Eggs on bread, eggs on rye.
Eggs in the sky, by and by.
My love for eggs will never die
since eggs will never tell a lie.

Eggs on toast, on a roast.
Eggs are always valued the most.
My love for eggs is something I'll boast,
from east to west, and coast to coast.

Eggs are hard, they never crack.
Unless hit with the force of a resounding smack.
I will be there to protect, and to hold back.
And for the egg's safety I will attack.

Eggs with butter, eggs with beans.
What do you think this all means?
You are an egg; a fine cuisine.
And my love for you will forever be serene.

If I never say what my motives are,
then nobody can judge me.
This is the worst poem you've read;
there. I judged myself.

Time flies like a bird into a window.
A cold, shut window.
It's very abrupt.
Also the bird is blind.

Life passes like the sakura tree,
with its majestic pedals chipping away,
and the next thing you know, it's been cut.
Sold for wood and nothing more.

This is the worst poem you've read.
There, I judged it for you.
You can't say it's better,
because in my head
it's the worst poem you've ever read.

I love my bed.
I can cry on it for hours; days.
It loves me.
It listens.
It understands.

Help.
What a word.
People say I need lots of it,
but I already have it overflowing.
Maybe I need to get larger containers?

Can I trust myself?
My mind is screaming, yelling
for me to do drastic things.
My body quivers before it,
but it isn't ready to concede.

I can't control myself.
I guess that's true.
So I went to ask my bed for advice.
It told me to leave.
Leave everyone who hated me,
and leave everyone who thinks I'm mad.
and at this point, I'm ready to listen to that.

I can stay here,
on this cold Earth.
Tucked away in a corner,
crying a new ocean.
Or I can make a new planet,
far away.
A place I can live on;
A place where I can stay.

The best poem
I've ever read,
was the poem
with words ever so smooth,
and a meaning ever so endless.
I never wanted to let go of that poem;
I wanted to love it even more.
but upon reading the poem over and over again,
this opinion changed.
I wanted to share the poem,
I wanted to see if someone else wanted to read it.
Nobody came.
Nobody wanted to read it.
Not a person.


I ripped the poem to shreds.

Oldspeak:
Save me from this government,
which envelops the land.
Which doesn't give me freedom,
or help my weary hand.

Newspeak:
I'm saved in Oceania,
which is doublegood; much nonwasted land.
BB unstruggles workers,
BB helps unwear hands.

I feel like Christian Bale
in that one movie
"Am I... the American ******?"

the emic and etic personas
collapse in pantomime
like how the Donald destroyed democracy and civil rights for four years.

I feel like the average citizen
who has no choice but to vote
so that I don't get deported once again

When on that night so cold,
and at a midnight so serene.
Why did you take your life
why, my dear Irene?

You have always been my beloved,
you were always happy, it seemed.
Why did you take your life out of this strife,
why, my dear Irene?

Why must you leave me so,
in this depressed world so old.
Whether you're now in heaven or even in hell,
I pray that you feel better wherever you may dwell.

You are buried here, on his hill
I visit here now and then.
While you're body lays here ever so still
I wonder where I should've been.

I should've been beside you,
always respecting and being true.
Caring and welcoming your beautiful mien,
I should've loved you more, my dear Irene.

I always have these fantasies,
where I am with my crush.
We're both lying on the bed,
and cuddling.
Hugging and calming eachother.
I think it's lovely.
Do they think the same?

What is love?
Is it a bind between two people,
or is it just a statement;
a promise to be lost at a whim?

Is true love real?
Every human has pros,
but they also have their cons.
Are true lovers ignorant to the latter?

And at the end of every day,
where is a human's mind,
but inside their own head?
Thinking their own thoughts
and having their own opinions.

Every bond wears with time,
you may try to mend it tight,
but sometimes it all falls apart.

Sometimes.

Ayy it's 2017
A year so changing; a year so keen.
Though some might not see what it means,
2017 set a scene.

Ayy it'll be 2018
Will it be grand? Will it be keen?
What, to some people, does this mean?
Can it ever set a scene?

Through the walls, in the streets.
Contrasting forces in anger will meet.
Differing ideals will turn into action,
Only one will remain as a faction.

Wake wake wake wake wake
confront confront confront confront
talk talk talk
ask ask
ponder

Wake wake wake wake wake
beg beg beg beg
think think think
contemplate contemplate
act

Wake wake wake wake wake
decide decide decide decide
tie tie tie
write write
regret

Ivy.
It grows everywhere.
It can be poisonous,
or harmless.
Either way,
it's ivy.

I want to be like ivy.
A part of nature,
never to die.
But what use is nature,
when it sits and lies?
When it has no purpose,
other than to survive.
Isn't that the same as humanity?

