I speak the language of the ambiguous man
Two false tunnels leading to the paradise once existent
Suffocating in the soul the heart pumps mysterious labyrinths
Intricate twists, lively turns, dead ends, corrupt memories
All leading to the same two doors
Handles made from cherry blossom to conceal ****** wrists
Misleading as barren rock behind the sodden waterfall
And deceitful as the smiles of killers pending demise

I like to fool the world with my duplicitous decisons
Peeping through one door just to go through the other
There lay two paths divided in a somber world
The ambiguity of man prevails
Only when a single door leads to the innocent simplicity
But the truth about lies prevail
When the man not knows what he does
And navigates through his own mindful solitude

I intrude in a broken world filled with people most pernicious
Some call them deceivers while some call them philosophers
Depends on how they see the truth of ambiguity
Two parallel bridges to cross a sea most demoniac
While only one bridge armed with the truthful support
But the world feels much too simple without rails to grasp
As there is nothing to hinder the peaceful descent
Smoothly into that paradise once existent

I'd fairly not speak about the truthful man
But rather the lying hero
For he has more knowledge with the concept of ambiguity
But whom does the stray bullet in the revolver take?
The truthful man or the lying hero?
If the truthful man chooses not the rails out of pride
And the lying hero slashes his wrists out of regret
At first I settle with those who favor the liar
But if I had two bullets
I would see that the pride would also suffice
As the ambiguous man shall die twice
For ambiguity is anything but simplicity

I taught myself how to write poems in the dark
hiding my words like a fugitive hides from the law
I toss poetry away from my body, as if it is starting to spark
I crumple it up and fling it away, even though the words leave me in awe

I stomp around feeling forlorn
after locking each word in a cage
I hide books the way some kids hide drugs and ****
to each his or her own escape

"writing is impractical" is what I've heard all my life
starting at six, when I stated that I had a writer's voice
now when I mention a poem, all I get from my mother is strife
writing is but a mere hobby, not a high paying, good career choice

writing is never enough
impractical is what writers are
and rima girls are supposed to be tough
we work hard all day, then return to the bar

and since a rima girl I always shall be
a writer will never be me

It all kind of hurts
Ok not kind of
it really hurts.
And it hurts more often than it doesn’t
But when it doesn’t
Oh, let me tell you about when it doesn’t hurt.
When I can feel the air I breathe
The languid drifting thoughts just before sleep
Those incredible moments when the only tears rolling down my cheeks are happy ones
When it doesn’t hurt, I see myself as limitless. Boundless.
I can be confident.
I feel beautiful, and loved.
The sweet world wraps its arms around me
And I am safe.
But it all kind of hurts
And that hug becomes a chokehold
And I feel ugly and ignored.
I am scared
When it hurts I am limited and trapped
And the tears turn into sobs
Making the thoughts of the night, terrors
And
I
Can’t
Breathe

I'm gonna wait for a new love,
to scribble out the pain

the pain you left, inside my chest
here, where the ink from my heart pours
out your name.

My paper heart has lost it's beating
and I can't re write my past
so please just write the next few lines for me.
Please let our last moment last..

....

'Cause if love is communication,
and hearts are made of paper..
then let our mouths do the listening
and save the goodbyes 'til much, much later.

It gets better they promised
they lied
now i am standing here young-tied
not sure how to explain myself
the words the looks the thoughts
led past the point of no return
kicking and screaming i tried to release
from the bonds that constricted my soul
a convict escaping through a tunnel
i dug my way to hell and back

It gets better they said
as they stood and watched me fall into oblivion
day after day sinking deeper into the darkness
begging for the solace that never came

It gets better she said
as she took a knife and cut you from the picture
yet you clung to lost hope and broken dreams
the lies and the betrayal came to you like air
breathing in the false truths
basking in the tears
feigning innocence and guilt
For the wrong reasons

It gets better i chant
as I try to see the good you don't have
the good that has been gone my whole life
abandoning me and him
leaving us to bleed from the wounds the secrets caused

Does it get better
i wonder as i witness your actions
you who has ripped apart the carefully placed stitches
you who tore apart my heart and picked apart my brain
all because you laugh at the pain you cause

Tomorrow will be better
i plead on my knees
bearing my soul to the God that you taught me to believe in
the God who you claim to follow
yet your actions say otherwise

With time it gets better...
does it?