Now tell me;
Whisper it softly into my skin.
Bite my lip and say its love.
Your rubber-like tongue
Seeps from mouth to lust.
Is this love?
Is that word more than the world
Can contain on this
Blurry night?
Those lies
Seep into my skin, like an
Infection.
Carres your skin onto mine;
Call it the love of the month.
Hang it for all to see.

I took your look as a kiss.

I felt the green poison flowing
through my veins and being
carried throughout my slim,
uninterested body.  

The language of her look left
me reeling and reaching for
poles covered in grease from
the night before.

Suicides are redundant when
love gets in between unwanted
goals and something new.
It's dark enough in this room

not to care for death tonight.
Her body speaks of adult matters
to a hidden child inside.
Rip me open and devastate me.

It's as good a night as any for sin.
Let the Nile River flow out of me
and into your taboo cavern.
This secret cannot escape our tongues.

To be sure of it, lets wash it down
with ***, whiskey, and gin.
This kind of love is not kind in
the soul of the word.

Your look may be poison, but
my words are what is left
in between regret and suicide.
I now know that your kiss is sin.

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.

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.

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.

You mix me into your life,
Like a secret to good to say.
Pitter patter,
A step here and a leap there;
You ***** it all out anyways.

The heart; it is your worst friend.
It is there and not, depending
On the lie untold.

If it's here then I am over
there.
Or over
here.
But not There.
I can never quite
order my
together, words.
words together.
****.

Sadness is
Heavy.
It is its own heartbeat.

Apart from you
Or yours.
It has its own desires.

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 miss you

I miss you so much.
(But you were never there).
You forgot your clothes under my bed
(I found a piece of my heart under there)
It burns,
(Your gold necklace around my neck)
You left With a smile, a gamblers delight.
(But you were never there).

That wooden floor.
Those creaking voices under there.
They laugh at me,
They mock me.
You use to walk on that same floor,
There was a creaking in your throat.
You laugh at me,
You mock me.
(But you were never really there).

I think, looking back, you didn't try,
And that,
That was my crime.
There isn't a number to call for the lies you told.
No prison to put you in.
Just a rib cage
With a heart,
I will imprison you there.

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.

All of this;
This birds and the bees
And the moons other, hidden face,
Cannot be real.
All of this
Pain and judgement,
It kills me.
I am all the corpses of time.
All of this;
The shock on my face.
I have lost my tongue.
These backward people only
Go, go, go towards
Pain.
These rose colored glasses have
Been shattered into pieces
That now room the earth,
Looking, seeing what I see: pain.

The worst type of poetry is the kind
That was never written down.
It's stuck in peoples hearts, but not
On paper.
It would **** to be whispered in your
Lovers heart,
Instead of dying in your throat.
You never did pick up that pen.
In your own way, you left some words
Dead,
Unsaid.  

The worst type of poetry is the kind that is left in peoples heads.

Those cracks on your face are echoes
From you heart.
And you said you felt nothing.
I knew you weren't boring.
Your lip is slashed open.
It trembled,
But not from the pain, but rather,
From what you never said.
Sapphires lock my eyes.
There is the unknown in them.
Pull them out! Please!

They are as pretty as a Lie.

Maybe I have this dance?
There's suicide in your eyes.
Now I stand no chance.

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.

The universe knows
about you; it will soon lay
lilacs on your scars.

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.

Even the bad poems
Get you laid
I imagine.

My tongue is tired
Of true words.
It is time to rest
And no more
Left to fret

No more.

You know when people say,
"Take the bad with the good?"
Well, what then?
What do I do with the bad
That I carry?
There's blood on my hands.
What do I do with the bad
That I carry
When it has become stitched onto
My skin?
I'm aware of the bad.
I have married and attempted
To rip it off my flesh, but I simply can't.
What do you do with the bad
That you carry?
The divorce just won't stick.
Only the bad that I carry.

It wasn't until the end when I realized:
I need the bad that I carry.
It's the one covered in fresh, bleeding
Lilacs.
It's the one that spews from my innards
And cries:
It's not all so bad child;
The bad that you carry.

There's the genius.

I died in the light with shards of glass
Stuck in my back.
I died tonight when I saw the ripped pages
All over the floor.
I burned them when I was young.
Those were my secrets bleeding
On the floor.

I died tonight when I realized that shadows
Could cry.
I Didn't know darkness its had its own eyes,
Its own lives.
Teenage tears are mixed with adult grief.
I've been my own enemy; the worse thief.

I died at seventeen.

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.

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.

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.

Sometimes,

All the time,
People look into
Others peoples eyes
And spot a soul.
Another home.
The windows into

These homes

Are all the lonely have.

They've become tired of
Their own soul.

They
Are
Tired of their own home.

I saw an old woman today,
Walking through the rain,
Alone,

And I remembered;

Loneliness is real.

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