Ivy is like humanity.
It grows around whatever it latches onto.
It adapts to it's environment.
It can be used,
and even admired.
It can also be hated,
and even decimated.

Castigate!
Fill with hate!
Expose their views
at any rate!

Interrogate!
Segregate!
Expose their lives
at any rate!

Disintegrate!
Celebrate!
Expose your own life
at any rate!

When on those nights so cold,
who was there to comfort me but my own bed?
It may seem odd to some,
but for me my bed has always come.

I wrap myself up in it's blankets,
form a cocoon of everlasting peace.
Where pressure nor stress can haunt,
and where no man can taunt.

I talk to myself.
Some might think I'm crazy for doing so.
But what's so crazy about it?
It's pretty normal for me.

My bed has become my home.
I live within it's walls.
Sometimes I become too comfortable,
and bathe too long in it's enveloping walls.

I sometimes find myself in extreme situations,
"This must be due to my bed!" I exclaim,
"It's persuaded me too far this time."
Of course, by the next day,
or even the next hour,
I find myself in those places again.
Perhaps I am to blame.

However, once I've realize where I was,
I instantly recollect my thoughts.
Regret what I was about to do,
and hoped instantly for a new.
And, for a while,
every thing seems to make me smile.
The walls of my bed have faded away,
and I am left in a state of allay.

But that time must come to an end.
According to my bed, it will only begin again.
My bed then reminds me of everything.
Every red line on the skin.
Every rope from the tree.
Every bridge dived from.
Every falsely committed sin.
It reminds me that these exist,
and I will remember for as long as it insists.

Glasses;
so big!
With curves and crevices,
and area so majestic
like a continent never explored.

Glasses;
so revolutionary!
With voice and passion,
and struggles so deep
like a country in depression.

Glasses;
so new!
With a new page arriving,
and vision to again be clear
like a scope through the old horror.

Lose me to the wind,
as your lights go dimmed.
Lose me to the soil,
as your life becomes toil.
Lose me to the sea,
as you post your decree.
Lose me to the sky,
as you say goodbye.
Lose me to the time,
as you hate your crimes.

I'm lost.

An apple fell from a tree.
Did it want to fall from that tree?
Where it was so secure and cozy,
only to hit the ground of reality.

It will never come back to that tree,
it's stems have been cut off.
It'll fend for itself,
but that's hard for an apple to do.

I used to have an obsession with candles.
Their soft yellow glow shimmering in the air,
Their heat melting the surrounding wax,
Their wicks, a lengthy fuse waiting to be terminated;
Their glow shining upon the surrounding area.

They comforted me, like a distressed mother
Holding tight to her kin during a hostile tempest.

They flicker so,
In the still air moving to and fro.

Please don't think I'm insane
Only insane people think that,
and if you think I'm insane
you're insane!

IM PERFECTLY FINE
It's just that
[REDACTED BY BRAIN]
whoops
that wasnt supposed to happen
but yea, I'm fine
you're the crazy one.
you're the friendless one.
you're [NOT] fine.
I'm fine.
crazy.
fine.
FINE.
I SAID FINE.

Wow, you really are crazy!
Haha

A force desired by many, acquired by some.
A drug so powerful it makes a mind numb.
A lack of it makes a man sore,
A myriad of it makes a man seek more.

How do you write a poem?
I'll tell you how.

Place your fingers on the keyboard,
one by one.
Push down and form phrases,
and wham! you're done.

Hit enter a couple times,
to space it right.
Indent here and there,
and view the sight.

If you prefer the traditional way,
that's nice.
Write with a pencil and a paper,
maybe use pen for some spice.

Write a tale or an engaging work.
Write to your heart and your mind's voice!
Write a world full of mystery, suspense or fun.
You're the writer, and it's your own choice!

Is it normal to talk to yourself?
Am I going mad?
Is it wrong to do such a thing?
Can I be called bad?

Depression has become a trend,
having it is part of a fad.
I don't follow short-lived crazes,
but I do feel kind of sad.

I'm only kidding, you know
when I say my life is rad.
Problems are common in life
And I'll never forget what I had.

Sadness, anger, lack of trust.
Depression, suicide, insanity's thrusts.
Topics of the past written down,
topics of the future only to be found.

For the outlandish person, let it be
that hope envelops them back into society.
That they find joy once more;
and they can appreciate life to it's core.

Drenched skin.
Walking aimlessly,
through the rain of life.

Released umbrellas.
Covering firmly,
the change of society.

Chilled breeze.
Blowing freely,
no higher power to judge it.

Calmed day.
Passing beautifully,
no stressful obstacles inbound.

