Words Of A Despicable Old Man

The first time I ever experienced an euphoric high
was the one time I was returning from a weekend
getaway, just out of town, when I was eighteen,
and the car glided on the road, and all was quiet,
and the hum of the air conditioner and the
occasional honk from an overtaking car were the
only sounds that could be heard. Of course, there
were seven in the car, and the bag pressed in my
back, and the small speaker I held next to my neck,
played a ballad of rock and roll- of pain and hope, of
misery and destruction and a feeling of deservingness;
the setting sun and the smooth tarmac, the continuous
fence along the side of the road, and the trees that dotted
the highway that I soared on, and the drums and screams
and anguish that dripped from the voices of people who
sang, what seemed to be, lullabies to my aching heart,
made the air purer, and the heart, a little less anguished;
at that time, the mind felt cleared, a one way path,
like it was in the throes of a particularly euphoric orgasm,
and there was something that fit, maybe the lack of
thoughts that had blinded me for everyday of my goddamned
life, and somehow, I felt like salvation was here, and that
perhaps what I had lacked is clarity, for everything looked
as if the it had been washed a hundred thousand times, over
and over again, and with each wash, everything-
the world, the mind, the soul, the universe, stardust, life-
for once, in continuous and perfect symphony, and not a
haphazard, misplaced situation, increased its intensity a
thousand times over. Of course, it happened just that once,
because looking for that feeling again, has left me broken,
miserable, demented, and worst of all, unhappy,
because I spent my goddamned life looking for it,
when I simply could have lived through it, many, many, many
times over, but of course, I was a fool to not know it.

Elixir Of Life.


You said you wished to be
the greatest poet ever and
set to write the most
beautiful poem ever written
to immortalize, not in the
sands of time, for they fade
with time, but in the
rocks of centuries, your muse,
Me. And though today your
calloused hand lies cold and
dead, and the exquisite
smile your godly face adorned
is bereft of any affection, just
the ghost of what lay there once,
and the hazel eyes that made
me feel like the only girl in
the world are shut close are
hopefully, at peace. I
move silently as if I am
the one who left, across the room
to the papers that lay scattered
on your desk, my name written
on them. I open them and see a spectre
of words, beautifully written
in a variety of inks, some of
which is blotched and some of
it is cut hastily and in between
the wordly chaos, I find the
most beautiful lines ever written.
As my eyes well up with
tears, I think how you wrote
the greatest poem ever,
though just for me and how you lied,
immortalizing me in just your
memories, that will ironically
be buried in the sands of,
not time, but the earth,
like your mortal self.



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She was built with words.
Her strength was in numbers.
Her allegiance to the roots of all
She encountered.
She never felt happy, truly satisfied
Until she knew that her words
Hadn’t hurt anyone.
She collapsed in a asphyxiating
Mass of words
Because their roots were toxic.
And later like a phoenix from
The ashes, she rose
And flew far away
To a place where brevity of words
Was respected.
She’d heard in that place,
Each word had its own purpose, existence.
Now she thought, oh how silly,
That her end that had once been.
Someone, she thought, should see her.