life is made for taking chances
seeing where those chances lead
when i think of you, my heart dances
you are everything i need

we cling to music, art, poetry, we are desperately afraid to be alone in this life and we search for something or someone who feels the same way we do, we want someone to explain the parts of ourselves that we cannot.

in the land of the white
live too the black men
apparently with equal right
but with covert disdain.

why couldn't the world be one place
when we are all from common gene
where humanity is the only race
across the color of skin.

in the land of the black
live too the white men
apparently of the same pack
but on a different plane.

why couldn't the world be one landmass
when we rose from one origin
where being humane is the only class
across the color of skin.

in the land of the white
live the white men
among them aren't equal right
exist disparity and disdain.

why couldn't the world be one unit
when together we all once had been
where brotherhood is boldly writ
across the color of skin.

in the land of the black
live the black men
among them oneness they lack
the inequalities still remain.*

why couldn't the world be one creed
where mankind lives as one kin
the white and the black can only read
love across the color of skin.

Too many ways to go
Too many signs to one place
Many trying to trick me
Many forcing me to take a turn
Positive the right one is missing
Positive but I do not know
I just want to get to my destination
But the right sign won't show

The best way to not get your heart broken is to pretend you don't have one.
One said.

But every time you show up,
you remind me that
perhaps,*
Some people are worth having a heart for.

I was elected
As a representative
Of planet earth

To explain the human race
To life on other planets

I explained to them
That we destroy our environment
Begin wars

I explained to them
That the future
On earth does
Not look bright
At all

I also explained to them
That most of the world's people
Just try to get enough food
To make it through the day

They couldn't believe
How primitive we were
They laughed
And said

"Truly, as a race
There wasn't really
Much improvement
At all
In your whole history!"

I told them
I knew it was sad

The two basic problems
People had were
Were a lack of respect and love
For the planet we lived on
And for our fellow man

everything is fiction. When you tell yourself the story of your life, the story of your day, you edit and rewrite and weave a narrative out of a collection of random experiences and events.          
Your conversations are fiction.
Your friends and loved ones—they are characters you have created.
And your arguments with them are like meetings with an editor—please, they beseech you, you beseech them, rewrite me.

You have a perception of the way things are, and you impose it on your memory, and in this way you think, in the same way that I think, that you are living something that is describable
.
When of course, what we actually live, what we actually experience—with our senses and our nerves—is a vast, absurd, beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

I am Persephone;
queen of the cursed and the ******,
bogged down by chains made of
greed and desperation.
My value lies on a stained mattress;
my worth measured by the broken fingernails
left on the skin of my paychecks,
fragments of myself given for an hour of their pleasure.
I know nothing but chapped lips and blissful vacancy,
outstretched hands met with violence.
I am no longer a spring flower;
wilted beyond recognition,
I am better suited for examination under glass than
I ever was for life in damp alleys.
But for all my inadequacies,
there are three things for which I'm certain:
there's a price to pay for naivety,
innocence is a lie,
and we're not all created equal.
A pretty face is worth its weight in gold;
sold to the highest bidder,
there's no room for integrity
when wolves are nipping at your heels.
hard years have taught me this:
silver spoons nourish the undeserving
and even the virtuous come with a price tag.
We are all marred by what we do to get by, and ideas mean nothing
if wrapped in the skin of a *****.
And it makes me wonder;
which one weighs more,
a pound of flesh,
or a pound of promise.

- K.M.

"Why don't you write something happy?"
Because it'd be a lie.
So no I won't write something happy,
not while I want to die.
Poetry isn't something choose,
it isn't just a skill that I use,
I can't make it stop, it's not my choice,
they're not my ideas, they're just in my voice.