the fireworks made me
see the word 'alive'
they said people like me
couldn't feel things
but i did that very night
the page was flipped
we embark on time
maybe this year 'round
we'll do it right
but darling, did the fireworks
make you feel alive too?
make you feel hope
make you want to explode
make you want to be beautiful
make you want to stay
make you scream
make you smile
make you stare
and say 'hey, look at that,
i made it through again."

poems written
out in vain
love has kept me blind
ambrosial promises
turned rosy skies
****** red
‘it is alive’ they cried
screamed to the heavens
the gods no longer
listening
mustered the courage
swallowed the blades
revolution in cages
no longer afraid
love has kept me blind
but not for long anymore
now we arise
the arsonist is knocking
we transform to nebulas
rip off dead skin
wash off our sins
love has turned me
to a monster
so how shall i begin?

we comfort our souls with lies
and we
burn our homes to be free.

we dab perfume on our dead bodies
and we
stitch smiles on faces to be happy.

we turn up the music (too loud)
to be deaf upon the cries of our names
wedged between curses
and scorching regrets.

we try to dance along with the songs
of ghosts -
whose skeletons have been
long forgotten in our antique closets.

we drain bottle after bottle,
light a cigarette after another,
**** ourselves so we don't die -
a surrender to loneliness is worse, after all.

and so...

we say goodbye without considering
that we are worthy enough to stay,
we apologize for the words
we actually meant to say.

we crawl back to our hollowed grounds -
yet we love with the strength of that
who has never been loved.

we travel barefoot on unknown,
desolate roads
in the hopes to find where we belong.

we do the mistakes we've done before,
not because we are stupid,
but god, because we've learned.

damage has always been your forte -
an expertise,
your recalcitrant venom.
you annihilate
before they could burn you
and your fortress is painted
in a deep, metallic rouge.

you wear the word 'vicious'
like a crown;
loyal weapon tucked neatly in the
taverns of your mouth.
you are adroit with words, after all.
such a fine weapon,
such a clean cut.

realms bow down, subjects to terror.
sweet vilification's best served
in your court.
not one soul would dare to beard
the lion,
no single breath,
shall make your empire topple.

the caucus adjourns; your grip is slipping
you may be the head,
but we
are
the
body.

your realm will rot
from the inside.

golden written poems
reflect my aching soul,
i hope you see
what you're looking for.
and though it shows
that try you must,
what you should find,
you'll never know.

i won't apologize for,
the run down home
with faded bright paint,
art hung on tilted walls.
it served as solace
when nights turned sour,
my clandestine sanctuary
in the darkest hour.

it may seem to you
how unconventional -
that of my liquor at dawn,
and breakfast at twilight.
when i breathe fire,
i do not wince,
it triggers my passion -
my soul just grins.

you, however
speak in arrogant tongues,
because you can't see my heart.
the noise you make,
repudiates my art.
though you feel superior
and put me beneath your boot
i'll rise in time,
and retrieve my worth.

i'm different, it's true --
disarray of vivid colors,
an underrated being
of unseen collections.
and so i should not
explain to you just why,
it's useless to show you
for you see in only black and white.

For a moment but not long
the trilling bluebird stopped her song
the crystal wind forgot to dance
the laughing creek slipped out of trance

the sunsets colors bled to black
the stars themselves began to crack
the heat began to turn to ice
and gamblers didn't roll the dice

the streets were left in silence still
as drumming tunes began to ****
the pictures on the walls turned red
and 'neath the mask she wore she bled

for just a moment but not long
the mask she wore sang human song
and tears that shed in nights embrace
were for a moment put in place

the world saw for what she was
and looked away in turn because
if they asked then they would know
that in her blood despair doth flow

As the wind whispers sweet nothings in my ear

I pause to listen, to hear 

the name of your voice drifting over the wind 
though swallows tails whose feathers have thinned



As the winter bites at the ice cold chill

I promise forever I will 

climb the tall mountain and stand by your side

sing songs of friendship and time we’ll abide

Don’t listen to darkness my lovely, my dear

the dark causes nothing but fear

your heart it is strong in my hands like a bird

the first melody that it ever has heard

I linger beside you my heart touching yours

looking out over the mist covered moors

with your hand in mine the world we’ll rule

ill save you from darkness, that wide grinning ghoul

And in moments of sorrow, and moments of pain

I’ll catch your stray teardrops, and brush away rain 

that falls from the stars on your porcelain face

I’ll be your back bone, your cast and your brace

I’ll pick up the pieces when pieces are done

and put them back to where they’ve begun

your smile is a universe, your laugh is the sun

the bird of your heart is second to none

My love stay here with me, my love do not weep

I’ll see you in morning, I’ll see you in sleep

My love it is worth it, this mountain to climb 

My love you are worth every cent, every dime

When the going gets tough love, just look to the stars 

though we may be apart love, the universe’s ours

to rule as we wish, to command as we will

so fight this long battle, keep climbing uphill 


You’ll get to the top love, and you’ll look around

and wonder how such beauty can ever be found

for after the battle, and after the war 

peace will be found, on a not so far shore

I may not be great at writing but

I am of the opinion that,

a poet upon closer inspection

is quite similar to a hat,

both are worn ragged and weary,

both drip water when they're teary,

both have a similar disposition,

and don't need much nutrition,

they're hung right out to dry,

either by a wife or by a guy,

are locked for hours in a room,

never overuse a broom ,

worn to cover balding spots,

or gaping holes in meager plots,

the brim on one doth shield another,

and once it's made it's got a brother,

and though one types and the other sits,

holding over gaping pits,

and though one smiles and the other cries,

and though one falls and the other flies,

and though one speaks and the other is mute,

all in all they're not so brute,  

so though a poet is not a hat,

and though a hat is not a poet,

it would escape their reason (both)

if either of them refused to show it