I tried to sing you a song
a ballad of love,
I use ballad loosely, of course,
For my voice was hoarse
and my pitch was squeaky,
"I think you're tone death" you proclaimed,
with a cute, little, laugh.
"You must be blind" I said,
"I just kicked that song's ***!"  
Yet deep down I know the only *** kicked today was mine,
those chords ran me over,
and didn't even ask for the time.
But still as I was becoming great friends with the ground,
you picked me up,
you brushed the dirt off my shoulder
and washed the blood off my knees,
I must say, I was very pleased.
I guess what we learned from today is that my singing ability may need improvement,
and this rhyme, in all its amusement, may be a little cheesy,
But baby, we make this real life ballad of love
look oh so easy.

You stare through her broken window, with peaceful, pondering eyes.
You realize the window is not the only broken thing, in the distance, you hear a lonely lover's cry.  You move a little closer to see where her shadowy figure lies. In one hand you see smoke, as a pair of lips go in for a ****, in the other an empty bottle. The devil has no doubt played a malevolent joke. You want to yell out "No!" as she goes to cut her wrist, but your voice is over powered by a strong, thundering hissssss. From there it gets a little crazy as you stumble and tumble, things start to get hazy. Next thing you know, you wake up in bed, "where did the girl go? It feels like I've hit my head." But as you get up and look into the mirror your face turns white, filled with fear. As you look at your red wrists and the broken bottle on the ground, you find the girl you stared at through the window, is staring right back at you now.

What is beauty?
Would you even know if it slapped you in the face,
turned around,
and backed over you?

No. You probably wouldn't.
You'd be too busy trying to dip your feet in the water of the next social trend,
You would run right by it on your way to pick up your pumpkin spiced whatcha-ma-call-it,
Do those even taste good?
As far as i'm concerned there's too much tobacco smoke in everyones lungs to know what real fresh air is like.

So take some time out of your life,
lay down in an open field with some one you love,
and just think.
think about what it is like to look down on the world from a star,
or look up at the night sky form the bottom of the ocean.

Take some time to realize that you're probably rushing through life,
and you're missing out on how truly beautiful this world is.

He was chilling.
He carried himself with a frozen solidarity,
something that Robert frost himself would be proud of.
Every candle that tried to melt the ice around him only melted any hope he had,
farther into the ground.

She was not just any candle though,
she was a blazing inferno.  
Something that cause's even the most blinded eyes to turn and stare in awe.
The gleam,
burned his stubbornness,
his fear
and his sarrow.
Now his hope and love, along with her, were the only things that stood solid.
So they burned brightly together,
Into the night,
through the morning
and above in the stars.
A beautiful blaze.

Here's to the writers,
The hopeless romantics,
The dreamers who create their stories with cuts of a knife in paper made of everyone who has ever told them they can't.
Here's to the people who said they can,
The ladies who have smudged enough of their mascara with tears, to create ink on paper.
The men who go against society and say "I love poetry."
Here's to the thinkers,
The achievers,
The good doers.
Here's to you,
May your romance be hopeful instead of hopeless,
Something I can finally say.

With a foot stuck between two trees,
thoughts fail to flow,
blood does too.

Which tree do you chop down,
to set yourself free,
or burry yourself under.

Could you just cut off the foot all together?
Killing two birds with one stone?
Surely you won't make the wrong decision,
or will you?

Let us run where the clouds call out our names,
like a wife looking for her lost soldier,

Where the sand bites at our toes,
and the sun ignites our face
letting us know we are, in fact, alive.

Alive,
not just living.

A simple mind puts one in front of the mirror,
and ignorantly see's the other.
Completely ignoring their differences.

Everyone lives,
everyone follows the lunch line,
in and out, everyday,
Mindlessly shoveling the newest trend down their throats.

You're never truly alive,
until you throw out what society gives you,
and create something for yourself.

Something new,
Something beautiful,
Something that is,
you.

