Songs to a funeral;- a love they’ll caper to those
Who will use you, leave you when a conclusion is reached-
Bury you a hero without a cape; that seems to be a reach;
Sending you off with a eulogy and a good enough preach
Praises with sweet remarks; devour your memory like a peach

To those who only lived to tear your heart, who will shed tears,
But don’t expect it to be something so dear from their heart
You’ll lose your dignity, in their gossip during the after lunch
While you’re stuffed in a box, they’ll stuff leftovers in a lunchbox
Those you had owed, will be quick to call you a sly dead fox

They’ll wage wars, over all of your once questioned clothing
Claim it’s a war of their love, in a false sense they’ll hide
They’ll pose as friends, in pictures snipped for their timeline
Speak of all the good times they never shared, with a big smile
Say all of the goods things that you’d never hear as a reward
Cry for you not to go- during a service where they are so bored

And you too, will be so bored of such a song for your send off
-So funny that death can bring to life, the worst side of us all

Lost in a waiting room of inspiration to come; addicted to every
piece of word- a narcotic artist. He feels worthless each time his
pen is pointless; point less into the time it takes to come up with
an attractive opening line- does she even spread happily for him
anymore- does he still have the charms to call up a pretty poem?
Brushing her face against his canvas, his hand strokes are slow,
word by word- craving her attention to fall flat on a sheet of lines;
pausing to see that always pleasing shape of letters, curve by curve

“Please don’t curve me my love” he goes- he implores her again,
and again- soothing her with the confidence of it being a two-sided
experience; desperately trying to stimulate that passion between them
back to life, again. Searching for her sweet nectar of words; but like a
beehive, she’s sometimes defensive. So he decorates the scene with
violets, to distract themselves away from the picture of violence

An attempt to spout free the nectar of literary passions, as writing
the perfect poem is gently picking up a flower- attempting to have
its petals open wide. “So spread open my jubilant flower— we’ll
have any astounding story to tell the whole world tomorrow…

I’ve got:
Horns for thoughts; and feelings that are for the vague
Glass for eyes, their tears are just old memories of dreams
A nose exhaust, blowing hot smoke to cool off the engine
A beard of grass; hoping the waters of time helps it grow

I’ve got:
A void for a smile; a darkness that quietly hides away in the pit
Quiet lips made out of violin strings; a humble refrain to play
A mighty sword for words, with a bold voice so cutthroat
And each breath is ******; being an inch of one’s lost vanity

I’ve got:
Wrists like a heavy grey cloud; a sleeve that can easily bleed
Fingers made of needles; an unfortunate hold pinned to the present
Denim for skin; the dyed hues of generations stuck in my genes
Moss for a heart; a love only by the surface- no seeds to grow

I’ve got:
Bones made out of dust; can’t clean the stain of sin by myself
Ginger in my soul; aromatic- filled with a vigour of liveliness
But this body is so meagre; so eager to find new means to grow
But I don’t own a piece of it, at all- I’ve borrowed it for a time,
An agreement with life; as sleep is the middleman and death
Is the Great debt collector…

I heard that your summer was coming
So late; so you kept all of your covers
Hidden eyes; you never really cry in public
You fed yourself lies, so much so- so hard to stomach

Your fingers are tired, you fought your battles
As a keyboard warrior; he gave you no reply
And you wondered why; seeing how love is so blind
You’re the only one hurting- it doesn’t see both sides

Still hoping your love was a Gemini-
Both equal pairs, to love each other better
If you were both like each other; but his response is
So cold, so it will be a while for your love to find its summer
.
.
.
.
.
.
Tell me what season is your love?

Bound by time, blinded by love

Decorated in flesh; for this present moment-
And by the end of a lifetime, we’ll be unwrapped
Out of that box, as the souls to rise up to Heaven above

Still, I cannot sit and watch over days
That would never show interest to watch over me
Days have taught me that a broken heart puts itself
On great guard, and that which remains patiently quiet
During hate, is a brave heart always choosing love

And we could all live together, but often die alone
Mourning our memory together, but neither of the
***** secrets you’ve kept, shall be a burden for
Any of the living, forced in somebody's debt, to own

And all of a sudden, as I held the first sin in my hand,
I’d be cast out of Heaven for my sins. These stones pile up;
each one bearing a secret; I throw them out as pennies for
a thought- and quietly watch them all fall; falling in what
looks much slower than slow motion

I stand around so many perfect sinners; it crowds me in;
as we all go round, and round hiding our hands that
dares to throw a stone. I drew a circle, patiently in the dark
-as a droplet in a river of thought, that flows into a sea that
whispers so loudly every one of my faults

The memories of one’s familiar dark past, grows larger
once recognized; as like a shadow that is stretched
Etched? I bet; as the deal of all those dealing in their secret
***** deeds- so indeed, that a greater sinner does call another
sinner greater.

Everything is momentary to a monumental failure;
Monetizing the currency to a means of life
All in the means of life being momentaneous of one’s strife
And it honestly takes a lot of strife, to inspire my own self
To continue on to write — some days, it feels like it’s all coming
To be my very last moment, of forcing myself to inspire
Someone; anyone willing to connect through the wire
Building fences around the ideas we all seem to like:

We all like to be heard; as countless failures to listen
We all like to be anchors of advice; less the ones to gain wisdom
We all like the appeal of more life; dead cold to life’s experiences
We all like the good cards we’re dealt; but would prefer the odds
Of ourselves being the one’s quietly dealing it
We all like the idea of a superhero; something that supersedes faith
We all like the hope of us being connected by love; but what’s
A wicked heart, if it doesn’t sometimes love to hate

Everything we try to do, everything forced into my eyes
Shows me everything we want to do, is often just a waste.