I sat down
To write a poem about
The way things used to be

But I can't remember
Much before dinner
So that thought's eluding me

Then I thought
A poem about
The life I'm living now

What came across
Was one big yawn
Perhaps a bit too loud

Then it occurred to me
Maybe the poem should be
Set in the near future

Before I even began
That light grew dim
So that path I didn't venture

Now here I am
With pen and paper in hand
In this conundrum of what to write

Until that time
The poem I find
I'll just kindly say goodnight

Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.

Death stirs all ways like the wind
like something getting up to go,

and like the wind death doesn't
leave anywhere alone,

but where it is he travels with
whoever take his guiding hand,

gladly will I wait until
                     I die to understand ..

Die into me,

Every kiss is a prayer
As I whisper a prophesy
         To your body.

          The night will keep us
As we constellate our passion.

I die into you,

      I await you on the other side,
There open my soul
      And read the inscription:

   He died a thousand times,
Reborn inside her,
    The Sacrificial Lover.

The awakening to knowledge of yourself
Is an individual process of seeking truths
Allow the stillness and find your peace
Nothing in nature blooms for all the year
Sometimes we can not escape the darkness
But we can learn to love ourselves there and
What we find may be a blessing in disguise

Wailing on the shores abyss ever
yearning the light to shine once again
But the night consumed all effigies
of hope stealing them to the heavens.

Each new light signed the eternal
funeral pyre of those never to reach
the shores. Only to be swallowed within
darkness reaching but never touching.

Each wave that takes upon the bows of
vessels now guided by those past before.
Showing them safely to the port of
needed hope where foot touches land.

But in calm there is always angr beneath
The surface, angered by their taking waves
of vengeance try with force to take what
was taken forcibly from themselves.

Eclipsing the decks, clasping upon those
persuading of wanting the tranquillity of
what yearns below. But anger surfaces on
its wrathful taking feeding a cycle of hate.

Eyes are wide open, gazing at the heavens
through blurred and distorted vision.
Either anger or peace greeted them in
the slumber of drifting waves.

The essence of the sea was present upon
every wave, either gently caressing each
they slumbered on. Or effortlessly trying
to entice others of weak will to the deep.