I sometimes think
people believe
poetry is easy
as some ****** girl
who will swallow you
for any kind of fix.

They believe whatever
escapes their mouths
is poetry. They open
and out it pours, complete.

It is not.

Inspiration is easy,
just lines that leap to mind.
But to make a poem takes sweat.
It is a craft that requires
work, and thought and pain.
It means finding the exact,
right word out of millions.

If it simply pours out of you
and you do nothing to shape it,
it is just words and probably
not even good ones that are true
and will outlast your broken heart.

Dig in. Learn. Read. Practice.
Become a sculpture of words.
Pay the price for beauty.
It will be worth it.

i'm really high
clutching a ****
between my legs
               and the threats
               come in all individual invitations
               can i feel you how are you erica
     do you feel me,
     do you bite
     are you hungry
           the hands of time slow
       and i feel like touching them
       until they grow petals and bloom
       but im not that fast          not         quick
                       enough for thirsting
               for the colors that a god has given me
                  and allowed me to see them differently
                  i cough and lean my head back on the wall

Little bit
Large bit
Infinite dip
Colors n' ****

Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier (Canada)**

We all know you now.
You have fallen at our feet.
You have guarded them all
With life and limb,
Noble and brave
Only to fall
at the cowards last call.
You have stirred the souls
of the unknown heroes.
Their disgust shall seek the just dues
from your defamers and saboteurs.
Young lads who now
welcome you in the hereafter
Shall haunt your enemies from near or afar.
The drum rolls sound, as the rifles salute,
The pipes play "the Flowers of the Forest."
You are no more The Unknown Soldier.