when i was little
i wanted to be a ballerina,
now i just want to be able
to get up in the morning

I have tried to draw portraits of you
But my pen doesn't do you justice
You deserve to be craved from stone
You deserve to be permanent

One fleeting chance to catch you between trapezes
Yet my head was bowed, my thoughts immersed
In another dream of another life that i longed to live
A moments lapse careers you to that downward spiral
Through all those safety nets, all those webs we wove
Once so secure borne from our labour, love and toil
Exposed now like a promise of night through a civil dawn
As you fall through each of my declarations of trust
You blow out the candles and knock out the lights
Of celebrations and occasions now shattered like glass

Blackness descending through this never blinking eye
As those moments and time perpetually relive yet resist
The blood still refusing to flow freely through my veins
As i sit and wait for this evening coffee to run cold
That i may embrace the sanctuary of night once more
For I was one that could never dream in the dark
No more than one who could ever make amends
Between those two trapezes that signaled our end

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at ****** are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to **** you
to **** anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

I am tired of being human
This body is tired of my occupation
Fortunately
It will be only for today
Tomorrow
I will be something else
Somewhere else

I love original poetry, but sometimes I feel like poets ruin their work by doing weird **** with their form and layout.  There are a lot of poets out there who are clever enough to pull it off very well, but there are even more that just can't, and they sacrifice some of the best words I've ever read to a gimmick.  It's sad really.  Good poetry is art, but if you want to paint or draw, then do that.  Don't **** perfectly placed palabras with weird line breaks, spacing, and alignments that make absolutely no ******* sense and ruin the message.  It's all about the message, man.  You dig?!

When Angels fall like snowflakes
Who will bare that stone?

If I place my lips upon her
will she melt....

or burn?

My heart is not frozen
and so

My tears are warm.

When Angels

fall

Like
Snow

Roosty