Remember whose bones
built your floorboards
before you lay a house
on their backs.

There is no glory
in war.
Your heroes are forever
stained with the sound
of whizzing bullets
and spilled guts.
The soil shall no longer produce
fruit nor anything sweet.
The ground was watered with blood and death.

There is no more life in it.

There is no hesitation
to pick up bird feathers
from off the ground,
and heal an angel's
broken wings.
But there is a pause
before we reach a hand
to the broken claw
of a demon.
Tell me now,
Are they both not in need of saving?

Your insecurities
will rot you inside out.
And when your corpse
comes begging for forgiveness,
I shall be nailing
the last nail to the coffin.

She was serendipity in a bottle,
A fire in a jar without a lid.
She was the flower on the side of the road,
She was the garden in the dead of night.
She was moonlight bleaching dark clouds.
She was my favorite accident.
My serendipity.

If existence
is but the fools game
then I play
to become
existential.

It seems what differentiates
the mad and the musician
are the bow
in which
they strum with.

There is something
so ominous
about
her iridescence.

When you realize
all love is
is a shelter
from a storm,
you will understand
why I like the rain
so much.

She's spilling
forbidden wine
on pieces of gauze
taped to a thigh.
Butcher herself,
like meat on a platter
for bite sized brains
to digest.

She is stainless steel teeth,
she is a strained voice,
she is a fighter,
tired,
but resilient
and giving it
her
all.

As you age
you will begin to realize that justice is not possible,
but actions towards it are.
The very nature and presence of our humanity demand it.

I hope to be
one of those people
who never lets you forget:
you are loved.

She is soil,
earth and pure.
I run her through my hands
and she falls
through my fingers.

I will plug
my tear ducts
with wine corks.

I will drown
in streams of
salt,
running along a glass rim.

There's a deep state of disruption
caused by deep chords
buzzing music
so loud
that you can
feel it in your soul
your chest pounds
to beat sounds,
and liquor bottle
lullabies.

I etch my blessings
on a matchstick.
Counting thoughts
like carving wood.
I set
myself
on
fire.

There is satisfaction
in deep chords of pain
being strummed
on
playful
hearts.

Welcome to the dark side of the moon
where angels
**** devils
and the grey morality
of their children
is our main show.

We all die alone in our minds,
it is the comfort we have
with our demons
and self
that brings satisfaction of
life in
death.

Who am I
But the shadow
Of who I want to be
And the people
I've left
Behind.

I hold the girl
I want to be
Trapped between
Lines
Of poetry.

Her freckles
are cinnamon sprinkles
that land
just across
her nose.

Her hair curls
like baby blue laughter
at the thought
of miseltoe.

She is my one and only
this festive girl
through and through.

And dear, to my one and only
Will I say "I do."

He smelled like
cigarettes
and fallen angel dust,

Tragically
soft.

My skin is my weapon,
stained with blood underneath.
Thick and bullet proof,
and able to form barriers
to the harshness of this world.

Her ***** stained breath
and ****** *** teeth
made a deadly cocktail
that no man
ever dare
to drink.

You are not
what has happened to you.
You are how you react
to it.

Some plants will drown
in rain
that nourishes others.

She was crisp in Autumn's wind.
Definite lines of beauty
set in stone,
on pavements filled
with leaves.

Her skin is cinnamon sprinkled,
and her oh just as punchy.

She was scented with spice,
her presence never a shadow
or mango-mangled mixture.
It was definite,
it was there.

She was there.

Her smile sits
on the curb of a road
between Summer
and Fall.

I left with the intent
of seeing you again.

I wish I would have known
otherwise.

The stars
are just
night time
riptides.

They pull you deeper
and deeper
into the night sky,
until
you're 30 miles in,
and not looking for home.

I hide beneath the water,
gasping for air to breathe,
but the only air I need
is the familiarity
of drowning.

I rather taste
the salt in my lungs
than break the pain
of first breath.

I'd rather die
in this state
than give up
pieces of my 'personality'
for happiness.

Chaotic familiarity is forever a welcoming storming sea.

The ghost of her presence
is well requested
in its
absence.

You stand,
cowardice,
under the title of professor.
I fear not the weight
of the textbooks
of your knowledge,
for they
are
empty.

Am I a debt to be paid?
Do you enjoy me,
because I enjoy you?
Do you love me,
because I love you?
Do you touch me,
because I've touched you?

Do you reap
only what you sow?

Who knew
that a body as soft
as feathers
could have
a heart
of
stone.

My mere existence
deserves apology.

What is death
but an ailment
we cannot
cure.

Deservance is a concept
made by fools
whom are plagued
with jealousy
and
overconfidence.

Because even streetlights
can look like dandelions,
if the windows
are foggy enough.

The wolves howl
with grief
and I feel among them;
just a wild animal
with a fear to survive.

Who am I
to beg for mercy
when I am aware
I do not
deserve
it.

I am but a stain;
**** of the earth,
I am nothing more than
a mistake,
a fallen drink
onto carpet,
destined to be washed away
with hard working hands
scrubbing clean.

I have become worthless
in my own eyes once more,
and wish to hate myself
out of existence again.

I do not attack the hand that strikes
me with cloth,
for I am just a stain...
waiting to be
washed
away.

I wish I could erase
the reminders
of my sin off of my skin.
I scrub it raw,
as if I am stained
with unholy filth
but cannot get away
from the reminder
of relapse.

I was doing so good,
I had felt like
my halo had been dusted off
and placed back on my head.

Only to be taken away
with the very hands
that put it there.

Even though I have fallen from heaven again,
I will shake the dirt from my wings,
heal their markings,
and return.

I must always remember,
no matter how many times I have fallen,
that I have a place
to go back to...

Heaven.

If you catch a bird
who doesn't wanna be caught
do not complain
when its talons
dig deep into your skin
and leave
their marks
there.

At best,
angels are devils
playing nice.

I am afraid to give something my all,
to pour myself empty
to make something full,
only for it to be graded
judged
assessed
as
"Not good enough."

Bold of you
to assume
I have the capacity
to miss
your
hatred.

I want so desperately
for you to be a bad person
because I don't think
I can forgive you.

There is fragility
ready to break
at the edge of the glass
that are her words.

She is shattering beauty,
a weeping angel.

Hearing Holy cries
has shattered me,
and I felt every bit of her pain
with each sob.

Oh my darling,
Your Icarus heart,
has flown too close
to your sunny
optimism.

You have fallen
into your disappointment
once again.

Devils hear your cries
but dare not triumph.

You strike fear
even when
vulnerable.