I'm that record player that keeps going on,
Playing the same old, outdated song.
I'm sorry.
All my poems spout the same cliches now.
Hell, I'm the embodiment of those cliches now.
I don't know why I'm suffering from the disease
Years after my exposure to patient(s) zero,
But here I am, sick, bed-ridden and sleep-deprived,
Scratching sores I thought had long healed up.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I don't see colour anymore,
Just the monochromatic shading of decay.
I don't know how to pull myself back up again,
Can't remember how I did it the first time.
I was a ticking time bomb without even realising it,
And I don't even know if I've exploded yet,
Or if this is just the precursor, the countdown
To ripping apart everyone in my vicinity.
I'm sorry.
They say pain makes for the best artists, the best art,
But I'm too repetitive to make anything good.
Even the violent strokes of red have turned dark grey,
And they get darker the further down the abyss I go,
Where the darkness is so dense that light can't penetrate,
And I don't see the nightmares that have come back.
I'm sorry.

I have a golden locket,
That hangs around my neck,
It's heavy as weighted stone,
And I'm a nervous wreck.
I keep it with me through each day,
And through the passing cold,
I keep it close, next to my heart,
Although it has grown old.
I have this ****** and rusted locket,
Filled with ash and pain,
I don't know why I wear it still,
Don't ask me to explain.

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

It's a beautiful thing
When he begins to sing
He can have my heart
He can have anything
It's a beautiful thing
When he begins to sing
He can hold my heart
He can have all of me

This place as lost it's vibe, mediocre poets at best. Don't tell me what I want to hear, rip the words out from my chest. I'm still sore from your absence.

There's my father
sitting on the couch
slowly dying
slowly falling
into
modern traps

End table is
covered with snack bar
wrappers
Can of cheap beer
but at least he used a coster

There's my father
watching the TV
Feeling life never
gave him his chance
his break

Left behind in the wake
of that which he did
not create

Pictures of the past placed
on the wall behind him
A monument of a life
that's not what it seems

There's my father
Absorbed in reruns and
political commentary

This couch is his coffin
This house, his cemetery

There's my father
that role model of mine
lost within his failures
static in time

I should have known better than to believe that I had a chance of him ever loving me

The only thing that he ever did was break me

And it was only at the sight of their hands intertwined in the loving embrace that I once dreamed

Of him and me

Now those memories of him smiling is all just heart breaking

And the sound of his voice is all but breathtaking

As these sobs of horror grow stronger in my lungs that grow smaller and smaller

Because of him and me

My heart was tore well before he came to me

Now its just shattered dust of a once beautiful dream

Of him and me

And it seems as if these images of fantasy that grew in my head all just seem so silly to me

Now that there is

And was

No chance of we

I had hoped you were the one to fix

To save

To build

Me into the women I fought so hard to be

That I believed I could reach

Now I know better then to get too high of an expectation of me

And my heart no longer feels as whole as it once did

And this is all because of the fantasy I drew

Of him and me