Son or a bitch

This is the man that had soo many clicks...
For all the clicking parts that meant more to pieces of other languages...
The same kind of madness, spoke like an idiot...
With some kind of madness that evolved as a word...

The million waits

Broken pieces that matter not...
Even in the dancing of frightful lives of nothing...
Only in the seeking soo much of the forgotten...
Give the paths aside from the falsing men...
And if the thundering boots that ring tonight...
Last beyond tonight the world would be

Drinking at the end

As a Friday comes near...
Soo many vices come true...
Lives of bleeding men...
Breath as a gasoline for the new week...
The only bases drink some site of truth...

It goes on... nothing is ending here

Nothing is going end...
Not with these words...
Even to look back on broke words...
It doesn't end as a shock...
That no one gets...
It goes on as the eternal year...
Where no one gets everything...
Even if to hold on, it won't end...
Even as weak sigh, it goes on...
Again and again

Wrote... wrote... wrote

When the moon doesn't shine...
Summer nights seem colder...
For inside a silent mind...
The yellows and oranges of old tattered memories...
Give some worth, even as an anonymous fragment...
That misery has only so many words...
And in this breath it has only soo meaning...
Till the days and nights have past in many forgotten thoughts...

rainy days

its always been a terrible thing, that on rainy days...
there could not be one to keep...
the sun only shined twice at me and left me with beautiful dreams...
after all the cigarettes and all the alcohol lost on waking up...
those dreams could seem smarter than having to take whats given...
from decades bleeding into the mornings wishes...
rainy days always have some kind of terrible hope...
for the idiot who always keep his dreams within city limits...
like the edge of life in a town in nowhere...
but only somewhere he didn't fit...
rainy days always say something terrible of not burning in the sun...
and if one day that sun came back like before...
it would seem more beautiful than all the dreams before...

for the unsure...

telling stories that aren't even as much as missing numbers lost...
adding them up in mornings of days after...
always lost never so much as whisper, they call like false wicked dreams...
taxing to seek this life, with only so much room to do more...
every else this seems like a slow sinking ship...
but to stand and never to speak of those thousand loses would be a murder...
the frequent life of the millions around couldn't care enough to see beyond the dust...
any attempt to the sun again beyond morning dreams is worth more than sitting still...
but for those stranger moments were more than life even though as day and nights came faster...
they seem the only stray light that didn't scream about nothing...
the sad look of days that couldn't be told apart were the only reason otherwise...
to find words to write...

tomorrow... army of me

for all the dreams that weren't of drunks...
more than envy was the truth...
because more than sighing was daily...
fear and lies from fear kept the machine flowing...
into the next day with a blink of an eye

history beyond

for everything struck...
not all the words were struck...
and the future has yet to be spoken...
memories were strong of history...
more precise and more beautiful...
than the blank truth of just one dimension...