you are one catastrophe away
from entering my dark place
i told you, to go back
there's no light for you inside of here
i wish you would stay
but that would be too selfish of me to ask
because you want sunshine and flowers
and inside of my dark place there exists not even smiles
you held onto my hand, right before the mouth of the entrance
said, i'm not going, i'm staying
if you won't let go, then i will
you won't like what you see
this golden picture i've painted of myself had to be consumed by the black eventually
so go back, go back
this is my dark place
it only ever has room for me within its suffocating walls
and i don't want you to fall
i never wanted you to fall

You told me I am your everything but that is not a load I want to carry.

2. You ask me to be patient but I have given you so many chances I have none left for myself.

3. You only started treating me decently after you had lost me.

4. My fear of hurting you was what kept me from being able to put myself first.

5. Does chosing my own happiness really make me a bad person?

6. Does it really benefit you to blame me for your friends ditching on you because you became the person you are today?

7. Should I believe your countless mentions of how everything is going wrong and how it is all my fault? Shouldn't you be the one responsible for your own life?

8. I thought moving on would be hard but moving on from someone you don't recognize anymore is surprisingly easy.

9. Is a promise still valid when it was made to a completely different person?

10. Thank you.

You write for enlightment
The purpose of writing
Is capturing a lightning
That is gone in a flash.
Being a poet is
Wrapping up flames
With nothing but paper
As the resultant ember
Becomes an assault
On the limitations
And confines
Placed on humanity.
Being a poet
Is being a star
That is either dead
Or carrying a burnt
Existence
Just to guide those
Who are lost
With the light of love.

my heart will soon expire
during a blinding rage against
a travesty passing as light breeze
in the storm of this ungodly hour
we sit silent in our own mundane and minute plans
miniscule needs, fraudulent desires
night holds no wishes
no dreams
there is no life in the eyes of these sad children
only the grin of instant gratification

I remember when there were dreams
when there was room for thought
room to search the vast landscape of our consciousness
the curse of having lived before the digital age

we are fading as we flash our rehearsed smiles
we are cooking in our own tasteless juices
we struggle deciding on coke zero or diet pepsi  
as our brothers are beheaded

and we don't blink

i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****,
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.