Death
Is a backdoor man
Comming in as sneakily
As he can
To steal your wife away

Although you may be livid
His ecstasy and euphoria is
Unmatched
And is making her happier
Than you ever could

Some would hate him to come around and lift them off their feet
Other wives await his arrival with excitement
Sometimes even to the point
They come knocking on his door
A few stay loyal and cheat him his chance

Eventually he comes and claims what is his
With a dominance no other man could bare
And when he takes them with this power
Pleasure is eternally theirs

there is man who wants to live
there was thousand like him
millions - billions like him

no formula has invented
to cut his sins against others

the man keep burning
born from his ash
keep burning

tender soft touches
playful stroking and kisses
woman on woman

The function of a violet is to grow
out of dead leaves,
turning decay
into itself.
A poem too builds a little sense
from the rubble of life (what branches grow
out of this stony *******?). One and the other
flower according to their nature,
seen by those
who know what they are looking for.

A violet is not a poem,
but the message is the same.

I'm stuck in this eddy.
And I'm such a poor swimmer.

I get swirled around.
Like a little helpless fly
caught in a wineglass.
Unbeknownst to the drinker.

I'm stuck in this eddy.
And I'm such a poor thinker.

I allow my mind
to get swashed around...
Like a lone sock
in the washing machine.
Lost without its other.

I'm stuck in this eddy.
And I'm such a poor survivor.*

So I just submit
to the will of the currents.
Like an empty bottle.
Stuck head down at the neck,
in the bathroom floor trap.

Sink or float...
I can do neither.

What hurts me most
Is not knowing
Your heart has no desire for me.
What hurts me most
Is not the knowledge
That I will never have you.
What hurts me most
Is knowing
That the one who has you
Will never truly love you
Just for who you are.
Oh I know she will love your beautiful parts.
She will laugh at your jokes,
She will live for your body,
She will smile at your crazy, carefree antics.
But she will never love your ugly parts.
The parts you hide away from her.
The parts of you I know.
What hurts me most
Is knowing
That she will grow irritated
By your bizarre, obsessive habits.
What hurts me most
Is the knowledge
That she will learn to hate
Your shaking, angry lip.
What hurts me most
Is knowing
That there will be nights
When you fall asleep
With the person beside you
Never telling you
That she loves
Every dark part,
Every lovely part,
Every strange part,
Every joyous part,
Every monstrous part,
Every part of you that makes up you.
Every part of you
That I love
(And I love,
And I love,
And I love)
Behind my silence
And pleasant facade.