Turn up the silence and block out the sun,
Alone in my room, a bottle and a gun.
It goes click twice, I'll see another day,
Tears start to fall, can't carry on this way.

I can't remember what time feels like,
Or how to form a genuine smile.
I've forgotten the sound of my heart hammering in my ears,
And the sensation of touch is a beautiful memory.
Gutted. Numb. Hollow. Lost.

Bitter winter winds have broken
into biting rains - it's soaking
earthen muck, 'neath unsure footing,
inebriated lush.
As I took my leave of gathered
friends and spirits, nothing mattered.
My farewell you found off-putting,
Saw you start to blush.

The simple act of placing lips
against your tender fingertips
would find you fleeing up the stairs.
Just turn and walk away.
Unspoken token, affection
of a deepening connection.
Not one word said, not one soul cares,
but I can't look away.

I wait and watch you disappear
through the fading smoke and mirrors.
I thought one day you'd call again,
never ending silence
echoes out the only mistake
that I'd ever admit to make,
for on that night I lost a friend.
Self-inflicted silence.

Only once has love ever opened my wrist,
Twice more with a rope, my neck has been kissed.
Three panic attacks on the floor of the shower,
Six nights have I wished to see my last hour.

The body's still breathing, but I'm not quite alive,
A soul in standby, simply trying to survive.

Half of me runs with the lions at night,
Feasting and sleeping on wide open plains.
The other side keeps me safe in the light,
Through the sleet and the snow, the hail and the rain.
Half of me leaves myself open to others,
Ready to spill all the things that I feel.
The rest will only confide in my brothers,
Because before others my heart will not kneel.
I'm open and fearless and quick on my feet,
Nothing can slow me or hold me in place.
I'm closed and concealed, hidden from heat,
No one but me will see my true face.
The right and the left are two sides of one coin,
Two different pieces shall never be joined.

When I stand by your side, my skin can melt steel,
When I hear you heart singing, mine starts to heal.
When I look in your eyes, I see the beauty of stars,
Whenever you cry, I wish I bore your scars.

I tell myself I write these words for no specific face,
But I can't lie, to my mind's eye, when placing them on pages
Bound in leather, held together, by the loves I never knew,
Doesn't matter who I flatter, still, I dream of you.
Your name, as sweet as honeysuckle, passes through my lips,
I miss the sin of your silk skin beneath my fingertips.
Thinking thoughts of drinking, drowning memories turned blue,
A million months of nights spent drunk, and still, I dream of you.

The stars in the sky have nothing on the ones in your eyes.
As I watch the crimson flow corrupt the freshly fallen snow,
I feel you against me, as the bitter winds blow us about.
I knew then, that only you could stop me, and help me come alive.

Stressed out, ****** up, broken, and tired,
All thoughts of happiness long since expired.
Words are the only things keeping me sane,
In the same breath, praising/cursing my brain.

I came on too strong,
and I rubbed your soul wrong.
Now I'm strung along
by a silent, unloved song.

You said you were fine.
The stains on the carpet,
You said you spilled wine.

I lie awake in bed, too numb to feel my own heartbeat.
Underneath these calm features lies a panic stricken freak,
Broken beyond repair, paranoid of the air around him.
Dead eyed and drowning, without the hope or the will to swim.
Swallowed whole by the darkness surrounding the thoughts in his head,
Survivors Remorse, when he lives, but better people are dead.

The mystic Mys-Match of Mew Manor mounts the moon at midnight. He flies freely, forgetting the faltering fallacies that fold this failing facade of figments of the imagination and inglorious nations into a crooked caricature of creeps, clowns, and carcinogens to our culture. From crack and **** to casual deaths, the population prays for post-******* match days.

What's the reason of rhyme if you don't have a reason to see a new season of sweethearts and treason? The mystic Mys-Match of the planet Piblatch has snatched nary a glance of this reprehensible romance. He hums happily, hovering over the homes of the hurt and the helpless, unaware of the ugly and untrue souls of the suffering below.

Due in part, perhaps, to the planet Piblatch, whose population prowls playfully amongst the pipperplitz plants and the tinktertip trees. A civilization unaware of Gods and demons, *****'s and dip *****.

At sunset, the Piblatchians partake of rackaday root and crushed up clibber clatch cuttings. They see the psychedelic sky ways that sing of sweet things and spacey swings.

As mankind manipulates, murders, and maims itself, the world which waivers with weakened wings is consumed by the carnivores that **** off the common crowd and leave only the corrupt and cantankerous crooks that fall to the depths of despair when the bomb goes off, blotting out humanity's light forever.

But the mystic Mys-Match and his planet Piblatch live on, past the end of time itself. The peaceful people continue to enjoy their lives and never know of the negative notions that drove the dimwitted denizens of Earth into a violent and gruesome grave.

