Fried chicken is the addiction of all fools.
Crispy on the outside,
Get empty caloric proteins on the inside.
That’s is the feeling I get when I know
All my mistakes gather at my brain,
And my mouth is deep fried and dried,
And succumbing to all sugar coating since last year,
I have eaten,
Then it’s a hard thing to swallow.
When the chicken is not even
Half eaten and all pink inside.
You say love is,
I say define it.
You say appreciate them,
I say understand the situation
You say appreciate all there is.
All I hear,
All I can say,
That they are,
And yes they can,
Thing is. . .
Contemplate me a commitment of,
where I know my place
To know them,
And to miss them. . .
Knowing how to balance what
And who to be with and without.
When did the life of love was introduced,
where its meaning has lost in interpretation. . .
in giving not so much taking.
At what height of all that peaked,
where I once in of all those
tenses that took me places,
was it in dreams. . .
was it in vivid and lucid REM’s. . .
were it a visual aide that had me,
I’d know to come back from
where I knew that Virgil protected by his utterance,
Only Dante can surmise and landed upon an age ago.
Only were it the first, or the last I was,
when I were there among with the gifted.
I wrote a letter to the past,
I told him,
please if you’re going
to remind me of all things,
can you please
make the memory
pass each second
I re live all that was,
how much all the scars,
and just leave it all,
and let me turn all
those into something I can use now.
My eyes are tired,
that my mind shed its
last tear from it all.