The idea of eternity seems so savagely mundane.
"In the end we'll all just be stories."
Stories hidden away in immortality.
But hey even Gods die and fade.

Carry on my broken smiling diamonds.
Can't be proud of such bloodsoaked glasses.
I'll let us crack away our borrowed souls.
Let justice fall on our drunkedness.  

Put the dark back in the patchwork of my "Me".
Bleed the day please.
Stand with me in this emptiness.
Dance with our shared silence.

I'm not 22, I am 49 years old.
I am older than my father.
I sit alone curmudgeony reading books.
Society frightens me, and I fear change.
I look out the window into the day and shiver.
The temperature means nothing.
The sun hasn't touched my flesh in a month.
Let's let these letters slide into nothing...

They can't see me and I can't see them.
Hidden away under the nothing-lights.
Close my eyes to dream.
I see through the world and poetry.
I can see them, and my Demons stare at me.

My chest is being pulled till it creaks.
Colors leave the lines and fear takes it place.
Retreat now if only I hadn't lost my feet.
My armor turned to snow, Cold,Soft, and Breakable.

Open my eyes and I can't see a thing.
But I know they're staring back at me.

Given to hours just two alone
I find my way far gone.
I visit a world of alone emptiness.
No comforts just lack of dis-

When I return,
I look at loved ones like strangers.
Forgetting names and myself.
I smile more but care less.

My life of thunder slides away.
In it cracks the sound of nothing.
No futures, no pain, and just those eyes.
They peer soft as fire and hard as time.

If Love is a crown, her smile a kingdom.

Like a simile to start a poem
I can say I did but never tried.  
Took a jump but never a dive.
Just Flittering around
The same ripped up page.
Lights did they dance or sing?
Maybe a lockstep and a drum beat.
Tomorrow is become a prison.
There's no crime in being lonely.

I'm swearing through my teeth.
Screaming "I am the King"
To these ******* machines.
Going till my palms bleed.

I like writing poetry.
I can be vague and hide in hyperbole.
When I am honest as ******* won't know.
Getting **** off my chest.
Suffocating under this freedom.
It's like a plastic knife to my heart.
That was a simile,
The salad dish at the poetic dinner table.
Metaphors are fun like fries but just as filling.
**** this is weird...*Save Poem