He sliced me up in a way that meant love.
He killed what was left hidden beneath my bed.
There are dried fruit baskets from lovers I've yet to scorn.
Suicide, let me take a break.
You've become singular in a plural world.
Of course the flowers dance when you wear that summer dress.
They can't take that from you;
Not on this night, under the summer unknown.
Golden rewards pull on my hair, like a submissive ex lover.
It took my favorite brooch, my mothers white brooch.
It was given to me before I was reborn again.
Suicide, let me take a break.

Behind that cracked mirror is you.
It's the oh so painless visible truth.
That's you in front of you.
What a beautiful view.

You ate me up like my mothers
fresh cooked meal.
You've broken my seal.
Let us sit, enjoy this meal made out of pieces of me.
Look down and see;

What a beautiful view.

A child once told me poets are magicians.

I showed her the trick.

Now we are all crooks to her.

I can only die with the darkness.
Of course there will be a mess.
You speak my name and I break apart,
like a poorly, worn down piece of art.
There is no peace in this soliloquy;
at least not tonight.

I can only die in your darkness.
It's the only one I know.
Your kisses are now merely blackness;
I once had a youthful soul.
There was never peace in this soliloquy,
at least not that I know.

Rabbid mouthed youth, you stung me at such a young age.
They call you cupid, but I know what I see.
A trickster, hiding your cloven feet.

You've killed me once before, when I had graze.
The time has come for you to feel the *****;
your crime.
Falling in love isn't falling at all.
It's a black hole where even the light cannot escape it.

I step on the corpses of your victims tonight.
I can smell their rotting hearts, from left to right.

It's time for me to join them, I have to go.
I can only die in my darkness,
and this is the way it must go.

I leave behind a lesson.
I hope you live a life unlike mine.
Love dies and it will **** you,
but please, don't give up hope.

Besides,
No one knows where that light really ends up.
(Maybe the eyes of lovers new.)
Who really knows.

White wings mixed in with purple paper.
That is the angel for me.
Bold letters and special guest,
this is the band I need.

"I love you, I'm not gonna crack"

Feed me your revolting hate.
Please strike me down once more.
I love how you leave me drained,
leaving me,
feeling like a *****.

A victim has never said these words.
Ever.
The victim is never the one doing the attacking.
****.
They are God's mistakes and the devils
rejects.

Down through the riverbed is an underlined truth;
They have it better than us.
Critters that walk with their own pace;
no plan really.
Creatures that **** because of need;
not for enjoyment.
Their sunny days are better than ours.
Their rainy days are heaven and hell.
We live with them, not them with us.

I cannot create a universe within structure.
My child like hands are not up for the job.
Rhyming this and taking out that,
A poem is simply an idea left for the masters.
Only they can show us the way.
They are the best reflections of God.
Oh show us the way!

"I don't want to."

Perfect.

Pour the magician a glass full of rainbows.
Pick your poison, pick your fuzzy pain.
Smash through walls and collapse from your sorrow,
It's 4.a.m again, there is nothing more to gain.
A shot for his royal pardons,
A sip for her lovely corpse.
The bottles leave you disheartened.
The ****** ***** you, now your voice is horse.
A forced laugh runs out of you;
there was once a happy child in those eyes.
Your world has left you ******, and bruised.
She's a magician and hides using the oldest disguise;

she hides inside your heart.

Beyond those pages of yours are truths,
and lies.
In these binders are clues,
for this life.
Reap the rewards of a good poem,
and please,
don't be afraid to die over and over,
within these books.

Miracles turn yellow over time.
Look at how they crumple when wisdom meets
you,
but only when it's right.
Young child of mine.
Indestructible only within my pages,
please,
don't be afraid to come with me and die,
over and over again.

A grasshopper is dead on my windowsill.
It's hopped its last hop.
A bee rest gently next to it.
It's rested on its last flower.
Beyond that though, they are alive.
They aren't alive in the archaic sense,
but their footprint is all around us,

beyond my windowsill.

I envy the shadow of a tree.
Oh how it dances every single day,
like clockwork; because it is.
Its green children in summer.
Its brown ones in fall.
All live and die multiple times.
No sleep for them, just white death;
black life.

Do not hate.
Do not devastate.
Do not discriminate.
Do not pray.
Do not try and escape.
Do not change.
Do not think me strange.

Black blotches dry on the brim of the
Yellow paper.
This pen cannot breathe tonight.
It's tired of your sad love letters.

You have fangs as sharp as your wit.
My Delicate lips tremble at the sight of you,
But not at your aesthetic.
You broke me at seventeen.
Dried me out at twenty-five.
This false idea of you felt rather true.
Like most things, I chose to see my truth.

