An addiction to the color named red,
An affinity to feelings of dread,
Like waterfalls and raindrops, I feel drenched,
Clothed in a gown of crimson red is death.

Hemophilia causes excessive blood loss,
Just by being touched, you bloom like a rose!
Like roses with thorns that bleeds it's color.
To me who's bleeding out, "You're just a pose!"
I scream out with anguish, a quiet pause.
I lay in a pool of ****** dolor...

To me, you're lips are just like spikes and thorns,
With flowery words born from blooming roses,
As if an explosion of gray matter,
Were your poems that made me bleed all-out.

Poetry is dead
when you are not here
to write it in my heart
when your voice is too far away
to read it.

Poetry is dead
when your allure is feeding
strangers' souls on the streets
while I am here alone,
my soul starving.

Poetry is dead in all my being
I feel its ghost leaving my brains
I feel the emptiness inside
and I fear the days
when it will come haunt me
and I won't find a way
to write it.

Sleeping at night it's impossible
cause I hear a question screaming in my chest

When poetry is dead
is there anything out there
left
*alive?

I write this from a library under the watchful gaze of Voltaire,
Having read that the future of Earth's water is being debated in Morocco.

Isn't there a Utilitarian part of us all that strives to save our home,
And rejects the notion that we must **** where we eat to make progress?

Gambling becomes dangerous when you begin to stake declining resources.

There is no turning back, and there is little optimism from Millennials who shall inherit the rotting infrastructure.

Nothing is dramatic or blown out of proportion when the President can't acknowledge that there's something seriously wrong with a giant hole in the ozone.

Herr Trump, where is the ice going?
Would you sell the penguins for profit?

Tell the Polish Brigade that legal workers will restore this country's ideal greatness.

Tell them sincerely.

Reagan spouted that it was Morning in America, and I imagine the Trumpites feel the same.

What is morning, anyway, when you can't see the sun for the smog?

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.