Who are you going to be when you die?
There are so many options that didn't exist when you were alive

Will you become a skeleton?
A solid reminder of your past;
trapped underneath the cavern of your death
but accepting the truth of pure night.

Will you become a ghost?
Haunting your place of resting
forever remaining where your heart is;
sleeping with both eyes open

Will you become a zombie?
such a restlessness you carry,
no elegance to the stars above you;
you struggle against the blanket tucking you in

On the fourth day of April
19:02
You broke my heart

I remember the sun setting
Behind your back
When you walked towards me

And the moon above
Your head
When you left

I think it rained at
19:03
Just as I closed the door

The stars of April
Shone into my heart
But left bullet holes

Ripe little apple
fresh from the tree
bowed down to Newton
thinking life was a breeze

Fell with a crash
landed in mud
looked to the sky
hoped to be picked up

Well what did she know
but a small little bruise
had nestled upon her
after God's cruel abuse

The man whose name was Moses
Walked in on all four noses
Blabbering about the roses
Dying of tuberculosis


My opinions are like glass bulbs
If in contact with solid objects
It will shatter and the light will fade
I don't even know about that analogy
I'm at the breaking point


All eventuality
All inevitability
Is death


Your mischievous eyes
Like a little child
Waiting to steal candy
From mother's bedside

I want to write pretty words
on pretty paper

Live in a pretty little house
in a pretty little village

Lie in a pretty comfy bed
next to a pretty comfy window

And look at the pretty sunset
and the pretty tree branches

Next to a nice pretty Lover
hugging me pretty nicely

Shimmering diamond
For your every little smile
Truly warms my heart

The idea of poetry is appealing
though I never did believe in its great healing

I halfheartedly believed in the books
now I'm stuck thinking of a hook

Will my words be forever hidden
exhibiting them doesn't seem so given

I feel torn between innocence and sin
but that isn't something to put on your skin

Besides, how can I even put to words
what I'm too afraid to be heard

My melody close to heart
isn't a gallery full of art