I cant think

I cant think.

Words sound like burning houses and footsteps that crackle on twigs in a forest fire.

Like piano trickle touch from numb hands to deaf ears.

And this shaky persona of what is called truth, turns to iv needles , heart beats per minute, like slow waltz dances of death, which is with in our words that speak like silver plated gun shot 45 caliber rounds, like children playthings. So we wait our turn.

The reaper of life is an abrupt period on the end of a beautiful sentence.

A deceitful puzzle, chiseling away at your back bone memory, like tattered rags to cover your bruised
egotistical metaphors, caught up like hammering key strokes with in the hands of time, focusing on the corrective momentum that keeps you sane, for one more day.

I cant think.

Words sound like choking minutes on the metronome scaling like dragon serpent tongue.

Like broken ladder steps from soaring minds and mute voices.

And as this tremble quake like shivering shakes, we turn our heads to complete the choices
we make from past mistakes, of a higher idea, that leaves
no room for the creations of what
was laid like lacerations of a younger year , stuttering like giving more fear towards the influential
steps leading to what we know as here,

the present day murder of martyrs ,

the still birth giver of first starters, a concubine of
abortion divine ,

a truth well stricken but not enough to be well given a proper burial ground, so we pray....

Words sound like soft dog whimpers and the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle.

Hollow misused instruments of death swallow.

And as this humming tune comes to an end, the heart beats per minute, with the wound that never mends, molded like silly putty to the mind of a local nobody,

We leave like the piss stained back alleys that we are.

I cant think.

Written by Adam Guerra

Posted 09/03/12

Pat

Pat 

Have you ever wanted to spread your wings and forget about the world

like really spread your arms and feel the deserving air, reach into your lungs and grab your verry existence

and yell into your ears, pound on your chest and rush like water falls to the edge of all your bounderies
Push up off the concrete floors that have set you in your path of delusion and snip off all of gravitys little tricks
so you can finally smile forever so you can finally smile forever....

I knew a girl who once did, she would breath in second hand smoke and stutter her way through school with no real heroes except for
her cousin she drew on the only purple note book she had, and everyday would be a new reminder of somthing she never had,

Parents that cared for her....

While daddy was out selling crack..

Mommy would whore her body out for nickel bags of pot, with out any hesitation for the goodness of humanity as
the whole torment of stranger danger consumed little pats life,

she dreamed of snuggling with a big stuffed teddy bear
that smelled like strawberries insdead of an ugly pillow that smelled like and ashtrey

She dreamed of holding hands with compassion instead of being pushed away by hands that were never washed
her mind was a house filled with crack pipes and heroin nightmares, her heart beat was like a record on repeat
as needle skipped from father to mother to stranger to her only brother.

Though her voice was not strong, her heart matched towards the want of a better life, cut away from the cocaine nose
jobs of parental guidence that put shame into the eqaution by entering her memories forver, like an addictive itch she
cant scratch, as if to never go away from the emptiness of a refridgerater, or the dry thirst that was provided everyday,

She watches in slow motion like time being disected by God, her family being ripped apart by drugs, and her cries get stronger,
till ther is no stutter left in her vocal chords to hook onto rehabilitation by her eyes, she has seen more hurt in her 10 years
of living than I will ever, and she mutters softly spoken sentences to me that only come from 30 year old wemon.

I dont want to be alive she says!

If life is this hard, shoot me dead, shoot me up, leave me for dead!

and as My head turns away, I see somthing like ghosts , startling my presence.

She is gone but not forgotten, my little cousin of only 10.

Written By Adam Guerra

Posted on 08/12/12

First Child

First Child 

Tonight I am feeling alittle mis treated, beyond this greaving distaste in my mouth
there is an empty pit growing, seeding like amputations of lesser known minds
that grow quietly like open casket veiwings and as i accept my fate
the rythmic expectations that were once singing like melodic choirs of angelic voices
drown out the pain caused by years of alcoholic vices

And I know in the timid explanation of two hands that time has shown
we have not been introduced to an original happiness like this before
all has been structured by the artifical drooling of ugliness
and chemicals just look like fuzzy faces that I drink away

Plain sight is no more a beautiful image if all I see is ugly!

Colorblind imagery is not good if you are wanting to paint the world!

