Roses want blood,
delicacy, and
grace.

Flowers want life,
Love, and
care.

Doomed are those
who treat their roses
as if flowers
bleeding
until drought

Long live those
who treat their flowers
as if roses
giving
until downpour

I like the words they use to tell what a poem is
better than any poetry I've read.
Like: fragments, ghost, allusion.

I like the way my ribs move
when someone talks about storytellers;
It's a pride I taste more than during a story told.

A review says 'intricate' and 'masterful'
So I put the thing on a pedestal of stolen adjectives.
My crown jewel is 'aesthetic' and I own it, lying.

What is a creator without his critic?
Condemnation and commendation
mean more to me than original construction.

But then--poets are just the translation of Creation.
And never has a word of soaring perfection
surpassed the garden, fallen.

life use to be so kind
now there's no hope left to find
funny how dumb we were back then
only to grow p and have to pretend
happiness us to be a easy thing
now its as expensive as gold and bling
we try so hard to act like we're happy
but all we know is we feel sappy
don't know why i can't find peace
now i'm stuck on a mental lease
the things we did in the past
the hopes we had that it would last
trying so hard to just live "fine"
cause in this world there is no yours and mine
wishing for things to be divine
your hopes right on a thin line

no need to pretend
your close to reaching the end
the world around you turns so dark
your losing your spark
so deaf, not hearing the dogs bark
or the chirping of a lark
the world disappears for a second and you wonder why
is it your your eyes and mind showing you lies
you waking up only to see the day is done
now you can go home and have some "fun"
which is basically doing nothing and sleeping around
although this sounds profound
it's a daily schedule, it wont change
no need to bother and engage
it'll all be over pretty soon
just look with high hopes at the moon
although dreams don't always seem to last
it's a painful blast
just hold on till it's over
till you feel emotionally sober
wishing you still had imaginary friends
now the pain never seems to end
it's all just a bitter dream
you'll wake up and see a gentle stream
although for some it seems incomplete
so it's fair to admit defeat

I’ll never be happy he told her.
She said it wasn’t true,
that he was young,
that he didn’t know any better,
that things will change someday.
And when they met many years later,
when they were silver-haired and slower afoot,
she said she was sorry,
that she was the one who didn’t understand,
and that he was right all along.
And hearing that, he turned slowly and walked away.

The best writing is that which
Is raw, the kind of raw that oozes out of cupcakes,
And the kind of raw that is bright bubble gum pink on meat.
The kind of writing that the poet doesn’t
Think all the way through with their mind,
But has been thinking about for months
In their heart and just couldn’t find the
Words to say it.
Because poems that are raw aren’t just ugly;
They’re beautiful.