What is there when we all are gone?
What use comes from the greed-possessed wealth,
other than to please our current existence?

What hotel room will the rich reside in?
When they are in the land above,
and where among them will the poor men lay?

What was there for us to know?
When history reaped what it had sown,
and learnt it's lesson: only to forget again.

What is there beyond today?
A figment of time, life and space,
or an investment into the unknown place?

Life is the worst thing to have happened to me,
yet it is the best in every degree,
because without it I wouldn't be pondering the idea.

The cold seeps everywhere,
through my fingers, onto my arms,
and directly to my heart.
The fire heats everywhere,
through my fingers, onto my arms,
and directly into my heart.

Will you light the fire,
to combat this cold winter I've dealt with,
and bring warmth to my heart,
and thaw it to let it feel again?

I know a bit about math.
You add one to another and get two
divide two and get two separate ones.
Do you think that 1 wanted to be divided?
What if it was happy under the aid of the other one?
What if they were meant for each other?

You multiply x by y.
X and y don't go together,
it's by nature.
But it's by choice that they still collide together,
and x and y suddenly seem indifferent.

You divide x by y.
After bonding for so long,
after understanding each of their incompatibility issues
and trying to mend them to better fit,
they're finally divided.
One is now without the other,
the other is without that one,
and they are both separate variables in a cold world.
It's by nature that they remain separate,
but it's by choice that they still remember.

The rain falls from the sky.
The endless sky pelts the cityscape with endless rain.

The rain feels soft to the touch,
a light breeze overtakes me soon after.
It's raining more now, although it isn't heavier.
The light breeze makes me think.
It soothes my nerves.

Look at the rain.
It never had any problems,
finding a job, finding friends,
finding love.

It's purpose is to fall
and get evaportated.
It's friends are beside it
and never leave.
It's love ls likely close by,
atleast I hope it is.

I don't want this innocent drop,
this cold peice in a myriad of rain,
to feel the harsh truth of reality.
And I don't want myself,
a shivering person in a myriad of rain,
to feel chilly any longer.

These letters
placed onto this keyboard
are able to make art so beautiful
and novels so imaginative!
And this metal piece with keys on top,
can also make
h

The army of time marches ahead
while the nervous cling to the edges of hope;
wishing to be loved and cared for
in a future of worry;

Hands dance from number to number
while the pretentious feign having hope;
wishing to be loved and cared for
in a future of worry;

A billion clocks update with ease
while the tired let go of hope;
wishing to suffer no more for no longer
within the chasms of darkness;

The winds of change blow forever
while the dispirited admit to losing hope;
wishing to suffer no more for no longer
within the chasms of darkness.

I hate those people,
who ponder every moment in their life.
Injuries don't hurt them when from the knife
People who struggle to break free from strife.

I hate those people,
who search for their own origin.
The meanings of loss, and of win.
People who stray from their kin.

What are we, but figures of skin?
What are we, but souls of sin?
What are we, what have we been?
What story is there behind a grin?

The stories of men are what I seek.
Behind each face, the messages speak.
Of people turned depressed and morally weak,
and of experiences which leave men bleak.

The simpler life becomes,
the worse it seems to be.
As things turn to basic,
for both you and me.

Take my hand,
elevate me far away.
Bring me to the place,
where there is no dismay.

Where the birds sing freely,
where the skies never turn grey;
where we can both live happily,
and our souls will never fray.

Cup of solid gold,
Probably makes things taste foul,
But it still looks great.

Alluring gaze;
Far away, yet ever so near.
Washes doubt and illuminates space;
Cleans all thoughts of hate and fear.
With it's thick white glow in such a beautiful place.

Midnight wonder;
As time ticks on, it stands there.
Bright and bold does it shine!
Does it know love? Does it know care?
With it's loving pose, ever so divine.

Transitioning power;
When the day is done, no more will it hark.
During the day, life is filled with rage.
However, one again will it rise in the dark.
With it's welcoming of the future's page.

Be it life, a flourishing field,
amidst the cold of time and space.
Be it death, a depressing deal
but a normal passing of our race.
Be it all which to it decides to yield;
Oh moon, bless us with your grace!

Forgetting all my sorrows,
dismissing all my hate.
Permitting all my desires,
to discover my fate.

With a steady hand,
and an easied mind,
I let my pen lead me
to the future I'll find.

A world made by deceit;
Tricksters running wild and free,
Virtue, a fleeting thought.

Your love is a fire
which burns higher and higher.
Started from some caring hands,
it burns throughout our forested land.
It's burned the country mile by mile,
and it won't stop burning for a while.

