Objection, your Honor!
On behalf of the accused,
I demand that this excessively
    harsh sentence be reduced!

Beside that, Your Honor
Can judgement be dispensed
Behind the subject’s back
    and without hearing his defense?

Moreover, Your Honor
Is this what you call fair?
To destroy, with zero evidence
    a man and his career?

But answer me, Your Honor
—Though I highly doubt you can—
Who gave you the authority
    to judge your fellow man?

There once was a boy
And that boy was named Me
The boy had a heart
and a head, and a knee

He had other limbs, too
But what puzzled him most
Was the sensitive heart
to which he was host

What lay inside it?
And why was it there?
What made it cry
when its soft skin would tear?

The boy was intrigued
And so one rainy night
He got out of bed
and he turned on the light

He went to the kitchen
and got a small blade
He paused for a moment
a little afraid

He took off his shirt
So it wouldn't get stained
when he'd open his heart
to see what it contained

He steadied his hand
and dug into his gut
He ripped out his heart
and started to cut

Ignoring the pain
he continued to slice
Secrets, he knew,
always come at a price

As his heart shrunk in size
Like a punctured balloon
The boy understood
that he'd die very soon

He reached the last layer
and peeled the last peel
And the last thing he saw
Was a small ball of steel

Behold! The sight
               of shifting eyes
      bouncing ‘round its fellow pair
As darkness falls
               and contact dies
      mirroring the moon’s harsh glare

Hearken, ye!
               That subtle sound…
      the dying gasps of slaughtered words
Sputtering
               as they are drowned
      by dropping pins and cricket-birds

Alas! The stench
               of stale vibes
      the sweaty feel a handshake leaves
The aftertaste
               your mouth imbibes
      of musty webs that Silence weaves

It’s hard to define just what makes it so fun;
The comic relief, or perhaps it’s the thrill
But if you’d ask us which game was our favorite one,
It’s Pushing the Wheelchair Down Roseberry Hill.

No-one in town recalls how it all started,
But it soon became part of our daily routine:
To the hilltop the handicapped kid would be carted,
And we’d laugh as he fell, till he couldn’t be seen.

Oh, the terrified look that he gets in his eyes!
And that whimper, I tell you, it never gets old.
Nor does the echoing sound of his cries
As he tumbles and bounces; it’s comedy gold!

We don’t know his name; see, the poor kid is mute.
Luckily, though, he still knows how to scream
He screams all the way down, which we find rather cute,
Then we do it again, till we run out of steam

Now, now — there’s no need to feel bad for the kid;
The screaming and crying are all just for show!
It can’t actually bother him much; if it did,
He’d man up and stop being handicapped, no?

This is a poem.

I wrote it because I'm sad

and if somebody likes it,
maybe they'll say so

which might make me less sad for a little bit.

we got married in a small church
outside a big city,
a building that saw better times,
surely,
but got on the time's bad side.
we believed that love could save us,
that love would set us free;
and a few years later
woke up, like strangers,
on the separate sides
of one bed.
where did that love go?
when did it disappear?
one doesn't walk
into the same river twice,
but falls for the same flaws,
same vices.
we shared our vows in a small church
outside a big city,
naive,
wrote them with our hopes,
tied them with gold.
a few years later,
where did that love go?