With misty eyes, I now sit in my room,
While the birds and the trees choir outside,
Bidding to ravish my soul with joy,
As I recall my past, or think about my future.

How cruel my life is,
To give me such a feeling-
That I love solitude,
But loathe loneliness?

The moments I live, I die,
And the moments that have died,
Live, and make me sad,
Make me cry.

And if ever was I to be happy,
When is it, Will it come?
Or will I lie still, in my room,
Alone and Weeping,
On these scented books,
Whose pages now feel like blades-
Bright and blinding?

And then what,
Will I die too,
The same way as I live,
Lonely and Weeping...

perhaps someday my poems will become better,
my writing will flourish, and my thoughts become settled.
til then I sit and write you this letter,
of how life can sometimes get you fed up.

the ink spilled through the fountain onto a foundation becomes darker,
the words that they create are those of the departed.
you sit in solice wondering what created this monster, trying to figure out what you just started.
a blank sheet of white covered in darkness,
when deep down inside you just wanted to feel as if you were heartless.
to feel what it's like to not feel at all,
so onto this canvas your well of creations fall.
realizing that what was vivid and bright
is now permanently stained by the sheltered broken words that were once in your brain.
your thoughts then try to figure if flames will suffice,
and so you put the sheet up to candle light.
hoping that the stained and destroyed sheet will demise.
but as you unfold it, the words cross your eyes
so you grab the well and the quill again just to write,
what everyone did and said to ruin your life.
and **** does it feel good,
it feels so right,
to put thoughts into words,
and those words into light.
and then you pause for a moment.
no more noise in your mind.
silence for once, everything feels fine.
and you look at your hands covered in ink.
you grab that paper as you read it and think.
these are your creations, and now you know it.
this is how the broken becomes a poet.

I need to say
nothing
the words
are dancing
on my tongue
waiting to be said
but i can't
i just
can't
at least
not anywhere
they will be heard.

person
stop doing that
that thing you do
I find it odious
It gets under my skin
It makes me think
of purifying fire
Why Why why
well
as I said
it annoys
no it offends me
my sensibilities/morals
are irritated
mind my own business
you say
ha ha ha
I can't.

When the dead come back to me
It’s because I can’t forget
The gifts they gave me, and
Ones I haven’t gotten yet.
It’s not like I’m having tea with
Some undead moldy skeleton.
Just listen closely and you will
Understand it all when I am done.

As it’s not all Disney roses
When these spirits come to call.
I think they come back to haunt
Whenever they feel the call.
It runs about fifty-fifty most times
Between the horrors and the glories.
Everyone from my past it seems
Wants to share with me their stories.

Some of them are active now
And alive as they can be
But they left me and went away
So, they are as dead to me.
They come to make me question
Issues of what’s wrong and right
When the dead come to talk
With me alone, in dark of night.

I used to fret and wring my hands
And try to decipher their signs.
But now I accept it as what it is
And today I feel it’s all just fine.
I am sure it is worth more to me
To understand what has gone by.
So when the dead come back to me
I have begun to understand why.