Over time, even his mere existence has stiched itself into the very seams that uphold my being

We have become two elements compounded together; I will never regain my untouched identity

You were like a drug, I knew you could be worse for some

Like an acid strip, you only knew when it hit your tongue

But I was addicted; I didn't care enough to stop

Even after a bad trip, if I tried running, I'd withdraw

So I abused the drug, and in return, it abused me

But I'd rather be ****** up, then have my heart and mind empty

it was a bad choice, but now I'm numb and I'm alone

I took too much to quit cold turkey after an overdose

They say it's not a secret anymore
If someone knows
If someone told

Even though it screams to be let out
It's never been spoken out quiet or loud
It won't become real until it's revealed

Only inside me has it been screeched
Within the walls of my mind, reverberating
Until my head throbs and I listen softly

He's unarmed, he's alarmed, the guy's cocking the gun
Gun Guy wants the good thing that everyone wants
He searches his pockets, yet he's still **** out of luck
"I don't have what you want! I don't have what we want!"

'Cause little does Gun Guy know, they're both on the same page
They're both broke, they have kids, and they need to get paid
But the only difference between the two people in the scene
Is Gun Guy's short-lived successes are selfishly made

You whine to the wind
And wonder why nobody's listening
We're blocking you out
And dodging your beloved raincloud

As for him
He wouldn't
Ever live to be anothers "friend"
That ******-up kid
I'd make sure
He'd never see the light of day again
He had nerve
I had temper
I poured the gasoline over his head
His hands tied
His screams now dry
I told him he would end up dead

I pulled out
Some matches
Tossed 'em where the gasoline soaked
A job well done

That animal
Will never
Do me wrong again
His flesh *well-done

I'm a modern poet

The white paper wasn't bright enough
My favorite pencil didn't write bold enough
My black final-draft binder wasn't modern enough
My black final-draft binder might as well be waste of time
Because instead of writing by hand with love and mind
I can select, copy and paste, relax and unwind
Instead of sitting-up in my bed, copying neatly or erasing the lines
I can repeat or forget, without blinking an eye

The words are more significant than this...
Than minuscule, locking it, hiding it, pocketing it

My fingers replaced my pen
A white glow replaced the lines
Instead of writing away unrestricted, I
have-an inch above my finger- the time

Before, I would sketch the date & time at the top-right
Now it appears effortlessly, automatically, without my permission
It's not only my paper (or screen) anymore, I mean, I didn't write that

With a push of a button I can perfectly align it to the right
I can no longer be identified by unique handwriting
A "go-back button" replaced my eraser
I can no longer hold words thin in my grip

I no longer have to protect it from getting lost, crumpled, or ripped
It's as safe as everything else here;
Not any more sacred or precious
If I'm a modern poet

The ease of art is at my fingertips, literally
And it disappears when the device locks

I don't turn the page, hear the paper sound
I scroll down with one quick swipe
I may no longer write the way I have
I'll type it out on a $200 iPad
Rather than a cheap scratchpad
Is my new version of 'scrap paper' more valuable than my work?

The words will remain in my mind
I'll **** them out one at a time
Somehow demeaning them with this
Sensational technology that corrupted mankind

So, I'm sorry, poetry, my outlet, my friend
You poor, pure thing, let us pretend
I gave you more time, and effort
Just as should for everything you really care about

It can be unfortunate,
the power mere words can hold.

Please*
Stop kissing me goodnight
While the taste of her lips
Still lingers on yours
Before I kiss you goodbye
Forever

In cadence they begin to sing
Fearing deadly fate
A chorus of "no"s and "please"s
My brain refuses to wake me
At least this time it's only a dream

In my brain again are their voices
They reverberate
The screams themselves repeat
Not a lesser volume than that of
Agony, remorse, dread, hate