Tasteless sass filled with dreaded plights of mine.
Pockets full of dried receipts from a time that has died.
I tremble at the thought of you now.
Death wrapped in silk sheets.
That's the death for me.

I stood on a city corner and cried.
I heard a car horn and sighed.
The light turned green at the crosswalk,
but I did no such thing.

This was our city.
Those were our car rides.
I want to blame you and call you names, but I can't.
August' scent is peaceful, just like you were for me.
I made you a God.

The devil in me did that.

Barricade yourself behind sheet thin walls:
you have a lover and his lust.
A velvet rope will suffice.
As delicate as your skin.
As sinful as your tricks on her heart.
You pestilent child.
Your lies as thick as her favorite book.
Lies converge with truth on black nights.
One covers the other.
I could never tell what is what or who is who.
The city stands over you and stares, shamefully.
Those tricks are the work of the devil.
Those sins are perfected by man.
Caress her skin and lie upon her.
Finish what you started.
Every stroke is a lie, a crime, best seen blind.

Hate hides behind motherly kisses.
It festers deep within those gargoyle hisses.
It scabs over, but never truly heals.
The right person can unearth them,
Like time capsule seals.
Daddy, you were sometimes there, but always scared.
My father was a child before, until you became his thorn.
Concrete steps were your way into his heart.
Looking back, that idea wasn't very smart.
Those scabs in the past are left feeling damp.
They never truly heal and I feel like a *****.

You were my poetry.
My tools with which I wrote.
Then you left.
Now you are all the poems I never cared
to finish.

The last one is always the best one.
The next one is only the next best one.
The one after that is what the last one was not.
The one before the last one was the best,
I swear...
I mean...
before the next one.
This is the ultimate rat race.

Our hearts are the hopeful romantics.
Eventually one of them will be the one.
Just not today.
Just not tonight.

Will you the my next one?
Will you be worth the try?

It's funny how it's never funny when people say
"It's funny, you know"
No one laughs.
There is no joke.
They are reminders of a lack of them, actually.
Put them behind velvet ropes and adore them.
There's your joke

I laugh now.

Play with my brittle spine on this
June and sultry
night.
Ruin me and ******* hate for you.
The rapture is coming, but only tonight.
Cross your eyes and see yourself from yourself.
Run away child! Whisper in deaths rustic ear:
I am here. I am here. I am here.
Freet of the all black piano keys. Disallusion
has run rampant tonight.
Look at the half bleeding moon.
Oh how it sends shivers down my weak spine.
The fields are full of grace on this red and black night.
Chances mingle best with lust. One without the other is
me without you.
I blame you not for how I am now.
I was like this long before the moon shone a light
and peasants knew what real plight was like.
You were my rapture, and it came at night.
Whisper into deaths rustic ear:
I am ready to die tonight,
but only under the moonlight.
Only tonight.

Everyday, at the crack of dawn ,
I wake up and **** myself.
Instead of a knife, I use a pen.
Instead of blood, ink is spread.
Soldiers march in formation,
from left to right.
They follow the orders of their master,
always leaving blood and massacres in their path.
This war is twenty-seven years old now.
I cannot corral it though, I've tried to stop.
With time comes lessons,
some will never have the honor to be learned.

At the crack of dawn, I wake up,
and **** myself.

Every single day.

There is a monster trapped inside my head.
Oh how it seeps deep within my inner monologue.
I swear it's the darkest voice inside my head.
It protects me from the things I've left unsaid.

Forced words are poison for my whimsical, pulsating heart.
I'm sitting on a rickety chair, hoping for a tap on the shoulder
from God.
It will never come.
Leaves dance outside your window, and still,
nothing.
My motivation for life has always been tied to foolish words;
foolish people.

A musk is left on my scarf from the night before.
It's from the woman I did not speak to.
I can write now.
I can dance too.
Of the things I still have not done.
With the music that will never come.

Your blue eyes are infections for each one of mine.
My double barreled siren.
Stop killing me with that look.
Piercing oceans slap against my
Sea side ribs.
Tangent truths are dead to me.
Your blue eyes make sense to me.

You are my guarantee.

An infestation has stammered into my heart,
(your eyes.)
I see my breath in the air,
(get of of my head.)
Please, I beg you, get out.

All of you out of all of me.
Stagger your way out of my innards and down those
rotting stairs.
My hearts forgets how to work with you
in it.
Make your way down into the basement and die there.

My head swells up with loathsome thoughts
of you.

Sweetie, honey, Darling, I beg you...
Please, get out of me.

You must be evicted now.
I am tired.

