Tree leaves are green,
With bark brown like cigar paper.
Or at least they were,
Back in the 1920's.

Oh boy it's hot in here!
The planet is starting to sizzle,
Quick, ban gas!
Better ride my bicycle to places now.

We the people,
Might be *******.
Maybe we can be saved,
If we give our money up to Musk,
Electric cars are going to save the planet!
Well we're gonna need more fuel than that,
To ***** wind turbines to replace coal furnaces.

No soul paid witness,
To the burst of light,
At the beginning of time.

No soul saw the magic,
As it grew, forming the light,
Forming the dark.

No soul heard the heavenly spirits call,
From the risers of the stars,
Down to earth to raise the first dawn.

So all we have is faith,
A lone tie to what we failed to see.

The rain comes swiftly,
To mourn the loss of another tonight.
Tears from Heaven,
Falling to Earth.
It pours down from the sky,
Drowning out the whimpers of the grieving few.
Was it really just yesterday,
You said you were far too young to die.
I think God agrees,
He keeps the gravediggers,
From laying you in the ground.
Rochester is a sanctum of sadness,
Even though few will ever feel the lose of you.

You're losing out again,
Young nephew dying on a hospital bed.
Your whole earth,
Rocked to pieces,
In minutes, just like that.

It scares me,
Just how fast this frail thing,
Life, can fall apart.
For the minute it starts beating,
There's a dagger at the heart.

I've never seen a devil cry,
But even Satan would shed a tear for this.
Free this earth,
From the clutches,
Of undeserving punishment.

Why, what could explain,
Make up for this?
I'm doubting you,
Great Creator,
How could you let this happen?

How do I know God listens,
I don't.
He could,
He couldn't.
But I'd guess he does,
Because when I wished not to suffer it was,
And whence I wished for love it was,
But not without my hand in work,
Tilling God's land.

Yes you made it,
Congratulations!
How does it feel,
To be up on the big stage?

It's been a little while,
How are you?
Well if you don't have the time,
To talk you don't have to be rude.

Yes, you've made yourself very clear,
You don't need me at all.
But don't forget,
I'm the reason they saw you,
At all.

Oftentimes,
A poet doesn't lift their pen daily,
It's better to write nothing,
Than force something out.

As well for the fact,
Some things are best left unsaid,
This world is a rocky streambed.

When I was young,
I believed they were 'Morning Doves.'
That they would fly down in the night,
To rest on my lawn.

Now that I'm older,
I know they're called 'Mourning Doves.'
That they were named after their haunting song,
Of all Earth's sorrows and plight.

I owe almost everything to rap music (Flower Boy, Wolf, Yonkers.)
I
f
I
t
W
a
s
n
t For Tyler and all the things he says I would've never wrote again.

---
That's the thing we sign on a poet's grave
That is the symbol of death we know in our language
Every dash etched with the weight of an iron cuff
Have they lived long enough?
No I'm afraid they never got their time to shine
Before their art's demise.
---

Before you left,
I was a paradise,
A magical land of prosper and beauty.
When you left,
The rains stopped coming,
All the magic dried up to sandstone.
Then you came back,
With a river running wide,
Eroding the armored stone of my heart.

You ran a blitzkrieg on my heart,
Invading like the Mongol's carte,
Menu of skulls and bones.

After your attack,
You settled down,
Sweeping up the bruise and blood.

Then you just left,
What? I thought you wanted this nation?
I guess not.

Show business isn't as glorious as you'd think,
There's not much glory that comes form this stage,
Yet us actors trade all the lovely pieces of our life,
For a split second of grace and beauty.

Don't mention the back stage,
No to an actor at least,
I'm afraid nothing good happens there,
At least for us, it's just heartbreak and longing.

Evil people hide in familiar shades,
They morph their wicked skin,
To look the likes of us,
And not their monstrous kin.

They write like a human,
Speaking in themes we recognize as light,
To the point no one knows how they lie,
So who knows how many walk among us.

'Ciao'
'Salve!'
'Un caffe con latte per favore.'
'Un cornetto?'
'No, un caffe con latte.'
'Ah, un gelato!'
'No! Un caffe con latte!'
'Latte con zuchero?'
'Why you idiot! I'm asking for a coffee!'
'Scusa?'
'...'

If you'll take the time,
I have several lengthy thoughts,
So many I need to get out,
I'd pay you to listen to me talk.
Not therapy,
There's no doctor that could understand,
The level of this.
When the dark crawls through the corners of the night,
I find my eyes making their own light,
Because I know what I need to write.
But will it be valued,
If nobody takes the time to read it?
I doubt you'll pay attention to them,
So I'll keep my long thoughts in my head,
Because there's not enough ink to ink them all down.

How long does it take?
For you to see my poem,
Mr. Publisher?
You have me checking the mailbox,
Over and over, like I’m a little boy again.
Every time I open it and find no letter,
I feel the pain of self-doubt inside.

