Be dark, night--
on rests the Swallow, the
vagabond, the worrier.

With darkly cauls and veils
of infancy, the blue-bloods
calling:

Mother of mercy, Mother
of grief.

and in greed, he follows,
a blind man wretched beneath
the sun and quiet in the night.

Be dark, night.
Be folded by the belly,
Be milk, warm-cast in life's
coldly arms--

for the transient, the reviler,
wander hand in hand
lonely by the light.

Do not hold a grudge against yourself
For not forgiving the one who hurt you most.
Forgive yourself instead,
For letting them turn around
For letting them stand up as you sit down.

If they cannot handle your brightness
Your darkness
Your heavy
And your light
Then why feel bad for instead keeping them at a distance?

Do not feel as though they should be forgiven
Just because they shouted a halfhearted "sorry" from a distance.
Do not hold a grudge against yourself
For not forgiving the one that made you hard to the world.

I want your days to be filled with manic yellows,
florescent pinks and wild, wet blues.
I want you to live and tell me all about it.
Be a storyteller, I want to enjoy you.
Be an entertainer, I want to love you.
But you're calm, serene.
You balance out my madness.
Two of me and we explode,
two of you and we fall off the edge of the earth.

My dear, if you were to cut me open,
to tear away my measly skin,
you would not find
the contents of an ordinary human being.
You would not find veins
or internal organs,
especially not a human heart.

Instead, you would find a battlefield, with freshly made bomb craters
and you would find discarded bullets,
fashioned from spiteful words,
that were perhaps destined for use on my worst enemies
but were instead aimed at myself.

You would find the remains of a daisy field
with the left over petals
looking vaguely like feathers
that fell from doves
or perhaps even angels.

You would find memories of a tiny village
once colourful and lively
but swept away by multiple hurricanes,
that took all happiness and innocence along with them.

Blood would not pour
from my lifeless body,
but dark cigarette smoke would seep from the wounds,
and if you closely investigated,
you would find that the fumes were made up of
microscopic black moths
that had all my lies and promises
carefully written all over their feeble wings

For I am not a human being, but simply a worn out shell of one.

The fans rattling again.
It's not the only thing shaking in the darkness.
But it's making such a loud racket.
I keep it on anyway.
I'm afraid the silence will **** me.
I fight sleep like it's tangible.
You're always waiting there.
Just past consciousness,
standing in the shadows.
It's always the same.
Your backs to me and it will stay that way.
We're standing in a light rain,
the sun just faded.
I know every second that's about to happen,
yet every time it's like a new cut, over and over.
I say all the same words.
I say all different ones.
It never matters.
This story has unfolded a thousand times.
But it's different every time.
Sometimes I chase you.
Sometimes I scream.
Sometimes I beg. And curse.
Sometimes it's you instead.
You won't look at me
because hope is a deadly thing to give.
You know I'll always tell myself its there.
We all see what we want.
Especially when we don't want what we see.
Back in the dream, it's coming.
The part that will sit in the bottom of my soul.
Gathering weight, gathering dust.
You're in front of me,
but you couldn't be further away.
I'm on my knees.
A promise on my lips.
A disaster in my heart.
You step away.
One step, two, four.
Someone has been hammering my chest.
I'm awake.
Stuttered whirs of a broken fan.
The long length of the night stretched out in front of me.
It's only been an hour.

We are the *******, we are the spicks.
We are the kykes, we are the hicks.
We're the one's who wait our turn,
To read the books you wish to burn.

We are the honkies, the mussies with guns.
We are the beaten, the poor and the dumb.
We see the horrors, the mistrust and the hate.
We are the people, the ones who relate.

We are the chinks, the bindis, the *****.
We are the losers, the mixed and the muts.
We are alone, left to fight.
We are the ones crying at night.

We are the triggers, set on the gun.
We are the fighters, refusing to run.
We see the world through darkened glass.
We see each other as mutants to pass.

If only we learn, it could be done...
We are all different, but we are all one.

I am a man
Who screams by night
And smiles by day.
I look at myself, I don't see me anymore
Just a shell from before, empty and haggard.
My eyes have lost their shine.
The path ahead forgotten
Trudging through mud, looking to the sky.
Now I know for certain, soon I will die.
Not from coincidence or neglect;
From these hands of mine.

The world is full of stereotypes, not that all are bad
I don't agree with them, a person is a person not a type
but their's a saying about writers, writers are addicts
drugs, alcohol, gambling. What's your addiction?

Those who choose to write, those with the calling
we're said to be depressed, we use addictions as a way to escape
from the clutches of a world we can only change in our writing.

As a writer, covering these stereotypes seems like a course in myself
I've been depressed, I've gambled, I wish to change the world.
A stereotype or just a person living in the 21st century.

A broken man
With a heart of gold
Turns to stone
When left in the cold

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?