when you went away it was morning
(that is,big horses;light feeling up
streets;heels taking derbies (where?) a pup
hurriedly hunched over swill;one butting

trolley imposingly empty;snickering
shop doors unlocked by white-grub
faces) clothes in delicate hubbub

as you stood thinking of anything,

maybe the world….But i have wondered since
isn’t it odd of you really to lie
a sharp agreeable flower between my

amused legs
                kissing with little dints

of april,making the obscene shy
******* tickle,laughing when i wilt and wince

Sometimes, it is the beauty we see in others
Despite them not seeing it for themselves
That shows us that, sometimes
What some may see as flawed or imperfect
Is nothing less than the rarest of beauty
So many fail to see it in themselves
That they begin to fail to see it on others, as well
For it gets harder to trust and to love
When so many only use their words as masks
Deceiving those who hold true to respect and honor
Until they fake their way in so as to take and abuse
And then tear them down
Oblivious to the pain they have inflicted
Sometimes proud of it
So many times causing such good hearted people
To believe it is they who have done something wrong
Until the loving person they were begins to fade
Retreating in to a shell of depression, darkness, self loathing, and hopelessness
Forgetting or denying how truly beautiful they are
And when someone finally sees in another
The same things they have failed to see in themselves
It opens their eyes
It awakens their soul
As hearts start to mend
Until there is beauty to be seen in the darkness again
Never gone, but merely overlooked and ignored
Once again shining forth in understanding
There is someone, just as they, who knows what it is to suffer
In every doubt, worry, and fear
In wounds self inflicted or forced on by others
Whether physically or emotionally
And they begin to see the beauty in others, again, as well
In honor, truth, sincerity, and respect
Finally realizing for themselves much the same
Despite those who merely pretend so as to take and to harm
Until the darkness isn't so dark
Loneliness isn't so lonely
And even the worst of the pain can bring smiles
Shared between two perfectly imperfect souls
Who have found beauty in the world once again
By finding beauty in each other, and in themselves
When so many still refuse to see the same
Finding beauty in the darkness
Where once they could only find pain

Brother, you're broken inside
I see your heart isn't worn on your sleeve
But your emotions are
You're a tough one

Brother, I see your pain
I can feel it
I can hear it...it hurts
I wish I could take the pain away

Brother, I've gone through it
I'm [We're] going through it
People hurt us, even those closest to us
Even those we thought we could trust

Brother, some people never change
We can choose to live with it, change it, or leave it
Each option will trigger pain
We're doing this together

I'm not sure where I stand
Between reality and imagination

I'm a make-believer, a dreamer
I love the what ifs

The longing for something greater
Something more beautiful, bigger, better
Ideas bigger than myself
I spend more time hoping than doing
Dreaming than accomplishing

Being a dreamer is a gorgeous flaw
Nothing can compare to the perfect imagination

Naive, I was not. I grew up
on tattered books and nihilistic ideals
while the other children read
books about stuffed bears and trees.

They warned me about the addicts:
The fiends with black capes and red eyes,
the ones who wander the night, searching
for new corners and new highs.

They warned me about the *** offenders:
The neighborhood sweethearts with soft eyes
and cold hands, who are more often than not,
but not restricted to the body, of middle-aged men.

They warned me about the murderers:
The ones with ice for pupils and books of spells.
Who drank smoke and whose hearts reside
in the far off corner somewhere in east hell.

These are the people my parents forgot to warn me about:
The lovers with a knack for spoon feeding me lies, whose
wings were black and who were blessed
with golden eyes.

They didn't warn me about the pretty boys.
About the ones who cup your heart
in their hands, and play around with it like putty.
Somehow, they forgot to mention that part.

But, then again, you can't teach a child about heartache,
and the only way a child will know what you mean when you
tell them that the stove is hot is if they burn themselves
on the warm, steel door that is life.