when
death
takes hold
a blue vapor
cuts
through
flesh and bone
to
flush out
the
naked soul
while
it
takes control
death lives not alone

We're bored like monks
in the margins
of ancient scripture.

We want to leave behind lazy hieroglyphs
and accidental red herrings
feigning illumination

rendered by the deviousness of time
in its enclave,
running a brush of flaky gold paint
over delicate decadence
and sprinkling dust like a fairy--

we are to believe it is all
some ancient treasure.

We prance in the ether of the material world
in junkyards where we sift through the wreckage
coddling memories like drying uteruses,
realizing our generation will not leave behind artifacts
worthy of nostalgia's ensconcing embrace.

With that realization we weep and

We continue to dig.

Why are you mad at me?

When I am who you asked me to be

Mentally and emotionally

whenever you were melancholy

I was there with you

spiritually and physically

I let you become a part of me

I let you become a part of me

Are you even listening to me?

A part of me,

you know all my deepest fantasies

You’ve swam in my sea of tears

You helped me conquer my greatest fears

You showed me how to live a life with no fears

So why are you mad at me?

You created me

You lit a fire in my heart

It burned bright and burned hot

And with it you knew I’d never depart

The flame swayed and flickered

Each flicker an arm trying to reach out for you, but failing

an in each attempt it fails, but ever reaching…

In it’s attempts it blazes and it burns everything around it

Destroying the very fabric of my being

But then again, I don’t know who’s my being

You thought me how to think, and how to feel

you were the one to take my heart and on it put a seal

That nobody could it take it away

you made sure that with you was where I’d stay

Until I had given up, black roses

Because I knew we couldn’t go on

I had given up black roses because

My identity was found in you

But my purpose didn’t ensue

So I guess the reason that you’re mad at me

Is because I’m no longer who you ask of me

No longer a slave to thee, no longer your entity

So I understand your jealousy, Cause for the first time ever

I belong to me,.

Beware the wolf
He Hunts, at night
On top the mountain he howls
His eyes aglow under the moonlight

Beware the wolf, his teeth red with blood
The taste of flesh, the smell of fear
He preys, he overpowers like a flood

Beware the great grey wolf,
All Hail the King of the Pack
The leader, the destroyer
He is the one leading the attack

There once was a girl who fell in love
To a boy that flew as free as a dove
There once was a girl that wanted to be free
To hug to hold, to love relentlessly

There once was a boy who thought he knew it all
Heart as cold as ice he thought, but he would fall
In love with a girl who's heart he knew,
Would show him redemption, would make him new

There is tale told about two friends
From the same planet but two different ends
There's a tale told, that was once put on hold, about a king in a castle and a flag on a pole.

It symbolizes a prince and a princess,
In a universe of soul, and stars and space,
A special place, created in their hearts

Two broken souls connected
Two broken hearts affected
One circle of trust constructed
One fire within burning

One sign of unison
One will of Fire
One lash of hatred
One strong desire

One Final fight
One final valley
One final moment
One realization of destiny

****** Bag in sunglasses
donned indoors where
fluorescent sunlight cannot justify
the obfuscation of haughty eyes
so the visage is one
of pure pretension
and cockiness,
dichotomized
as self-assuredness
and the colloquial term for the phallus,
a literal ****.

(I see him strongly in the memory of a high school field trip returning home school bus late night he sits sideways back to the window head leaning back sunglasses donned smug grin I rendered him the vessel and the scape goat bearing my burning hatred for the inflated ego wrapped in an undesirable chic I deem deplorable, hate hate hate)

Smug grin,
I wrote this poem from a bean bag
in the corner of the library third floor
whilst wearing sunglasses and
a taste of irony
on callous lips
twisted in an invisible sneer.

a clear heart
without
sin or lust
that
make
the
sound of a lark
is
the
sound of a clear heart

The hopelessness in a foreseeable car crash--
an emotion lasting a split second--
is unlike the crippling anxiety of a passenger
who fears the leather-bound mobile mercy seat.

Yet the mirage renders the victim just as helpless
in the impalpable facade of doom.

To never leave this room.