The Beauty is a Beast

For every last one that slips through my fingers,
There's a feeling that lingers, pressing my heart.
With cold, dirty palms, the bruising and squeezing
Leaves me wheezing and begging for help.
My chest stressed to fracture, I'm chasing conjecture.
I'm reaching for something and finding no grasp.
The beauty is a beast with foul motivations.
With wine and perfume, she masks her frustrations,
Drinking and flirting and cracking a smile.
I'll be here for a while.
Perhaps till I quit rolling 'round in the shit in a quest to find food.
The sustenance screams at me, then disappears,
Preying on fears that I haven't the grit.
Still, notions persist that this can't be the story.
Surely some source of this glory exists.

Oops

I could use some Walden Pond,
But not for solitude.
I'm tired of writing [XXXXX]'s songs,
And tapping toes to [YYYYY]'s tune.
I wouldn't say these men are wrong,
Or even out of touch.
In fact, I think I've said too much.

Ecclesiastical

There's nothing new that can be said,
So why am I compelled
To keep my pen against this page?
What could I have to tell?

The Cake is a Mess

You can use a chainsaw to cut a cake,
But damn, what a waste!