Mankind could have learned something from the Piblatchians, if only they had opened their eyes and seen the light.

In this violet hour, as dreams court demons and the seams holding the ocean of your soul threaten to split and spill forth your essence into the sky above, time almost seems to stand still. The space around you becomes skewed as gravity gives way to weightless flight above a world that never made sense to you in the first place. All the pain, persecution, and perils that are inflicted upon such immense portions of the populations of no one single nation, but all races, creeds, and castes, and at the end of the day it all boils down to the search for the almighty dollar. But none of that matters to you anymore. As you are borne on by invisible wings along the waves of the universe, guided towards the boundaries of feeling, you begin to embrace the emptiness that is nothingness. Your once harried mind now free from the chaos of being, unclouded by delusions of grandeur and eternity, you allow yourself all the time you need to enjoy this respite from thought. Time has become meaningless. Eons pass, knowable existence collapsing inwards on itself, only to explode into radiance and vitality once more. The cycle continues, hundreds of times in the space of time necessary to form a few sentences, while at the same time accelerating to such a point that galaxies could be traversed in the breadth of a heartbeat. Adrift in the void, with no tether back to the realm of mortals, the only course of action is to allow yourself to be lost to sightless visions and wordless descriptions of an existence that you can no longer remember.

Broken down, discarded dreams,
Slipping through these splitting seams,
Seems to me these eyes can't see
A way to flee this one note scene.

Discordant dissonance of hate,
The fear and pain it propagates,
Weeping mothers, bleeding sons,
A war is waged that can't be won.

Another day, another shooting,
Another factory polluting
Drinking water, poisoned crops,
White collar crimes, when will they stop?

The future never looked so bleak,
Each suture we possess is meek.
But humankind will persevere,
And filter blackened waters clear.

Our time limit is uncertain, but the time is certainly limited.

Today is not Lord Byron’s birthday.
Today is May 3, and I’m preparing to enter the real world.
Graduation comes in nine days.
Before me like a flag my future unfurls.
Poetry is something I must never give up on.
The class that I took this semester reaffirmed that.
The feedback I gained was something to feed upon.
My poems felt like more than mere lab rats.
Dissected on a cold, steel operating table,
Without hope of being understood, only analyzed.
My mind has always served me well when I demand that it be able.
My work is not something that I want privatized.
So I’ll continue my work in the field of poetics,
To try to make the world understand what goes on between these ears.
The words that I write shall be unapologetic,
As I drift through these forthcoming years.
Graduation is in nine days.
Today is not Lord Byron’s birthday.

Trapped in a future I never desired,
The heartaches and pain trap me high in my spire
Of grief. Relief is a state which I've never attained,
Through the years and the tears, my mind lies twisted and maimed.
Unbroken and eternal, this chain of my failures
Will adorn my body; no temple, a trailer.

There is no air in the land under the sea,
But that's never stopped us from having our fun.
The fish don't need air and neither do we,
We still get the heat, the light of the sun.
We swim with the eels and eat with the sharks,
We jump with the dolphins and sleep with the fish.
None of us dare to go down where it's dark,
For the ones who have gone shall be dearly missed.
Terror lies down where the sun does not reach,
But they do not come up to the light of the day.
The young ones are those that we have to teach,
For if we do not then they shant stay away.
This is how the future shall be unfurled,
Such are the ways of Water World.

My death will be a masterpiece,
Inglorious design,
Tear away the hope for peace,
The loss of all that's mine.

Greetings, hello, and welcome to the end.
Come become anonymous, like all your other friends.
Cast aside the velvet rope, step behind the veil,
Enter blackened plains where the weeping sirens wail.
Comfort is a vapor rumour in this unending gloom,
You dreamt of glowing paradise, not this barren tomb.
No mother hears your cry for help,
No father hears your scream,
It's time to grasp what you have done, that this is not a dream.

What's a writer own when his mind has turned to waste?
Without the means to mesmerize, we have no spice, no taste.
The elevator's missing and I've fallen down the shaft,
I've lost my life preserver, I ride a leaky raft.
My tongue is twisted, inside out, reversed, and upside down,
I lack the life to give to words, behind these eyes, I've drowned.

You are the exact opposite of nothing. You are the scalding cup of coffee that screams at the frozen February sky. You are the meteor that must perform a show for thousands of people, gazing blindly past you. You are the toy broken by careless hands, but repaired by a master craftsman, made even stronger than before. You are the exactly perfect diamond, in the exactly perfect cut, in the exactly perfect price range. You are a God ****** tornado, lost in chaotic splendor. You are the crushing wave that left mayhem and panic in your wake. You are the most ******* amazing catastrophe I have ever seen, and so help me ******* God, I will not let the world lose you.