Being sad is a waste of time,
Think about it,
You are not a god,
You can not control anything,
Bad things are going to happen,
You're going to cry, It's only human nature.
Sometimes you need to let your demons out,
So let them out, get it up, brush the dirt off your shoulder
and smile.
You only live for so long,
Don't waste your time being angry about what could've happened,
Focus on what can happen.

Everyone seems to need that one gateway to another land,
A better place,
where you can see the unseen,
grasp the untouched,
swallow your sweet sorrow.
This normally comes through a puff of smoke,
or lines of coke.
Yet I run from the idea of being thrown of the pedestal.
My life is perfect why would I want to diminish that?
For the first time I want to keep my feet on the ground,
and leave my dreams for clouds.
Because even on the ground their is an incredible view,
and the only drug I need,
Is you.

Chained,
To walls of a white board,
As 1+2=3 narcissistically nibbles at the slowly decaying thing,
That was once called my dignity,
Because you see the school dreams of a hundreds,
Crisp red check marks, pressed on paper like a machine,
So when the teacher asks Does any one need scissors?
We all get up, slowly and solemnly as she cuts our dreams,
of circles, squares, diamonds and octagons into a...
Crisp..Red..Check mark.
And what was my dream?
for my son to look into his ****** cup of coffee one day,
and say "I'm different, and that's okay"

If writing was a drug,
I think I would need,
Rehab

Everyone always said she was a sharp girl,
they don't know the meaning of sharp
the paper that her ink soaked emotions slice through every night?
knows the meaning of sharp.
the red, dicey, paintings on her arms, thighs and stomach?
they know the meaning of sharp.
Even the hands on the clock cut like knifes as she starts her fifth hour of tears,
They too are most definitely sharp.

Dear Grandpa,
Its's Alex, I know It's been a while since we last talked. I just wanted to tell you how much I miss the sound of your voice around the table, how much I yearn to sit down and eat your home cooked food that I used to practically run away from, how badly a want to take that somber walked through those cornfields again. Yes I know the months leading up to our final words were tough on our family to say the least. I was young, too young to fully grasp what was going on. I was also immature, I Just wish I gave you the respect you deserved. I still remember my father telling me the story of how you pulled that couple out from their burning car, you saved their life. You truly could do no wrong, could you? I hope you know that I am building my life around the way you lived. I want a lot of things in life, success, money, maybe even a great family. I could go on...I want you too at least open one of my letters, even though I know It's useless. What I want the most though? for you to look down on me proudly from where ever the man upstairs puts people these days and say See that guy right there? That's my grandson, isn't he something.
I guess that's all I have to say for now, see you soon Grandpa

Youth is a ****** up place.
We walk around with the blind fold of adolescence covering our eyes.
Nine times out of ten you'll step the wrong way and fall of the edge.
The most ****** up thing about youth,
Is the labels.
People judge you,
You judge them,
Creating an instant stand still of insecurity and intimidation.
A lot of stress can come from the labels you but on other people,
But sometimes we forget to look at the labels we are putting on ourselves.
We try so hard to fit in,
To be something we aren't.
We want to have the same label that everyone else has,
And society accepts it.
But why not be different,
Why not stand out,
Why not stand up for something you believe in,
Something that you can call your own,
Why not,
Be yourself.

Her broken heart cries out to me,
If only you could see,
That ingesting those pills,
From the devils plea
Hurt more than you,
It hurt her,
And involuntarily
Me....

Pain,
Is not something to mess around with.

Pain can be compared to a knife,
That dangles from the ceiling, every night while you sleep,
The only thing that’s stoping it from piercing your insides?
A simple thin thread.

It does not take much for the thread to
Snap,
Along with it snapping every little bit of strength you had left,
Don’t mess with pain.

Then there is,
Love

Love can be compared to the blanket on your bed,
It wants to project you from the knife,
It tries its best to cover you from the pain,
But it is only a blanket.

As much as it wants to help,
To reach out,
To be there,
It simply is not strong enough.

Though sometimes,
If you give love a chance,
It can be steel,
So don’t mess with love.

