When I go
Don’t remember me
When I slow
Don’t tell me to hold still

When I grey
Please, don’t say
I was great
like’s it’s no longer inside me

When I die, unmarked, unalive
don’t throw flowers by my side
don’t console those for whom i died
the hearts that I broke, for my bride

When I go though
Please, don’t remember me
The soul of a bending bow
the sun that let me be

Laugh like you never lost
for you didn’t
Sing like the chorus continues eternally
For it does, just believe

' I woke.



I slept.

I dreamt of nothing.

Stars littered the sky as I rose.

The moon poised it’s deep, sorrow face.

Over the valleys a hungry wolf howled melancholy with the sad moon.

“Why are we so alone, in a world of encumberance?” The wolf asked of the moon.

The moon just wallowed, and did not speak, the moon never did.

The wolf languished near the stream, cautiously perking up at the sounds coming from the dark wood behind.

Hope was far from the wolf’s weighted mind. His life had been filled with loneliness. Raised from birth by the Earth alone, none other called him as their own. He hunted alone, he ate alone, he slept alone, and he was doomed to die alone as all others.

Deep in the dark wood, a pack of ferocity lingered in the shadows, prowling on the lone wolf.
The black horror claimed this land as his own, and he allowed no trespassers. His pack was equally relentless, and they would spill the blood of all who opposed this challenge.


The wolf continued to howl, prickles of black fur sprang up on his neck as the scent of a foe approached.

The pack moved in on him, six snarling snouts, and twelve yellow eyes gleamed at him.
They were hungry.
We’re all hungry.
We’re all starving.

The moon watched unflinchingly, as the water ran red past the bellowing frogs, chirping crickets, the oaks branches that sunk low into the river, casting swaying shadows from the heavy moon.
He watched with his same sad face, how can anything constantly watching us ever have another emotion? The wolf lay, mangled and torn. The others attacked him in a contempt savagery, hunger tearing at their shallow bellies.
Spasms of fleeting feeling went through the wolf, the whites and greys of his once illecebrous and divine fur, now soaked with his own blood. His tongue lolled out of his snout, and his teeth were all shattered.
He hadn’t put up a fight.
The pack shredded him. The black wolf treated all outside wolves as threats. He had no interest of letting a stray wolf get into his pack and challenge his authority. So he killed, before he was challenged. It seemed ideal to him, and his pack was fed joyously. They licked their chops, grinned like a hyena, and barked laughter all at another, while the great black wolf, looked to the moon, and howled heinously in it’s direction.



The dark moon watches from above
So sad at what he must see
The good sun wished with him
To disperse light over the seas

They wept and cried
laughed; and died
The light was put in place
Dark doesn’t surrender to grace

it's the knifes edge that's got me on edge
i smoke cigarettes it's what keeps me breathing some
it's the reason i jump off the bridge
keeps me clinging on
keeping me clinging on

the hopes got me hoping for more
the drinking has me singing the chorus
i'm playing the joke, seems im just a bore.
keeps me singing on
keeps me singing along

A part of me just not quite up to score
breathing on breathing on.
just to make sure
keep on breathing along
keeping on keeping along

the sun rises
and the birds are singing
its song
keep on keeping on
please keep on keeping on...

Stranded in a white room, white light,
Strained with conversation so light

Holding my soul in a fish tank,
Half empty, and expressions so blank

Laughing along the chorus,
good-bye sweet, sweet seclusion of my pores

Songs that mean nothing,
Words that carry no weight

We're lonely despite another,
Ego's vacating with with summer

Nothing is to me, as it is to you
Grasp the concepts, that make nothing true

The snow's falling, on this summer day,
As men with convictions kneel to pray

In a room filled with vacuous smiles,
Even happy go lucky dreams of dying

The illusion is that you are simply reading this poem.
The reality is that this is more than a poem.
This is a beggar's knife, a blooming tulip.

This is a soldier marching through war torn fields of wheat.

You on your deathbed.

This is Li Po laughing madly underground.
This is not a ******* poem.
This is a horse asleep, a butterfly fluttering in your mind.

This is the devil's circus.

You are not reading this text.
The text is reading you.
Feel it?
It's a cobra coiled to attack, an eagle circling the sky.

This is not a poem, poems are dull, they make you sleep.

These words are for your ailing madness, the one that makes you walk the streets.