I sat by the river
And waited to die.
I felt only shivers
When I tasted Monday's suicide.
I packed my green suitcase
The night before.
I must have meant it.
It's time to go.

Mondays were always deaths joke.

The truly honest are the most brave.
They have us beat, with nothing to show for it.
These pumped up hearts always try and
escape. We always die, die, die.

Those unable to preach the only word they know.
Those unwritten notes live in our hearts;
never on paper: That is the only death
that leaves an unwilling imprint in our souls.

Of course, death does not care for us.
It waits, like a statue waiting for its artist to return.
Patiently, hopeful that this night the moon forgets
to shine as bright as suicide in July.

Death, in all its unknown forms;
is in her voice, in his unanswered request for
another chance. That is the death I know.
It is the one that needs to repent.

Death is the transformation that will not disappoint.
It is clock work, from boy to man.
Girl to woman:
It is puberty at fifteen.

The sun sets silently inside of you.
This is true.
Let it engulf you.
We all need to burn.
This is true.

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
******.

Those pearls on your neck are
The eyes of angels.
Pasty white, with a pastier background;
I swear I were looking into the
Eyes of God.
Your milky skin, asking to be
Tasted on this January night.
I swear this is what dying is for.
To know that this was all real.

To know that you were real.

These lions dance behind pinballed tongues.
They pounce towards my face;
only my face.
I'm still alive.
They know only ***** seeps out of me.
Where there once was blood,
now is bile.
Goodnight.

"Live at the Apocalypse Cabaret"

The emerald spine shivers glass all over,
It's as dangerous as a four leaf clover.
Freezing oceans hide cold truths
O what a clever ruse!

A believer is a optimist,
A God reformed pessimist.
Where once was cold upon his skin
now exists tranquil sin.

It hides beneath the blue ice
He is the sergeant of his crimes.
Erosion has done wonders for your heart,
and that has left your skin feeling warm.

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.

A poem in dealing:
Drink.
****.
Pills.
Excess.
Repeat.

You're not Bukowski.

You ever floating truth,
Stuck in my throat.
I can't get you out,
Nor do I want to.
That's my truth.

A great liar is a true artist.
His teeth are totem poles that have been
Toppled over.
He has left his mark,
Just like his lies.

Ask the truth of a liar and he gives you
What you need.
All the liar to lie,
There you have your miracle.
He is a God laying on the ocean shore.

I have lightning in my pen.
If you look closely you'll see
Bodies and burnt
Tongues.

The light is as bright as your
Summertime sadness.
(It's as obvious too.)

Nature cries when it's cold
In your heart.

She's drowning in you.

The light hides behind the grey jellyfish.
Boxed in and afraid of its own beauty.
Tin cup gems are stuck on my hands.
I remember when everything wasn't blurry.

Depression is heavy.
Bolder upon bolder on
My heart,
Soul,
Joy,
Soars, moans, scorns.
It is a tongue ripped in
Two.
A spine that cannot support.
It is useless, like most things.
Suicide hides behind it,
Waiting;
Those crooked teeth and all.
It is a lost childhood.
Lost in time.
Frozen, really.
It is not this or that.

Honestly, it is death in youth.
The death of youth.
It dances at fancy *****;
In sequence and secret:
It will only take your hand
In a dance that will not,
Cannot end.
Depression is all the
"I love you" letters burning
In hell.

It is you.

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.

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.

Today my heart broke.
The pieces are everywhere.
In the trees,
The sky,

On the tip
Of your tongue.

August is the time for
Those walks in the park,

Like we used to have.

My heart lays
On the park benches
Where we almost kissed;

Before you left.

My heart slipped out of
My throat
And onto the pavement.
It’s in pieces.

Oh, pretend that you
Care.
My love suffers from malnutrition.
My skinny soul can hold
The tears no more
From lack of
A dam
And a ****.

Still,
I lived in that hurt;
The hurt that belongs to August.
There’s beauty in that.

My heart beats shadows from the past,
Rusted fingernails stuck in my back.
Each word is clogged in my throat.
I only ***** shards of dried ink.

I only know the mess left on the floor.

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

A square peg in a rusty, circled hole:
That's my tongue sliding down your throat.
Those wishful words are stuck,
Hoping, like you,
To not go unseen,
Even though you do.
Those words are daggers, behaving
As though they aren't mine.
I speak with knives;
I meant for them to be
Feathers.
Those doves were sacrificed, back in June,
For no honest reason.
I speak with charcoal ash,
Black as those knives I spit
At you.
Those apologies are weapons I use
To **** it.

It slips out of me.
This love of mine.
This black love.
I'm through.

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.

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.

Windshields hide Him from me.
The touch of man; the sin is mine.
The accident left me buried at fifteen.
Death came from me then.
Again.
I thought death could not reach me
through these ***** windshields.
IT can though, the death that lives.

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.

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.

You can't go back.
The time of innocence
And baby blue bottles
Is over, like your favorite movie.
Those scenes are done.
Cut!
They belong to an idea now.
Your idea.
It only manifest just as that;
It can't run, crawl, or ask
For you anymore.

Being aware of everything is
God smiling at us.
We are allowed all the
Knowledge of the world
Now.
You can have it back.

You can't go back.
The days of surprise
Are dead.
**** that cancer!

Running for joy is
Now becomes need.
Crawling now becomes
Begging.
Asking for anything
Transforms into a cry
For help.

You can't go back,
As much as you
Need to.

I'm sorry for that.
All of it.
All of us.

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.

I've felt your pain
Through the truth of your bones.
The truth is though
You're not to blame.

Your black mass is a heavy burden.
It must be religion telling you
The devil is in you.
Impossible.
The devil is this world.
This beautiful place that

We

Ruined.

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