I wonder, Mr. Publisher, when will you read my work?
Or, have you read it already,
And are planning to send it back?
Using the ‘significant postage’ I left in the envelope.
Will I open your letter,
And find a cold message of rejection?
Or, will you love my poem?
Will you beg me to come publish with you?

Oh, Mr. Publisher, I need to know!
The little boy in me has grow old by now,
He clutches his walking stick,
As he goes to check his mail box.
Looking for that wax postage seal,
Red like the hide of a fox.

Mr. Publisher please!
I grow anxious everyday you do not respond,
And I re-read the poem I sent you almost every hour of the day.
My lover left me, Publisher Man,
She cursed me for giving more attention to you than her.
But matter not, does that!
That witch will see the man she left when I get my letter of approval from you!

Though, she did take most of our things with her,
Left my house a little empty, didn’t she?
Where will I sleep,
If she has the bed.
Alas, Mr. Publisher, I mind not the lack of sleep,
I’d rather spend the time waiting for the letter that's coming soon.
But how close is soon?
I remember telling my friend,
I’d be able to be her lover, soon.
But soon still hasn’t come,
As she still waits at the door for me.

Mr. Publisher, not a very good postmaster this town has!
For I still have not received your message of approval!
How strange is that?
I’m sure it simply got turned around,
It’s been days after all!
Days with no bed,
Days without my lover,
Days missing my friends.

Dear Publisher Man, have you not sent it at all?
The little boy who ran to check the mail,
Had his funeral yesterday.
I was invited, but as you know,
I was busy waiting for you to respond!
I’ll have to visit some other time,
For I’m sure I’ll see the postman who carries your letter soon.

For the first time in days I left my mailbox,
Mr. Publisher,
Well, not by choice you see.
For, you had me waiting for so long,
I died before your letter came!
What a shame,
Guess you didn’t have time for my work at all!

Mr. Publisher, not a soul came to see me be buried in the ground,
I kept telling my dear friends I could be with them again,
Soon.
But soon never came,
And the only one who will weep on my grave,
Are the crows,
And my dear friend,
That I left years ago.
Ha! Will she be my lover now?

You can keep the stamp Publisher Man,
I won’t be using it anymore.

They'll hurt you darling,
But only if you let them.
They'll burn you down,
But only because you're beautiful.
They'll mock your song,
But only for the fact they've never known their own sound.
In time darling, they will love you as well.

Art is born in a poets hand,
Though, like the fragile flower it is,
Art always crumbles to dust.

It drags the poet with it too,
For deep in their heart it grows its roots.
So when it fades, wrapping tight around their sickly heart,
The beating stops and they drop.

I just wanted you to know,
You're not alone,
And I couldn't say it to your face,
Because I was scared.

You're not the first person out of you and me,
To try and dive (die),
And make it to a better side.

Talented young poets are in short supply,
So what shame it is to see a talent die.
I see the sparkle fade,
Disenchanted by doubt.
Please keep writing,
We are in need.

One lesson you can learn now,
Is nothing in life is free.
                                                                    It takes many nights of tears,
To celebrate days of joy.
                                                                  And it'll take many night falls,
Before the sun shines again.
                                                                  So don't waste what you have,
Lest you regret not having it.

Gaze on me now,
I'm not well known,
With my pen taps and frown.

Well the truth is,
I'm real well known,
This just ain't my town.

We now have
An army of
Poets with single
Sentences and I
Only need 290
More poets' sentences.

Aliquid sicut flumen,
Quasi aliquid rosa.
Res potest esse sicut pulchritudo,
Mais tu es belle.

Someday summer comes again,
Someday the sun does away with cold winds.
Winter doesn't last forever,
Winter will leave us soon.
I know we're at it's end,
I can see the light linger longer.
Winter will come to a close,
Winter snows have ceased their blow.
Someday the warm rays will melt the ice,
Someday stars will glow in a warm evening again.

Mental mettle,
Mettle mentally.
You just don't understand,
The way I speak.
So if you're yelling incoherently,
I'm just going to repeat the same thing,
I said before backwards.
So please use restraint my friend,
Or show some restraint to me.

Why'd you go and do that?
I miss you from two years ago,
Before he had his way,
And it scarred you for life.

I know you're scared,
But he won't protect you,
I'm afraid he just can't.

So come back around,
We need both hands to do the bird,
In our secret handshake.

Windy winter day,
You walk alone in the white and gray.

I walk four paces far from you,
A ghost in the snow's fair ballet.

A bitter breeze blows from the west,
Interrupted by my wispy form.

Graces your rosy cheek,
And you turn to where the winds came from.

Squinting through the blinding snow,
You stare right at me.

And for a moment I think you know,
That I am here, a winter's ghost.

