What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart

Is this love or admiration?
I just want to have you without contemplation.

I am my own favorite joke.

--

Death's beauty, like black lipstick
Comes in a golden case
It is SO very lovely
Upon a tomb-white face
It may seem very comely
It has a certain grace
It smells of perfumed hemlock
Arsenic. Old lace.

But there should be a label
That explains the brutal facts.
It tastes like gall and wormwood
Like septic sealing wax.

When worn too very early
And applied with one's own hand
It is an invitation

To the Boutique of The ******.


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/28/2016

It came unexpected
But not from a far off place
It came from without our minds
From the dark corner of consciousness

A deep seated thing of Terror
Hidden within us all
From before the world was born
Waiting for its reign to come

Darkness fell and did not rise
As the creature paced back and forth
Among the remnants of the earth
It left only shapeless horror in its wake

Our world had crumbled
I could feel my bones
Turning to dust
As the sun grew dimmer

The darkness was absolute
Brought on by that primordial creature
That beast from beyond existence
The One from within Our Minds

My eyes grew heavy
Staring into the black
All that is, now dark
Fallen to that nameless Terror

Centuries past or perhaps only moments
Ruled by that abomination
Though I tried with all my might
I could no longer will myself to live

I knew I had drawn my last breath
My eyes stared to close
And as they did
I saw a distant glow

Far off into the eternal night

When you look at me
you don't see me
you never have.
You have always used me
as a blank slate
on which to paint
whichever picture
makes you feel better.

I have been
a friend
a love
a source of unconditional support
a fool who couldn't stop thinking about you
a jealous girl
a person uglier than you
someone who will always be there to smile
someone to deny
someone to better
someone to trivialize when you feel trivial.

But never
have I ever been
just me.

And now it's too late
for you to see the real me,
for I am now covered in your paint.