I am not the self described squabbles in my head.
I am not the sorrowful truths left unsaid.
I am not a fetching dandelion, unable to run.
I am not all the inflections at the end of your tongue.
I am not your precious suicide notes.
I am not secure in your idea of hope.

I am, however, worthy of this life.
If I thought any other way, I will only deny, deny, deny.

I am denial.
I am pompous.
I am worthy.
I am Light.

If you happen to fall in love with me,
just know, and this is so,
I will be your sunshine and your rain.

I apologize for both.

I expect not a savior,
But a light that shines out into
The ocean.
I was the lost ship for so long until
I saw your light.
This is balance.
The look in your eyes should be
A crime.
Lock me up.
Melt down the golden key.
I want to be behind those brittle bars,
With you.  
Only you.
This is true.

Rhyming words feels forced tonight,
Like my hatred for you.
I spin miracles with my black pen.
All that's left are tears streaming from
Face to paper.
Static thoughts pierce my mind tonight,
And I cry.
I can't quite write tonight.
There are words, but only the ghost
Of them.
I thought I had buried them looking ago.

I drink out of the bottle,
Desperately,
Like a baby does in its blissful youth.
The tools are ready, but the craftsman is off,
Broken perhaps.
I try again, but all that's left is my trembling right hand, and the fact:
I can't quite write tonight.

I spit out vowels and consonants,
I'll try and give it one more go.
First one word, and then the other.
Wait, yes, there's hope.
A sentence exists,
And I feel bliss, until I read what it says.
I miss you.

****.
I can't quite write tonight.

Bloated stems shoot out of my throat,
Reaching out for hopeful, yellow rays.
Repulsion sets in though,
Like your defeated Grace when you think
Of her face.
Your glass heart cannot take it this way.
These stems see this; they must escape.
Out of this sensation, there lays a
Hopeful lie.
(If there's ever such a thing.)
Gargoyles are the time keepers of her.
Oh how they stand guard of the memories
You still hold of her,
For her,
In you,
You're through.

My eyes cry out dead flowers.
Each petal is wet on the cold ground,
laying there oh so very proud.
I could stare at them for hours.

There is beauty in rotting things
Can't you see?
There is beauty in old meanings
Even if they make you bleed.

Tingling tentacles tease me as they wrap themselves
in me.
Underwater mermaids pour mercury down my
crustacean filled throat.
Pleased to meet you in this blue utopia.
Pleased to feel you in my sunken heart.
Rhythmic repulsions fill blue buckets with chum.

July burns suicides on burnt out tags
wrapped around
toes.
All these blank, useless colors are salesmen to me.
I can see right through them though.
Truths are useful only for those looking for them.
Here's our cut open shame for all to see.
Miracles ***** rainbows and empty out tongue
filled pots.
You can have this truth.
Please, have mine.

Chime along you baby child of mine.
Suckling out the little I have left.
Your mouth spits out leftover, green grime;
Unable to use it for the little left unsaid.
Rage through the age of remembrance,
Dance with the sass of the moon in June.
Ode to the majesty that is you!
Ode to the songs trapping all of your gloom.
The ages will remember little of you in the end.
It will end only in your death.
Little child of mine, do not cry.
It's only the fury that we call our lives.
Rushed back by the eastward winds,
It's our horses galloping, and on them, our sins.
Through the trenches and in the form of a flood,
Comes our remorse, it's face covered in blood.

Chime along you baby child of mine.
I have no more to give, for you see, I am almost dead.
Before I leave you, I give you my heart and my spine.
Here is the lesson: don't leave things unsaid.

That is the ultimate death.

My Rapture occurred on a friday night.
That's when I first reaped autumns rewards.
Dying leaves left lovely reminders,
or lessons;
Vultures cannot be trusted with love.
Forced rhythms are false to the ear and
dead to sight.
They fly over the carcass, waiting to strike the wicked.
Vultures cannot be trusted with love.

One hand gives you solace.
The other gives you sin.
Ice cold autumn winds wail a song to the blue sky,
vultures cannot be trusted with love.

You were happy today.
I could tell by the things
you didn't say.
You are now an angel with wings.

Rubber banded tongue,
trapped in your elastic mouth.
Pulling at your molars as the
dried blood rest in your mouth.
You look up and you see
Perplexing clouds shifting, one one way,
one the other.
The bees dance when they see this too.
They too know miracles when they see them.

You speak with repetitions, like an eagle
catching its prey.
One is natural though, like the beat of the heart,
the other is forced, like the vomited out "I Love You"
that are left at the graves of the dead.

Good intentions die sometimes, like flowers left at a
tombstone,
they to will end.