And by the timing that has flourished through these grape vines for bones that blossem sweet nectar
for blood and sweet somthings from whispers We remember that the second hand of vertical descent towards
the 6 foot imagination hustling deeply nested liked baby birds before the moment of jumping is manicly 
inspired by instinct, so we try to look forward with out using the hanging rope that our reasons provide us

We dont want to kill imagination for more reality!

because reality is a peice of the problem

Because there is a kinder story than rape

Becuase there is a map inside our palms that grow to our hearts and the beats per minute show as footsteps
deaply nestled inside the sprockets of our machine bodies, needing more electrical current hugs and kisses 
to inspire the fire with in our time capsule memories.

because we , like any other animal need love, this compassion of written sentences acted out like paychecks
that cause smiles from a hard days work, when left splintered by the aching mind of other individuals that 
think they work harder than you, by the back breaking endevours that swallow you like 5 zoloft pills
in the middle of a long 3 am wake up call, beneath the endless script of never forgetting with what you are stuck
with, clarifying the balance of compassion well given by driving the pen further down the road , to escape the near
ending fear and we scream like leaporsy burns!

WE will not give up!
We will stand in this unit like needle pins in the skin for soft measure
Untill we gather more corouge to push back even the most evil of ignorance
untill it surrenders with white flags and buckled knees
untill the phrase "i will try" turns into "it is done"
untill the moon finally gets its wish to be respected as much as the sun
untill My wife gets her happiness back
until my brother finds that he is perfect how he is
untill my father realizes he did a great job in raising his son
untill my mother finds out that she has inspired me to do my best

And we stand like abrupting volcanoes, spewing out the magic that covers all like silk blankets for resting

We grow unto fully fledged spiret cadavaers that breathe the same as love gives off
and forge ahead the timing of exhausted minutes, but the smile of the observant never questions our questions
becuase some where out there, there is a man by the name of Adam, who knows not the awnsers, but he will sure as hell
try to find where his beginnings will end.

And as he stands amongst a crowd of famliar faces and strangers, once again holding his heart out on his sleeves,
tucking away at nothing that scabs or heals, he hopes to find dignity, in the fields that lay before him, planted like
seeds from the words of other poets, just like him.

Written By Adam Guerra
Posted on 08/12/12

My four chamber Chariot

"My four chamber Chariot" ( For my Wife)

I keep this fire stored in this chariot heartthumbing like papers that pull apartAnd I know that time can be a killerA distinct recipe for new born thought thrillersBut I reach and climb these unbearable mountains I call ideasthey pull and tug my head thoughts for comfort and its not finished yetSo we wait....

and its like kitty cat claws through wool when were are togetherWe may disagree and some parts may tether, we make a good blanket when it gets cold

I cant help but make sand castles out of your voice and not fear when the tide comes in because of the barrier of joy

our silence is more than golden because if it wasn't it would be a price and this is priceless

We don't let the wonder of the unjust misguide us

Lets just wait for the time to disguise us

put us back into the chariot heart that finds uslike thumbing through papers cause this love is a must

And I cant wait for our mountains to crashand our oceans to sing songs of nonsense

Its like kitty cat claws through wool, you an I

and I cant help to make sand castles out of your voice and not fear when the tide comes cause I know we can rebuild this three foot frame work

We have the blueprints tattooed on our wedding fingers

We don't let the wonder misguide us

Lets just wait for time to disguise us

put us back in this chariot heart that blinds us

Written By Adam Guerra

Posted on 6/22/12

‎:Bed sheets like wire threads:

‎:Bed sheets like wire threads:

there is this purpose well driven, hidden behind the sovereign pontification of my ring finger, itching that five star part.

It's reverence, like soluble decadence, showering more than the masticating of thoughts.

our pre determined waves of nostalgic circumstance, cowering, blindly stimulating, all-ways intact.

The curse, void of sun lit shackle, in defiance, our roar springing like accountable mourning.

Because our morning is here.

Pushed onto, Born into this semi confusion, linked by memory of vintage position.

Collapsed recognition by renewal of division.

I sit awaiting the day, you ask of me in silence.

Our chariot of unspoken thrive.

A balance of equivalence.

Our unshared position of sarcastic posture. like rustic annoyance , through shepherds gaze.

I await you in the asking of silence. 

- Adam Guerra

Posted 06/12/12

"To the wolf, to the wolf"

‎"To the wolf , to the wolf

Like the stalking of stoic sentence,

the rapture in these still beating palms.

Hesitant disregard by formality,

lifting emphasis, worn out.

Ill commotion, the lavished condition, 

setting back hands that break

time, it's re inventive stabs of made up leisure, 

corrosive trickles of misused conundrum.

Like faceless moments of uncommon goals,

our minds flock bequeathed under the scorching of reinitialization, 

ticks and tocks of luckless nothing.

We wait for the dirt to seep through the wound.

