It is one to lose a lover
It is two to lose a friend
It is me who never wanted
to truly see the end
You never see it coming
i suppose that's always said
This poem ***** a lot
but so did you,
Your ex-best friend

I like you like I like to
Refrain from breaking a hip
I like you like I like to
Not fall and bust my lip
I like you like I like
Not being stung by a bee
I like you like I like
Not having Stalin next to me

I like you as much as
Acid burns the skin
I like you as much as
The Holy Ghost likes sin
I like you as much as
My car stuck in a ditch
I like you as much as
My phone's each technological glitch

I like you like I like
Bashing my head against a wall
So I guess I really don't like you
No. I don't like you at all.

Do not stand at my grave and weep..
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry..
I am not there. I did not die.

some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

O cool is the valley now
And there, love, will we go
For many a choir is singing now
Where Love did sometime go.
And hear you not the thrushes calling,
Calling us away?
O cool and pleasant is the valley
And there, love, will we stay.

what if thought was external,
more easily observable?
would we like what we find,
what others rather hide?

you'll never be inside my head,
but imagine if you could.
would you want to look around?
do you think you really should?

It's terrifying how one flick of the wrist,
with the razor in between fingers,
doesn't hurt one bit.
No sting,
no burn,
just relief.

I know… I know
You don't have to say it twice
I know… I know
I see it now… I realize
That I really need to quit being nice
To quit being good to everyone, because some of these people don't care about anyone…
But themselves
They would never make a move to help anyone, unless by making that move they would also be helping themselves
This realization of mine, is emphasized by the sharp pain caused by this blade that is lodged into the base of my spine
Still with a slight limp and a wince, I move forward
Stabbed in the back by a pathetic, selfish coward
Story of my life
Sorry, but my strife…
Isn't with them
It’s with me
For allowing it
That is how I came to this situation…
And I am now in it
So, I could either choose to be buried alive… which would leave me dead in the end
Or dig my way out against the falling dirt, blatant truth against all that is pretentious… wage war against all who pretend
I say to them, “If I can afford to call myself out on my own faults and speak to me that which is true…
I'll be ****** if from this day forward, I'm going to be lenient with you”
I'm done.