realization of writers blog (a spiritual crisis)

 hello id just like to be frank your image fading

as it is-our weavers web spun its last 

milton cemeteries crack to discord lightning over echoing seas

its still there yawning i poke and prod

at love right there he just scuffles man

this ragged man bohemian plus any image to see me in

the instagram offers a instantaneous grin

that is a thin mirror

delving no secrets its cold passages no longer howl

hello there im blind and must be led out

of cold shiver dreams taking long miracles 

long dragging seaweed to sudden lyricaL MISTY MORNINGS

LEFT TO MOURN 

with no more leaking born

into shadow terraces overcast by miltons mountains  

love personified-could it be

beaten three times hence

no experience left

this nasty germ spawning ruining half the progress of a century

i looked around the pissstains 

please remain in 

in in in more reasons to be an artist 

appearing reading as my adhd radiates the evening heater

aggrovates 

a provocater defecates 

seven seconds after gin

dolls often reek and wreck havoc

heaven 

peace be withim  

shit eaters salient economy buggerers indifferent to the ending grim

the milton church the girl christ lives 

zeal plays violin to towns abandoned sighs no bridges

bloodletting open 

finish him 

shes got the zeal to express it in words

caleb left

doug is in

zach is there

im no stranger to second feeling

going missing 

love is there when im seeking him

this mad summer taping kitchen sinks expiring dates

to keep for mr president

rent a custard pie to bake me with

feeling-mall rats make a din

2:

scar fountain,goodbye

trace this mountain

question kitchen sinks,why?

to every maiden by the willow tree

letters left in postboxes

for you or for me

gulp this eternity

golden starlight is forgiven mama

for shining gloss

over words we speak

forbidden

walk this road

steps once led here

return to nothing

feel myself fade on clear autumnal nights

springy october weeping

ive tried gouging my shadow

at times it follows me

setting out blank pages left

to be...

completed lists of sycophancy

girls id like to date

boys who taking nothing

leave nothing sewn for me

its my own fault

3:the fault is not his own

to read the sonnets out of sequence

would be more suiting to say to him

i love you but only in my writing

the manuscript in the nuke room

backyard bunkers

pubby pissy past paddys-the reckoning

i smell john donne

he lets follow pages 1 though seven

to make em blind

recieving stones listning

to crucifix tones

the regal stuart screams

in the hallway in dylans den

judging him to redesign the kitchen

in poetry rhythms

exhausting expelling mud expiring hoarse throats

it summons me back to beggining them

poems at youth

a rebel rimbaud i needed him

i have a tale left to tell

unto the raveness

i have one more thing

to say and stress

to think and comprehend

two more ,no less

no more then 3

and might a forth appear

a fifth released disttressed

into this world

that like a craftsman make

a even slender 6

that folds to 7

when put with ones before

a mist does settle

and make me hell

with which to struggle

3 more problems swell

it comes to this

my minds chained

encaged a dog needs

to be let out off its leash

and take a shit

plus eight and this a 9th

add one more make another

poet sick before his 25th

to die and never be forgiven

annabelle lightbulb flashing improves your eyelids

on phelps street

the teacher mispronouncing

the felt tip of my pen seeks electric lighting

for my shells of blurry binary vision

the mannequin i make keeps on reflecting

seven sins repeating

keenan keen on reminiscing

peace be with him

dark mood this

dark toad

i am

i leave one note

i know im blind

im constantly refelecting

light

abiding time

to die at sentence end