A poem

I laid my hands upon this board as if they
Were the beaten skin of one more.
Tired tips of tears
Or so sick of the open lungs
My fingers asked me to leave no more
Within one lonely headshake
My tears were dripping in an upward battle
I hated the game
It was eating me
It was bright lights on the side road
It was the things I did not want
Taunting me
It was bleeding fingers asking me not t o write
…..anymore.
I hate the a through z
It is killing me
And all the friends who help….
May our help be so posthumously played that we are fame..
In our fame we conquered worlds..
Single worlds
My world
Un-fae-ked is my death beyond all measure.
I will have died and have gone home.
And I do not (nor will I ever miss)
For humanity is within my brothers as it is my crippled score of men

Such cae-ked wisdom skin…
Right to the tips of red white
And pu-shed up my kin
So hard to tell them of the tsk-tsk skin
(the tsk tsk upon my finger)
The shake off of a midnight binger
And the tabs and the tabs not

The easy’s and the friend’s not
He came around the pattern as he had lain before.
In my stomach crunch as no one had come before.
One space as it was home.
Was no ones home
So finish and come back such lonely pages.
Come back