I fancy a spot of travel,
Gotta get around this green globe.
I've seen so many wonderful beautiful things,
The ruins of Rome, the remnants of Greece.
Though these are real swell,
Nothing compares just as well,
As the places I go when it's only you and me.

Quis sum ego?
Vir, poeta, amator.
Aut ego iustus amissa sum?
Ego feci nomina illa usque.

I stubbed my toe,
On the wall this morning when,
I woke up, again.

As we grow,
We mature.
Our ideas change,
So does our nature.
I don't want to instigate,
As much as I want to love now.
I used to want to rule an empire,
But now I'll settle for common things.
Settle down with my queen,
I'll last forever, if she lets me.

As we grow,
We lose touch.
Of each little thing we know,
Everything we loved so much.
I no longer feel aggression,
The same way I feel peace.
I may be tired,
But I'm just tuckered out,
I've learned to sleep.

They tell me,
The other girls are much better,
For making love and such.
They tell me,
You should get some curves,
A pretty girl with a neat wardrobe.

I say slander to that,
I say take that back,
I'm not in it for love making,
I'm in it for life making,
Her body is an art,
Nobody appreciates,
But she's my favorite painting,
I stare into her eyes,
Wonder where she got that beauty.

Whence comes daylight,
Comes night far after.

There is no place,
Polished to the pristine.

Even the places you love,
Harbor the unclean.

Everything ends,
Debt collected by the light that gave it life.
Not everyone lives past the grave,
Often forgotten, memory slipping away.
I know for certain I will fade,
For that is how it must be.
Do away with my name and virtue,
Let only the raw words stay.
Yet still, when I do die,
I want a cannonade on evil,
And stars falling from the sky.

I know it's so scary,
But you can find safety here.
Lay soft in sleep,
I will guard the bed.
Make a sword out of my pen,
So I can slash at the night terrors.
I'll be a warrior in the dark,
If it means you can live in the light.

They sell fear,
On the evening news,
So I don't watch it anymore.

They show you police brutality,
Mass murders,
And war.

But what they refuse to put on that screen,
Is the people fighting to do the right thing.
Because who would buy their fear,
If they could see the world changing.

Before I was born,
God looked down at my unfinished fate,
And he declared,
"We shall make him a poet, but he will learn to be,
And not be gifted with."

Well God gifted me,
And sent me down to earth,
In the fall, a season marked by death!
How ironic I was born,
In the month of earth's last breath.

As a young child I played happily,
As the angels of dilemma watched over me,
And every so often sent a tragedy.
That I'd have to foster and live with,
Until I returned to God my poetic gift.

The night is born prematurely,
Becoming one in blistering winds,
The dark crawls,

And the snow falls.

The gallant wings of beauty,
Besieged by winter's bellows,
Left to death as the crow calls,

And the snow falls.

The lonesome oaks tremble,
Bare in the white of creeping cold,
Creaking as they are raked by squalls,

And the snow falls.

Heartbreak is an ugly thing,
A ripped up feeling of pain.
In true heartbreak,
There is no beauty,
So if you find some it was but simple distaste.
Heartbreak is a burning fire,
A bullet hole in the chest of your love,
Left by your lover, with blood on their glove.

It's been a minute,
Time has been short,
And hard to come by.

But don't think I'm giving up,
On all the work you gave me,
And all the dreams we're making.

They call me Mr. Rose,
Bearer of lost love,
Mourner of memories.

There used to be a Mrs. Rose,
But she faded to nothing but a stray few,
Memories for me to weep over.

They call me Mr. Rose,
Because of this flower I pin on my suit,
More for the stab of the thorn than anything.

Seasons change suddenly,
Friendships can fade from spring buds,
To crumbling fall leaves.

People leave, they tend to take the fire with them,
Make sure you keep spare logs hidden,
Sometimes it snows in spring.

You're my fault,
The product of my imagination,
Everything in life I wanted,
Everyone I wanted to live in stagnation,
I'd rather live in my anger,
Then let it live in me,
And if the meds aren't in my head,
It's all the broken images of what I wanted life to be.

Being admired,
And being loved,
Are two different things.

If you asked young me,
I'd scrap any ounce of love,
Just to be admired.

You're scared of the dark,
Don't worry, I am too.
But you can have my nightlight,
If you can sleep sound with it.

The world eludes you,
You wonder why it carries you with a crooked hand.
And you wish it would just put you down,
But if you want to know the sky,
I can lift you up straight and strong.

You're terrified of yourself,
Each night darker and darker.
But I'll hold you tight,
And make sure you don't slip down.
Because if you lay in the ground,
You'll never see the stars.

My head is empty,
I think there's a hole,
Because every time I fill it up,
It all seems to go.
Did my inspirations take a walk,
Is my talent wandering?
Where are my thoughts,
One empty head,
That's all I've got.