Reality throws him through the wind shield,
Every glass shard that pierces his body is like a slap in the face, a stab in back,
Theft of his dignity.
As blood begins to rush out,
So do the memories.
Distant memories,
But just as fresh and painful,
As they were just a few years ago.
He wants to get up,
He needs to move on,
He dreams of picking himself off the pavement,
Covering all the wounds,
Forgetting everything.
But as he lays on the side of the road,
Drowning himself in the pool of cold  regret that has formed around him,
He looks up,
And all he can see,
Is red..

How we are so scared of the darkness covering the night sky,
That we never stop to count the stars.

What would life be like with no time?
No order?
The reality is we are salves to a inanimate ticks.
second by second,
minute by minute,
Hours, months and years all hold us prisoner.
We eat, sleep and plan our life's around these numbers.
If there was no time would our mind feel forced to eat at certain times? We could sleep on our own schedule,  live our lives under the stars and sleep under the sun. With no time also means no age. Less labels, less you're too young, you're too old.
More equality, more freedom, peace and happiness
No time.

I hate my past, I hate everything about it, I hate how this shadow of darkness, Puts shade over things that are bright and beautiful, I hate how it holds me back, It's tattooed in my mind down to the smallest details.
Unremovable

I’m dangling off the balcony, my sweaty palms and quivering knee’s make it that much harder to hold on. I look up and I see her begging me to come back, I’m so far gone that I can barely hear her cries, offering safety and love. The way moon light shines on her is almost enough, but then I look down, just for a second. It blurs the line between what’s real and what’s not. A take a second look into the dark pit of bad memories and new beginnings, it’s almost like whatever’s down there is mocking me. Small gust’s of wind feel like faint whispers in my ear, telling me to let go. Let go of friends, let go of family, let go of life all together. The voices in my head sounds so pleasing, so euphoric. So I drop, and at first it’s incredible, some of the best feelings and greatest highs I've ever achieved. As time goes on sometimes I look up at the balcony. I wish for my old life back, the voices are never ending though, always calling me to them. They need me. I need them too.

I believe when we are born we start with nothing,
A blank canvas, in a less then colorful world.
As we go through life we meet people, friends, family and enemies.
Who ever they may be,
They all take turns painting on it.

How each person paints on our canvas ultimately,
Turns us into who we are.
These colors shine bright and bold
In our actions, personality and finally our legacy.

Embrace the beauty in it,
Let it define you,
And don’t be afraid to paint your own strokes,
Because nobody else can tell the story of your canvas,
Except you.

On a night when fireworks go off as fast as the thoughts in my head,
High wasted shorts toy with the eyes of over confident males,
And new home cooked memories fill the air,
I'd feel a lot more "free" if I was spending it with you.

She tells you she’s going to sleep,
She doesn’t.
Instead she cries,
Not the soft somber kind of crying,
The heavy kind of crying,
The kind of crying that puts you in a whirlwind of emotion,
People say crying helps, this kind just puts you farther down under.

She cries because her dad, who was recently let go,
Stumbles through the door every night reeking of whiskey and tobacco,
And then goes on to bruise her,
As bad as he bruised his wallet gambling just a couple hours before.

She cries because her mom,
Struggling with a crystal **** addiction,
Abandoned the family,
And with it abandoned her heart.

She cries because she caught her boyfriend,
The only pure thing in her life,
With her old best friend,
Who’s probably the farthest thing from pure.

That night the clouds cry too,
It rains all night,
‘They understand me’ she thinks,
Tonight,
Maybe she will join them.

I am a puzzle,
When completed I am a masterpiece,
But now I sit here unfinished at the hands of a five year old.
I am the half bitten cookie,
That the five year old left out on the table to be tossed in the garbage.
I am an ice cube,
That unfortunately missed the cup and now lays on the floor,
Still strong and solid but partially puddled in sorrow.
I am an old bridge,
A few years ago I was glowing with beauty,
Now I sit here broken, unusable and instead of glowing,
All I cast is a dark and lonely gloom.
I am our love,
Something that could be magical,
But instead is a chess game of emotions never to be finished.
You are that five year old,
Leaving me in the dust unfinished and broken.