Hopes hang high, fatigue fails and flickers.
An adventure awaits.
Dawn does disappear; duly, daylight's discovered.

I tried to atone
for what I've done
I tried to regret
but forgiveness has run.

Elevated to entropy,
forced to despise.

What more do you want
in this world of lies?

A voice in the landscape,
summoned by prayer.

Upon disarraying cheeks
a slap flares.

A lazy response,
A crying soul.
Regretting and regretting
as it grows old.

I'm a map,
I can tell you where to go,
I can guide you through life,
I can aid your journeys.

You can use me to help you.
You can use me to care for you.
You can use me.
For I am merely an object,
that has no sense of feeling.

I have no feeling for pain,
so you can throw me around.
Batter me.
Taunt me.
You can crumple me up to throw me out,
and replace me with a new map.
One that's more up-to-date and stylish.
It doesn't matter,
I can't feel,
so I surely can't be impacted.
At. All.

I'm a map,
Use me right and never get lost,
use me wrong and ruin a good map.

I watched the sun rise today.
It welcomed me and made me allay,
but it's not the best sight I've seen anyway,
that title goes to you.

I gazed at the sunset today.
I witnessed the light's dwindling rays,
but it's not the best sight I've seen anyway,
that title goes to you.

I witnessed the late night today.
I noticed the stars; they made me say,
"It's not the best sight I've seen anyway,
that title goes to you."

The sun was bright, and so were you,
The sun came down, and so did you,
Now, the night is as cold as you,
Ever since you went away.

Yelling urges in my mind,
try to tell me that everything's fine.
Yet your hatred for me grows and grows,
for a reason only God knows.

My life was joyful with you on my way,
now it has gone wildly astray.
My hope was plentiful when you were here,
now the future fills me with fear.
My mind was eased when you came by,
now you've left me to simply cry.

Calming voices in my brain,
worn out from the past's strain.
Your hatred for me grew with time,
and now I have to leave you behind.

I made a cocktail.
It's 40% tears,
30% despair,
20% regret,
and 9% doubt.
There's a hint of hope somewhere in there also.

And I'm getting drunk tonight.

This fire,
which burns so freely.
Welcomes me to where I belong.

The fire burns so calmly.
Nothing worries it,
and nothing stresses it.
It can be extinguished at any second,
at the whim of those who overpower it's might.
I will allow it to stay,
as I don't want to lose another.

I can get a torch,
I can strengthen the force of a candle.
I can remove it's relaxing abillity,
and let it grow uncontrolled.
However, I can't lessen it's burning without extinguishing it.
and I can't calm it without killing it.

Burn on, you wicked fire.
Burn on.

Do you hear it?
It's the smell of colors,
The sight of sound,
The taste of light,
The warmth of the voices.

I follow them
They take me to my future
and make me forget my past.
They
Make
Me
Forget
My
Past.

Some might call me insane,
For following my heart,
But I swear that I hear them,
(Especially when I'm alone).

One day I listened,
and followed my soul.
What would it let me do tonight?
What does the future hold for me?
Where will I be when the skies are bright?
What mental state counts as "alright"?

The smell of colors,
The sight of sound,
The taste of light,
The warmth of voices.
Don't tell me your deaf and blind,
to what's obviously there,
maybe you too can adhere to these,
if you might dare to care.

A poet,
hopeful; on course.
Writing not for interest,
but due to force.

A writer,
worried somewhere near.
Writing not for interest,
but due to fear.

Heart pounding.
Knife in my hand.
"God, please take me
to another land."

Mind racing.
My body demands
to drop that thing
within my hands.

Feet tapping.
Urges overcome.
I can't forget
what I've just done.

Tears welling.
In my lover's eyes.
You made me do this,
now why do you cry?

Can we all just
be happy
and not depressed
forever?
It's
    really
        not
            that
                hard.
Or so I think.

Why do people get sad?
Why do people feel mad?
Why do people become glad?
Why do people turn bad?

Questions in life, unanswered to the wind
which comes over me and wraps around my skin.

Is this the end?
Is this where the train meets its own caboose,
Where God meets Satan,
Where hope meets regret.
Am I going to see my end?
Will it take me by surprise
Or maybe I would conclude my own life,
Alone.

Haha
Loneliness is a joke,
I have myself to keep company with.
My own thoughts to adhere to,
Who cares about people?
We all die anyways,
We all die
We all
We.
All.

"Please forgive me",
I can write that several times and wish something would change between us
But nothing is going to budge.
But I still hope.
I still hope.
Don't **** that part of me.
Don't **** parts of me.
Don't **** me.

Blanks.
Wasted parts of space.
Lost in thought and in uses;
a blank canvas without any muses.