State Of Global Orange

I've skeleton satisfaction in being merely shadow
and my only fear is failure to fade like paper thin.
I laff at state of global orange. This world peeling
off. I'm a tracing paper transfer, emptiness is my
tattoo. I'm the third with only two selected, my
desire to be dejected. I'm heckled by the have nots
for having less than them. They think my prayer in charge
of the gift giving amen. What then? I hang myself on a

Coat hanger of hanging about. I don't deliver encoragement
in my coaching shout. I leave a trail of listeners in
suicides all about. Now I am happy, now I am disappointing
you all. I have been marked down, thru execution. A strait 'F'
my elocution. You find me smiling tears. And I who have been
in nitemare all these years, I am now sleeping thru to a quarter to 2
in the morning. Each gram of reaper's day is yawning those
sleepy eyes awake. Its down to the one, Yellowstone earthquake

As due as a surprise. Now I tell truth and pretend they're lies
to help you to believe them. These are the stitches you never see
that hold up the hem. Otherwise I fall apart while someone
calls it Art. I part from the act of breathing. A blank book
I'm bequeathing, as lonely as a Slave Coast internet on a
silicon pile. My smile is a Marathon's mile. Grimace at the
giggle of it. I'm calm at others having fit over even the half
of it. I'm in constant isolation with my torturers as company.
Its a limited one. One the authorities never see.   

Never Do

Oh, slow. Oh, no. Oh, woe. Oh, go. If this is the worst poem
don't read on so. I won't lead you on. Like a hangman to
the gallows. I'm the fear that swallows. And fat leaves me
hollow. I wollow in sadhappiness. I clothe in a state of
undress. Pull when I press. Pull you away from me. I'm
naked of any opportunity. I make my happiest day
my one moment of misery. That lasts three decades.

I meant to speak to you thru the silent cascades. Silence
walled a waterfall as shyness took me back. To visit
all I lack. I'm back again, revisiting all I lose again.
I'm the most morose of them. I've hell in my amen.
Amiss of all the things I miss. Shadows I couldn't
unshade. I'm still as green as the glade. Glass in the
sand pit where I played. I do not make the grade. And

Treasure to me wold be what you thro away. And I
can see a goldenness in all yor world of gray. I say
hardly anything. You've graduated to the point of
song. I know my rite is wrong. My short is long.
I've got an icicle tongue that can never warm to
the current bee storm. You speak like honey of
something funny and thro away money you
are bored of all the things that I never do.

Statue Of Electra

Thunder is the day's hello and I am welcome to pick up litenening
on a combustable tray. I do not delay to hail a darkness                       Darkness makes the
draw it from an air of everything around me close                                daylite briter
greyhound chased by hare. My veins are made to take AC/DC
my skin is cut on the string of blade that snaps when I do                       Something snaps
I'm smashed guitar when played. The day the sea rolled into the city      when it is too strong
prettiness became my glade and I was flooded in a sunshine of                and takes too much on
being already made. Disappointment digested me then sorrow
spat me out into the daylite sulpture of being found out. The elements    The elements
I was friendly with just washed folk away and I eat my small dinner       don't make friends
with litening forks and put on even thinner than starving babies               even with themselves
left by storks. Revelation's refugee, I learnt how to be.

Charged with electricity, sentenced by a hanging judge, the jurors
were my executioners. I was broken statue on exhibit. I could conclude      Conclude one thing
that I knew no end if I should fall and fall and all that I would find              and begin something 
you would deny was nothing more than something in my eye.                                       else
I disappoint you. I do not die. By trying to live I try. I'm a hundred years getting          out of
from 26 to 45 and like a bee that survives the hive I dive for some dead bee's honey    boredom
that's been left for me. I'm like a tree too long rooted in a forein soil and my
toil has not been effortless for a peanut's oil. You take away my part
deny my character and you suggest I act out shadow. Someone elses.                 Character is a
I do not see. Blind to possibility. Time's placed the bandages across my eyes        scratch at
and I am at a loss for skies. There not one amount of poetry in any single part of me      personality
that you have vision for. I find I'm coming back empty from the syllable store.
Store something in a jar and don't know what its for.                                             Jars hold stars
                                                                                                                             to sparkling eyes
                                                                                                                             that watch them
Majuscule:
Everlasting snapshots
leave love in eyes
endless gazing sees
continual celestial glare
tantamount to beauty
revelatory aspect
all consuming
kindness would be one moment
in presence of
nearness of being
graceful to half an ear.