school days. 

The Friday night football, 

be home by curfew, 

Strawberry wine, 

No. 2 pencil days.

Back in those days, 

when the temple of unrequited love lectured from his soapbox, 

lectured from our parents, teachers, televisions, dealers, 
etcetera etcetera...

I hung out with the Third Street Anarchists that summer. 

We made up conspiracy theories in the backyard 

over tequila shooters and acid tabs 

and when god left, 

because he did, 

when god disappeared 

I left that small town prison for the city of dreams, 

where the anti-existentialists rule and nothing alters everything. 

Everything is altered. 

Even here.

Maybe, especially here.