Against the sea of conformity
I battle waves bent on my arts demise
The roar of the ocean
Tossing between jagged rocks
Curls into tides of social influence
Raging from every side
Crashing together in judgmental remarks
I labor the storm until my inspiration comes
Consistent in my endeavor
Watching as the blurring foam transforms
From a towering blue wonder of negativity
To gently settle, as I  wash upon the shores
Of my unscathed conviction.

Angry words linger
Lightly along the wafting smoke
Of cigarette puffs
Inhaled and absorb
Staining memory as lung.

My poetry,
is selfish
The dead
never stay dead
Twisting in their grave
No peace for rest
As I sprawl them ungracefully
Across my page
Dragging them from depths unknown
To live once more
Amongst my words.

I love the way you bleed,
From passion filled scars
Tempered with character
Dripping of joy and pain
Dripping of purity.
Your crimson ink
First of scraggly hieroglyphics
Meaningless on their own
Takes the form of words
Thriving; prosperous.
A transfusion begins
Seeping between my creases
Binding forever with my being.

False faces
Bound in heresy
Of sinister misread intent
Judge behind jovial masks.
In tones of whisper
Cloaked by darkness,
Shadowy figures
Gather in corners
Conspire and wager.
Terror in the betrayal
Of venomous words
Dripping on your name
Stumbling from lips.
Days are dark
And comrades are few.

Trust no one.

Our silhouettes danced
To heart strung ballads
Unconcerned with reality
As we mocked the dying night.

The blank page…

A writers greatest friend
Or greatest enemy.
When we're all faced with the possibility
That our last piece
Will be our, last, piece.