The gentle breeze of an imagined kiss,
ends with tears, breaking you bliss.
Imagined lovers in this time of mine,
manifest couples, unable to go through the grind,
of the greatest crime;
I have you heart, you have mine.
It's better than suicide.
It's better than life.
The love of another.
The lover of life.

It must be dropped into the Catacombs;
my love for you that is.
Lucid lights tremble as I choose to forget you,
the taste of you that is.
I wore white gloves when I touched you;
your sultry skin that is.
I traced the freckles from head to toe, on
your sultry skin that is.

Tailors knitted my love for you deep in my lungs.
When I breath now, black dye excavates my body;
those are the memories of you;
Those are the secrets of you.

It must be trapped in the Catacombs,
my love for you that is.
In between my pillows, I smile.
The Catacombs have buried my love for you.

I don't have to anymore.

I cough out nostalgia on cold nights,
It is beaten and battered.
Lilacs are laying on the lime colored floor.
September reminds me of a time I thought I had
already mourned.
Those brief encounters with you were seismic in size,
(I just didn't know that then.)
Lovers and roses only intertwine on cold,
autumn nights.
(I just didn't know that then.)

The river flows through shards of sharp glass looking
words.
The mystic memories were the only things trapped deep
in my cauldron.
I threw in remorse for a better taste, but,
it only left a sour sadness were I once had graze.


I cough out nostalgia on those cold,
misty mid autumn nights.
Those lilacs have suffered enough;
it's time to go home.
Those lilacs have suffered enough;
it's time to go home.

I mumbled through the thick woods,
searching for those screeching howls.
On purpose, I step on dead leaves,
Leaving a trail you will know.
Carved in trees are lovers that I mourn,
the woodpecker tapping the trees makes me feel at home.
This trail has left my interiors mangled and decayed,
my spirit drained, but yet, I'm sane.
The howls seem to be searching for me now.
Finally, they found the trail that they know.

I smile when the find me in the end.

Another day left locked up in the back of your head, but yet,
you forgot to write again.
Drinking leftover whisky and clutching at your throat, oh ****,
you forgot to write again.
Reading a book you found under your bed, you feel alive again,
so you pick up a pen.
The paper is ready and you're unable to breathe, when suddenly,
you remember,
I never knew how to write.
It happened again.
I'm dead.

Wearing hard hats in permanent wars leaves irony trapped
between bricks.
Whimsical cement barrages the broken man,
as if God trembled on his throne of Gold.
Sadistic laughs echo out of a war torn time;
rivers of blood only flow in June.
A rag with embroidered initials dances in the sky,
only visible by the truths that it once told.
I swear I saw an angel in the sky.
The signature of man is only visible once the
rifles stop shrieking.
This humid day leaves hearts cold.
Once eyes set upon a hope gone black, all is lost.
Only the howling wind knows what we have done.

Those moments that I wait for;
I always hide in between binders.
Rusted pages telling me sad stories;
Please leave me on a shelf
(That way I can matter to someone)
Just let time pass.
Bend my pages so that,
when you're ready,
you can start off where you finished,
like you have, before.

Your busy hands caress my brown skin,
please read me again and again and again.
Write notes on me,
(It shows you cared once before.)
In the long ago,
when miracles did what they do;
save me.

Blue faced God,
He's Melted on the ground.
My heart is trapped in a pod,
It's broken and left proud.

There is pain between my teeth,
Wrapped in marmalade sheets.
I'm unable to walk, or talk,
In my path are ****** defeats.

I was never young, buy always aware.
Unsure if those sticky truth were
Merely cracked lies, like the ones
Inside of me.

A resting bee on a flower dies
After it stings someone.
I've been stung before;
Then why did I die?

Look at the marks on her skin.
The way they tell her pain.
Slit and slash and blood on the brim.
The girl with no name,
Only a snark and a grin.

Lets find out more about her though,
before she becomes a shadow adrift a
raggedy ship.
Twenty-two, a reader, and a Jew,
A master of none, but yes,
a seeker of truth.
She did love this life, a great pretender she was.
Suicide never reveals itself, well, in itself.
It's always because of others.

The man of her nightmares found her.
The rest does not matter.

Tick and Tock, they both go hand in hand.
Her time had come, her time had come.
With a broken heart, but a precious smirk,
She took that blade and danced on her wrist.

Love, you sly,
slithering snake.
How you persuade all to fall
on your blade.
Cut the artery; replace the heart
with a shade.
That's love;
shadows shifting until it concaves.
Suffocating its victims, leaving no prints for its
crime.
Its idea becomes lucid, prose preaching its
message on ice.
The body is left shattered, thinking it was once
wise.
It smirks at your faith in it.
The crossroads between the pines.