her heart is sweaty,
skin smells of anxiety
from all the lies she told
the boy that killed himself
with words hanging in his
brain.

Constantly Drunk On
The Thought Of Thinking
Why,
You'd Actually Want To
Be With A Miserable,
Lonely, Drunk Boy
Like Me.

The terrible thing about poets is we're all sadistic masochists.
We all want to read about heartache, and we all want to write about the demons that haunt us in our worst hours.
We never talk about our happiness, our productive days and nights where we slept enough.
We drown in each other's depression so nicely, a swimming pool of lonely writers, ink pooling around us each because we always carry pens in our pockets.
No one wants to know how happy we are. How our boring mundane human life of doing dishes and vacuuming the carpet went.
We all want to stick the knives in a little deeper, to draw out a little more of each other's blood. Because honestly, our poetry has always been written in blood, sweat, and tears.
That's the thing about poets. We'd rather be miserable and have something to write about than be happy and have nothing to write about.

i can be your all
   if you let me

open your mind
and let my craziness
enter.

i apologise,
i'm well aware
it's illegal to use
pictures of people
without their permission,
but your image
wanders through my
fantasies with no
regard for roadblocks
or boundaries, and
frankly, i'm tired
of throwing photographs
away.

Across the bed, she has lain,
Not breathing not in vain.
My mood is as stoic as her skin's hue.

It started early with how the day
Cut ***** windows with sunlit rays,
Was as southern as a slice of honeydew.

She was leaning by the gate,
Like Christina Applegate,
As willing as a pauper without a clue.

I never asked her name,
To me, they were all the same.
(Somehow, I think this one might stick with me.)

There is an absence in her eyes
I have loved since her demise.
She will stay this way in my memory.

I pour the powder on her pale,
****** belly, then toot, inhale.
Through my nose, I feed my mind.

Sticky dryness of my mouth;
It's time to leave the south,
Go somewhere no one can find.

I can still hear the sound
Of the drive by shooting down
On the street from around the block.

The room is a vestibule
To the starlit harlot's tomb.
When I'm done, I leave her on the cot.

As I move through the door,
And leave behind the *****.
I muse, briefly, how I stay in the clear.

To all the good Catholic boys,
May you bang up lots of toys.
Have a ****** belly Christmas this year.

Thorefin,
Therifen,
Theraphin,
Raven Angel.
I do not expect
you to undestand.

I am he.
He is me.
She are we.
We are thee,
And there are more.
I do not think
This is something
Ordinary men conceive.

All the paintings of darkness
Are not to impress upon the critics
The level of my shallow depth,
Nor are my phrasings for the sake of vanity.

It is the darkness that gives lessons to the light, of things that I am not afraid to learn.

Like a papillon in a  season of change,
I am transformed into a dark lamp,
For I  have stood in many shadows.

I have soaked up the knowledge.

In my shadow,
Illumination awaits.