it's about the time of year
that i get sad again
it's about the time of year
that i found out you were dying,
i didn't know if you'd be here at christmas

it's about the time of year
where you started slurring words
and forgetting things too,
but you bought me those boots for christmas
and told me about them a month early
you were so happy about them

it's about the time of year
where i can't breathe
i don't know if it's because of asthma
or if i'm imagining
how it felt to breathe like that

it's about the time of year
where i'd imagine i was on a boat
in the middle of a faraway lake in the UP
i'm a child again and she's much younger too
she's not sick, she's not dying

it's about the time of year
where cancer took my nonni's brain
and made her forget who she was
and how to do things

it's about the time of year
where i cried myself to sleep every night
and prayed to God,
that he'd take anyone but her, take me instead

Go ahead pick up the cup
Go ahead and drink it up
Why’d ya leave your glass half empty
When all around’s a world of plenty

There was love in the trees
There was love in the breeze that blew the leaves too
There was love in my knees
The day I fell for you

There was love in the sky
There was love in the sun that shown upon the earth too
There was love in my eye
When I looked at you

There was love everywhere
And there still is too
It's just that the trees are growing bare
And the sky is no longer blue
But I still have that same look
When I look at you

never trust a poet's words
they sound sweet at first
but you'll notice the emotion in their words
it all sounds too...
fake
"i love you like the sea loves the shore"
becomes too scripted
you hear the small tinge of love actually left in their voice
hoping
hoping it could mean something
but it doesn't
it never does
it's just the way they say it
one day, after they have left
you will find their poems, and they will be the exact words that they had said to you
once long ago

A novice
in poetry,
he can color
a young tree,
a sky in the summer,
an ocean,
or even a dancing
emotion.

But pleading
with the daimon
to come sing
to the sparkling
thunder
that would tear
the rusty dome
asunder,
is a different story
altogether.

(c) LazharBouazzi

oh, how in this dark
oh, how the wave flows,
the sky black and stark-
oh, how the wind blows.

the little dogs bark
their songs full of woes,
oh, how in this dark-
oh, how the wind blows.

the autumn draws nigh -
last splash of the rose,
a withering sky-
oh, how the wind blows!

Alone I walk,
To no one I talk,
No fingers with mine interlock.

Day by day,
In bed I lay,
Wasting my whole life away.

Sad without tears,
But drowning in fears,
My voice is mute to your ears.

Always seen through,
Weighing all down like dew,
With joy, my life can't imbue.

So with no motivation,
and minimal mentation
From life I'll have full dislocation.

Down the road
a child walks,
to a home
his mother knocks.

A house so old,
tired and grey,
a wafting scent,
of decay.

A house with eyes
a house that hungers,
a place of wretched,
horrid wonders.

With a push
his mother sends him,
into the dark,
dismal grim.

She leaves that place,
all alone,
a distant cry,
a distant moan.

The house has eaten
the house will dine,
on the rest,
in the waiting line.

On Halloween
these parents roam,
with naughty children
to this hungry,
haunted home.