I was too young to know what I did not know.
Whimsical love penetrated me at an early age.
I promised I loved you and for all this show:
You slithered out of my life and felt no disgrace.

Your love was really yellow tubes coming and going;
in one orifice and out of another.
You danced like a ballerina and put on a beautiful showing,
You slithered out of my life and became my ex-lover.

I made you up in dreams now buried in shallow graves.
Then you came true and without warning I'd found my place.
You left in the yellow night that belongs to the moon,
You slithered out of my life and you made me **** my muse.

Nine years have passed now with little to show for it.
I cower at the thought of you and now I fear flowers in June.
The valley of death I know now has a big, black grin.
You slithered out of my life on the day where lovers meet gloom.

This is the only way I know
how to express my ice cold
sadness.
This is a world
which enjoys stepping
on angels and uplifting
devils.

I am tired.
This was never a poem.

Before I **** myself.
I'm sorry to those
heroes of mine.

Angels are real.

If I live my life second
By ****
Second,
Day by **** day,
I will die.
If I had you though,
Those seconds wouldn't  
Be enough.
Those days would
Not be
******.

I'm would find cadavers
in your heart
(If I really wanted to look.)
Bones and permanent shocked looks
on their cloud white skulls
(Those ***** lovers of yours.)
How they once meant
the world to you.
Now, They have no importance.
Like a Jack O' Lantern after the children
stop pretending to be monsters.

Some will be though;
they just have to grow.
Like those lovers of yours,
until you're able to let go.

Ring up your white flag.
Give up, let go;
no more.

There is
Solace in
Being sad.

It's better
Than the
Alternative.

I grab the bottle by its throat,
I take a chug and feel at peace.
It's 11 p.m. and there's remorse,
It's left me feeling bleak.

The clock strikes midnight,
it's time to rage.
There is only time for lies;
for tonight, I am the worlds plague.

It's 2 a.m. and my liver cries,
stop it, stop, or else I'll die.
I cannot take one more drop,
It's time for bed, alone, for me to rot.

The next morning there is sin on my tongue,
I've lost my pants and my favorite socks.
The night is fuzzy, it's good to be young,
Thank God for photography, lets see all the nights fun.

My heroes are all dead.
Some took bullets to their heads.
Others drowned in gas and water
instead.
Some chose to swallow God down their
throats.
It must have been the devil,
or even worse,
loneliness,
that drove them towards death.
Now imagine if they chose to live instead.
In the end,
this poem wouldn't make any sense.