I write poems for the people to read
but none of them can get what I say.
They can see everything I'm going to speak
but all they can get is that I type in English.
Feelings, Emotions, Passion the words they can grasp,
but the concept they can't understand.
This is a little bit too difficult to read,
so much easier if I could let you hear.
Let the concepts flow and let the English pierce your ears.
With that I'll be able to start your heart;
it' ll go rappa tat tat rappa tat tat.
We''ll be able to pump up the beat,
You and I will understand me.
Intertwining thoughts and imagination
my words are hard to hold,
but my English is that more difficult.
Enjoy the crumbling ceiling of this cathedral,
because viewing works of art makes you feel better.
But you can never understand unless you were there,
being able to breathe the same air
and hear the same thoughts.

Day in. Day out.
Do we know what this is?
I'm happy to say that I don't!
But maybe you do,
and to be honest I can't tell you that I understand your life.
I don't.
Possibly it's the motions of glimmering lights flashing off your blindingly tinged windows;
that seem to let the outside world spill into your unnatural mountains.
Where it only cast looming shadows across everyone else's day.
People that once could see castles and dragons, now only see 9 to 5.
Specks of compost are the only waste left of their Papier-mâché landscapes,
an area that once composed vast fjords and lava pits;
things that only existed in fantasy have been sliced for the day in day out.
Although this is all speculation, since I don't know the day in day out.
I am only a college kid, and my day thrives on speculatory dreams.
Is this the institution that sold parts of your identity away?
I'm sorry to say, but I don't know,
until then I can't understand,
some day I will,
then I'll know if it's them or was it just us the whole time.
That slowly stole ourselves away.

Bring me home
the place where I have escaped from
is it not quite funny, that I will open my arms to jail
embracing the qualms of prison
accepting that in-equivalently freedom is overrated
silently I myself will shackle this life
swallow my breath and strangle identity
depravity will bring awareness
spurring life is the spontaneity

Last Saturday my friend passed away
and when I say what day that he passed away
people have been to think that I joke
but his death is no joke
I may call this man my friend, but to be honest I never really knew Joey
Yes, there was a slight time when I saw this guy, Joe
I only have one memory of him my freshman year of high school
and it was in the that slight time that we were friends in high school
I haven't seen him in 3 years and I only knew him for one
I haven't thought of him in 3 years and I just thought of him for once
With that I saw his death in my news feed and its hard to realize I can never message him
He probably wouldn't even of remembered me, but I remember him
I wear a memorial of his passing on my arm
I drew it myself and this anchor reminds me of him and his crew; all it takes is my arm
His passing makes this the hardest thing to write and I can't imagine the pain his real friends must feel
I'm sorry for us all, I'm sorry for his family, I'm sorry I don't know them, I'm sorry for how we feel
Most of all I'm sorry that I can't help, all I can do is remember
and hopefully me remembering and caring is enough to bring some comfort, I will remember.

Some information will span longer than conceived time
something I whisper into her ear could never be heard again
the hush of my breath breezing past your hair will never happen again
the slight tick you make to stop a sneeze those will be the sounds of forever
the tick of each hand of fate will be a reminder of your ill attempts to prevent nature from happening
those frost bitten mornings, where the only word spoken is "coco?" and the response some soft grumbles
the unsmoothed surface of my pale blue coffee table will always remind me of your unsmoothed lips
those lips that are forever marked from your inability to stop clamping onto them with those semi-whites of yours
this treasure trove of memories will not glisten to the unique beauty of gold, but the dried blood colour of rust
That reminds me the blood stains from our youthful pass probably should be swapped out for new linens
my hands will remind me of their ability to form around your body
creating semi-shackles between the thumb and pointer of either hand
my past coated with rust, those forevers perceived as forever take part in never again
my pale blue coffee table is now bright orange and my memories now glisten gold
I once again whisper into her ear and the hush of my breath breezes past her hair
she as well makes the ticks to prevent nature from happening
all that has changed is her name
and that those frost bitten mornings are now, Sunny afternoons, of lemon honey green tea and soft grumbles
in reply

What's up?
Nothing much just a visualized image of a homicide.
Sometimes the mind wonders around thinking of someones death.
Imagining grey matter splatter across 4 walls, out of the 4 walls of your bedroom.
Your pet cat is fine and seems unmoved as it sits grooming.
Sometimes this event occurs because hopefully you've fallen onto hard times with ****.
Other times it's just the usual thing, wrong place wrong time.
It's kind of a game of cat and mouse; the only thing Jerry is that my dreams don't come out as a cartoon.
Sometimes the process of muscle and bone twinges leave a sweet rhythmatic tune.
But the one I like the best is when you pay for your own suicide, it's only worth a dime.
The insides pool and leave such provocative tinges.
Your new found beauty is the only thing that can make me cringe.