my eyes are heavy
and you make me sick.

sometimes, it's everything about you-

your subtle pretentiousness
and the hint of pride
and the limitless favors

and so, i've nickednamed you
the golden child.

live on in your infamy
and go on collecting praise
for these things that just
make me vomit dislike.

i chore 'til the day is done
and still, not even a mention of
maybe you and maybe him.

it's never that..
it's always you
and the other you
and it makes my stomach churn
in it's own acidity.

shoo, and fly
don't bother me.

leaves and great grandpas have a lot in common

(put on your best coat for this show-
dying, that is.)

grasping the edges of your bed sheets and
tumbling down and not remembering the summer

when everything was green
and not brown.

and dignity was green
and not fading.

good luck, with the fall..
the falling down
the falling out.
the failing of life.