Poor little chameleon
Sitting there so blue
He's played so many colors
He's forgotten his own true hue

I'm on a diet again, Oh No!
Giving up favourite foods, woe,
Must reduce my weight,
Before it is too late,
All I dream about is food,
Don't think about men, that's rude!
Yes, definitely food before dudes,
Yo-yo dieting is fun,
of this diet--it's only day one!

I'm a piece of fiction.
Fractions of ink on a paper,
Pixelated in achromatic spectrum
Under the shadow of dim night lamp
Damp pillows and hopeless heads.

I'm a piece of word,
Tangling in soulless minds
Eventually fades,
Easily replaced.

I'm a scratch of scribbles on a paper.
Cuts through the fingers of beautiful minds
Bleeding dreams and sorrows
Until-

The End.

Something strange sits
In the murkey mist of ages
Just far enough out of reach
To keep us from its truth

The closest ever we come to it
Is the soft ringing in our ears
That comes only in dead of night
When all but the mind sleeps

Every night does it play
In vain hope
Lulling us to sleep
And bidding us to dream

Desperately calling to us
With all its might
So that one day
We might wake up

Patron: "...And can you add the diced Hamlet to that omelette?"

Waiter: "Jolly good sir, and do you know if you'll be having dessert?"

Patron: "Oh yes, I'll have a strawberry Shakespeare."

Waiter: "Brilliant, your omelette will be out before you can say 'Ides of marshmallow'."

Patron: "That was dreadful and you know it."

Waiter: "Deary me, sir."

END SCENE

You could say it's
all in my head,
it doesn't exist,
just a result of
a hope that persists
but,

There's got to be
something better than this..
Were humans and the world
just dropped and born
out of nowhere,
just to be dumped in eternal misery?
And if angels exist, where
do you think they live?
Not in the air or else
we'd be breathing them in constantly.

The afterlife exists
even for disbelievers,
Some call it Heaven,
some call it Hell...
What will it be?
Only dying will tell.

writing poetry, for me, has become like a eating disorder.
although instead of consuming,
i'm the one producing.

each day i strive for this unattainable image,
this glorified idea of what i might become,
and the parasite in my brain grows.

i force my finger down my throat,
causing words to come bubbling up.
and each time they are more vile than the last,
a sour odor wafting from them.

my mouth burns from the acid but it tastes like victory.
because at least i created something.
and i leave my poetry there to rot,
refusing to admit i have a problem.

too blind to understand that each time i do this i'm slowly killing myself.
i'm hungry for something that can sustain me,
but i reject every antidote.

These parts feel like a lie I am giving to this world,
but it doesn't throw me back a sneer,
it pretends it doesn't know.

I am carving my skin with questions,
but it bleeds back no answers,
only trophies in the shape of these scars.

I am clawing myself out,
but the pit feels like quicksand,
the more I want out the more it takes me in.

I am half a person, half a ghost
already burying myself
inside the casket of my own skin.

If these gods were real
they'd have made us of sturdier stuff
than hearts that break apart at the slightest whisper.

I mourn for skunks.

The squashed, flattened masses
***** mashed, their stripes scattered
Matted  masks disguising unseeing eyes
Through how many fields have they run?
Once sweet babies, small noses, downlike fur
fleeing to their final place from green leafed bowers in a terrible act of asphalt bait n' switch

Let us all grieve the sacrifice which,
Unto the motor gods
Has been served.

The darkness, as well as the drying roses

The quiet and sad moaning,

of people and lost souls

Fresh graveyard dirt and the fading scent of lilies.

Salty tears, as they cascade down faces

The heart aches and throbs.

White lines on the kitchen table.
Your head, C10H15N,
Altoids box under the keyboard.
Your heart, C21H23NO5,
Syringes up your sleeve. ***** on your chest.
Your veins, C18H21NO3,
Dropping acid like the Aztecs.
Your tongue, C20H25N3O,
What will it take to strip your blood down
to the salt and the rust?
5 more Klonopin, 5 more Xanax,
you're on the floor,
a boring story,
I've heard it before.
Keep it far from me.
(You're not close enough. Please.)