Buzzardapple

Low flying buzzard.
I throw my,
Half eaten apple,
At you.

Nothing to do,
But angry ride.
My bike.
Until my face,
Turns blue.

Like the sky.
That sits,
Off in the distance. 
Mocking me.
The wind,
Pushing me.
Like grade school bullies,
That haunt my,
Childhood memories.

I cannot see,
What isn’t there.
I cannot stare,
Or even compare.
This dead jackrabbit,
Carcass. 
Beneath my feet.

I angry ride,
So I can’t speak.
To the fucking tourists,
Who want a peek.
Into my shadow-like, 
Existence.

Don’t take my fucking picture!
You piece of shit!
I’ll shove that fucking camera,
Down beneath your neck.
That’s nonexistent,
That never was there,
Because you stopped caring,
When she wasn’t there.

Anymore.
Any longer.

I’m tired of waiting,
For an escape.
From this sad,
Lonely existence,
That we call fate.

Hope is gone,
To another country.
I cannot replace her,
She does not care.

She eats Banh Mi,
Off the streets.
And shares with her lover,
Things I cannot eat.

I want a drink,
Or ten or twelve.
Nothing compares,
To this empty shell.

Of mental illness, 
Despondency,
& despair.

This thin like air,
Blowing everywhere. 
My scent no longer travels,
Anywhere.

My long lost friend,
Is gone again.
Sold his bus,
To make bus faire.
To his children,
Who love and care.
I wish that I was,
Never there.
For him to love me,
Caress and hug me.
I miss you friend.
It’ll never end.

This long long journey,
From end,
Into,
Eternity.

I cannot replace,
What we have shared.

I ride my bike,
In this thin air.
This flat jackrabbit,
Only makes me wear,
Out the tires,
On my old,
Schwinn bike.
I’ll sling you coffee man,

Anytime…

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