Music Banter - Tales of Beedle the Bard

I'm in a sharing mood, let me know what you think, I guess:

1.
If not today the willow speaks,
it’s tales to widows, speak,
a madness wondered,
branches over thee,
once we watch her,

here we find her,
all but sparkling sinew,
and praise, praise
would we

with this light on our brains made,
praise the dust as it lands,
pieces of each other,
but only harder to swallow.

Mother hands grip those eyes of old, we speak.
Laughter poured out of pitchers that never held
Grace, forward we may march to death of our
Selves, only watching for the next version

And these hands, we come together
To tear each other apart
but what do we do,
When we no longer bleed?
_____________________________________
2.

wipe of yesterday's makeup and
act like you
didn't hear what he said
These sober moments
they make me for
closer to death as it ever was
and I say, hands full
how can I know where I am going
if I don't know where I've been
on nights like this you
could slay a dragon, but
not walk the straight line.
When you laugh in the
direction of the wind
it comes back as sobbing
but it doesn't matter
sound can be recycled
under glass they come back on
wishes and second thoughts
you can bear witness
to this tangled mess I've
made of my life.
________________________
3.
Don't ask me about myself.

And insofar no one heeds this warning, and one day a background noise of a man asked me;
"What are your interests, what do you do?"
And the truth is:
I get up in the morning, I wonder if I should. I stretch myself into being and things that be. I think, and I don't know what I think, or what the sun will say.I don't believe in contrived goodness. I believe in being mean, I believe in telling everyone to **** off because they'll always be knocking at your door otherwise asking you to hold their hand on their walk off the next mountain but you know you'd go along but no, no I won't because I listen but I'm not hearing everything, I'm not a bowl or a basin. Oh, it's true as they say I'm sensitive and that my nerves are close to the surface of my skin. I am soft, and as those say, delicate, but I am infinite. I believe in love and force, because I won't watch death because I'm not afraid and sure they'll look at you and laugh when you see right, but you see right through them. I'm unwell, I fold myself inward trying to become small, so very small as life goes through me, but as I become small the worlds fall together, every star could fit in my hand. I sleep through days because the nights are alone, I don't feel this loneliness, and so this sets me apart from you, but I'm more than the I. I am the I, but I am also you. I stumble into funny things with strange plants with no names and I put my hands to the dirt and make them grow into flowers.
My arrogance is my salvation. I like to watch the lights and imagine other lights and other places and other people watching lights and cities full, and people and maps. I like songs that remind me of rain.
These are the things that no one knows.
___________________________________________
4.
I’m living in the middle of
The kitchen in an eighth
Of a night of
Smack and too many cigarettes
The laughing leech in love
Has come to eat his words
I contemplate this as
Mr. Pretentious spews that
I’m too good for him and
Miss Yes ma’am would rather not
Take sides of anything
And I say that’s fine
That no, really,
I’m okay.
(but I just make less of more more more)
And really, who knows me better
than my own bloodstream?
But at the moment
I want to make up for it
By weeping
And by begging
For something I didn’t really want
In the first place.
It seems to me that I
Am taking this in the wrong direction
When all I want to think about is
That maybe on a good day
Bukowski is my father
And my world just might
Be a single solitary atom
On someone’s a$$hole.

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(yes, the last one was really written on heroin, when I was 15/16)