The scariest thing about life is reality
People fear to live
People live to fear

The world isn't as you know it,
Everything is a lie.
Nothing has substantiality,
And everything is subjective,
And nothing is ever right.

We distract ourselves with the little things,
And don't see what's going on.
We play our little games,
And **** like it has meaning,
We pretend that nothing is wrong.

We don't see behind the scenes,
In fact nobody really does.
We fight these wars,
We **** these people,
And will ourselves to shed blood.

And no, I don't have the answers,
I don't think anyone does.
But I do know that if
We keep going like this,
The world will end just cause.

Where can I find a heart
That doesn't shy away from grief?
Or a heart that yearns for something
Purer than a unicorn.

I'd like to meet that heart
And if possible, make it mine.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

There once was a man who wrote poetry
Which alas was not read that widely.
Until, that is, he passed away
And became the talk of the day;
Lauded, albeit posthumously!