Because to the wolf, to the wolf.

Written By Adam Guerra

Posted 06/08/12

"Cigarettes"

"Cigarettes"

We are Flies.

As pure as snow, we are flies.

A mass of re invented leisure , misled and cut out like paper mache dolls, contending with the idea that we need the volume of silence turned up louder, because the wind seems to blow us away with its booming gusts and violent sways.

The same audible sound as of bombshells to the clasped ground, as of finger tips hitting stringed instrument, as of flesh to flesh.

This is the part where we turn into robots, and our hearts turn to machine hearts and our minds' to machine minds, we enter the program and default our lives to non human.

We live blind and happy.

Written By Adam Guerra

Posted 06/06/12

(((((Little death and the mailbox))))))

(((((Little death and the mailbox))))))

I had always wanted to varnish the misconceptions of my life, wrap them up, bandaged

and bruised by war, because we are entitled to this massacre of emotions and drop

dead dissemblance.

Silence seems to defend most of the radical insight that deems worthy in my mind,

calloused and subjective towards fever based concepts, involving the changing of my

own conscious demeanor.

Yet I remain in this slant of ambivalence and nocturnal non sobriety.

Forcing vintage, marked burns, tattooed on the farthest corner of my brain.

We are unkept.

Forced by maladjustment and social paranoia, to conform in bouts of disarray and

perpetual madness.

Though, our numbing outline of ideas serve purpose, the second glance of questions is

variably put into circulation. 

Am I alive?

Am I dead?

Am I really me?

We all serve our selves with hope and a side of faith based reassurance, but when the

piano trickles down the keys and you feel the low end bass tone that curls your toes

with uneasy restlessness, only than ,will you know that there is no such thing as truth,

only evaluative response.

By fraying the stringed nerve endings.

My collective mind will share with you:

The binding of hands. 

The wiring of mouths

The addiction of conditioning.

Written By Adam Guerra - Posted 05/12/12

((((((A Ghost in the Room)))))

‎((((((A Ghost in the Room)))))

From every angle he felt the depth of singular emotions, first came the notes of her

voice, frozen in slow motion in front of his eyes, casting little spectrum of color from the

closet light that had been turned on the day before.

He began to reach for the sounds but failed to realize his mind playing tricks on him.

To him there was no ocean he could not cross.

No mountain he would not be able to crush.

Tornadoes had no budge to his thick framed mind.

He was a champion that night, playing with her voice like a violent orchestra that would

shake the feet of any classical master , palm muting and finger picking away at her

beautiful figure, her mind was his music sheet and his memory of her was his

instrument.

In great timing he would create simplistic tone and euphonious image that rendered

canvas and oil paintings to create genius image.

To him, there was nothing more in this world but the smell of her skin.

No anchor that would be able to keep him still.

Black holes had no pull to his thick framed mind.

He was an artist that day, with premonition to even make a broken heart into a

showcase, illustrating the common ideas of four chambers, complimenting the four loves

of this world, infusing the brush strokes with emotional value, remembering the color of

love and laughter, closing his eyes as her musical notes bathed him in salvation.

She was louder than thunder, She was louder than his own thoughts.

He lives in New York.

She hasn’t seen him for 8 years.

He waits patiently with the closet light on.

Written By Adam Guerra- Posted 05/12/12

((((((((((((God is dead, Let's go to sleep)))))))))))))))))

((((((((((((God is dead, Let's go to sleep)))))))))))))))))

It was relevant to me, as I sat in this stoic isolation, that luck is a fabricated story,

endlessly sought out by charms and relics, to infuse bastardized thoughts onto men and

woman.

There is no end to my macabre foundation, in sight I am of statue, in audible

conversation , the collapse of the twin towers is a complimenting sound.

Care to run down the stairs with me?

We will count the bodies thud on the way .

Lets face it, we are karma, we push onto our own will and excuse ourselves by placing

the figment of greater known stories not yet held as fact , but by imagination.

My imagination is God.

My imagination is Dead.

My imagination was a flow of ink.

My imagination is a worthless fuck.

My imagination has no vows.

My imagination is a mushroom cloud in the garden of Eden

My imagination is.

Shame is the disfigurement towards the guilty, but the social norm puts in policy for the

counter culture to act as if disfigurement is a birth right.

So the cruelest of jokes is played by fallacious remarks and contended insight to the

abolition of what “we all believe” versus “what we know “, the subtle contradiction of

this quaint match seems poignant and out of breath.

Try to keep up with the race.

Written By Adam Guerra - Posted 05/10/12