All I ever wanted left me,
So I took it all.
All my lovers betrayed me,
So I ruined thee.
All I've ever known was subjective,
So I really knew nothing.
All my advice was selfish,
So I grinned right throughly.

I'm a wonderful caricature,
of what it means to be human.
Clowned up, and distorted,
that is the vision of me.
But worry not, fair sweet.
I'll be here as you worry and rot.
And I will feed.

I am all six circles of hell,
I am every demon.
I am the lie in the truth,
That glints so eagerly,
In the soft blue eyes of mine,
That can almost... make you feel mine.
Almost, but just out of a trance,
nay nothing ever was, just a circle,
That has never closed, just a cycle that,
has no history, impotent, yet
all consuming, I can't find the truth,
So I'll live in the lies, and they shall be,
The ties that I bind,
myself and others, delicately,
deliciously enjoying the feast,
I provide, alone, in the dark,
talking to those who live,
far far away in here, so that in my hell,
I can reside as king, and feel in control,
or an owner of something.

Yet still I awake,
stilly, I create,
These little poems on my own,
That you'll read on your own.
And you'll think, something but,
It'll be gone abruptly, as if you almost held a star,
but it twinkled unlucky.

I tried to burn the first flower you ever gave me but
it filled the room with smoke like
cigarettes and
I felt it fill my lungs like your
breath
when we used to kiss and
my throat is raw with missing you

I have this feeling
that even if human beings
came with a tag of instructions
on how to care for one another
sewn on some conspicuous part of our person,
most of us would just ignore it.

We all just
machine wash jerkface,
tumble dry to broken pieces.
Tumble dry into
thousands
of little
broken
pieces.

And you can see it, you know?
On us.
Where someone didn't read
those directions carefully
or at all.
Where the colors ran—
reds to whites to pinks.
Where the holes are worn bare,
and the fibers shriveled and shrank.

So we live with those stains,
those noticeable imperfections.
We’re so conscious of it at first,
afraid that everyone will notice
that our instructions weren't followed.
We hesitate to let
someone else try their hand
at doing it right
this next time around.

But we gotta, 'cause
much like ***** laundry,
human yearning is
a ruthless, never-ending cycle.
Fighting it only really makes you
the smelly kid in class.

Just mind your delicates,
pay attention, take your time,
and hand wash that **** worth keeping.

The longest silences are blue
All the unheard sighs settle in stones
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
And the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”
Distant clouds hide their simplicity
in fields of hope

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
The night sky whirls in the wind
its surprise and weeps.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
She was a wild woman; I, a violent man
She knew the stubbornness of tears
I knew the weight of sleep.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
Our mouths postponed day fall
and the silence of time.

On nights like this, we undressed our shadows
I was hers and she was mine
Painting with nakedness the sky
We were each other passion for falling
Our arms kept on crushing
the same way the same day
this forgetful undying.

*That’s all. Far away someone sings. Far away.

He crushed her fortune cookies
one after another,
peeked into crevices
where the tender things lived,
plundered her secrets
like Godzilla out for an evening stroll,
leaving only flavorless dust
and damage in his wake.

Raindrops felt like razors on their skin
She looked at him with eyes filled with tears
His gaze fixed at her
He leaned to give her another kiss
A kiss which sparked a lie she would live.

There comes a time
When you need to realize,
Child,
That you cannot hold
Someone's hand forever.
One day
You must pick yourself up
And face this world
With the power inside you,
Not borrowed stuff from His heart
Or from what's in that syringe.
From inside **You

It was on the walk while surrounded by dizzy  
stillness and birds' song,
Invoked in a desperate last gasp
It was all too apparent with the spinning nothingness of this street
Swirled and unapologetically driven by nonsense except in smatterings
while looking down a street
looking for a cigarette,
The reality in facing reality hits me,
like a swift kick in the nuts
when the Gardener looks at me with those,  uneasy eyes,
The walk continues as
the colors inked with rusted mailboxes
etched with dying roses synch grey skies
and grey...sweatshirts
The walk feels well worn
and I stand in unconvinced understanding,
That I was no longer nauseous.

I pick up a pen
to let my emotions flow
The ink has dried
The paper remains empty.

I cry.