This morning, I went into your home
And hung up all the cobwebs
That I had collected.
I dumped a bucket of dust
All over the floors and kicked it
Into the air, making it hard to breathe.
I smeared the mud from my shoes
All over your brand-new carpet, thinking,
"I've done this before, and I wonder
If he will still forgive me;"
That's when you came walking
Through the door with a broom in hand,
And open arms for this vandal.

Call me old fashioned
But I dream of a love that's true
One where my better half means
the things that they say && do

Where photos of other women
On social media, among other places
Mean nothing to them compared
To the look we share between our faces

Where they're not constantly on the look out
For someone better to come along
Because they know deep down that being
With anyone else would just feel wrong

Maybe they'd know that I was the one
Right from the very start
Or maybe it would take time for them
to open up their heart

I'd go to the ends of the earth
To make sure they never felt alone
&& I hope that they'd do the same for me
That they'd let our love set the tone

So call me old fashioned
But I can't play these new aged games
My heart wasn't built to wander around
Once it finds a home, it wants to stay

He never littered so his pockets smelled of cigarettes and sweets

This caused a poor reaction from the ladies

But mother nature loved him dearly  

He made songs out of junk
Rusted melodies played
A poet of high caliber
A mind of high grade brain work

A bottle and a sniff
A word and a smoke
out comes the guilt

I often ask him why he needed these calamity riddled confines

Sometimes he would whisper his replies

Because he worried the gods could hear him

He lost his mind inside a ghost town

Time stained structures watched the regression

A soul needing silence

Instead he found childhood fear and crumbled

I went to visit him on the fifth floor

Psych wards terrify me
not because of it's inhabitants
But the fear they won't let me leave

I found him playing connect four

He claimed his competitor was a monster

nobody in sight

He said he was writing a novel

The pages he showed me contained
beautiful images and hysterical assumptions

Yet they made my soup filled stanzas seem reasonable

Only his circle could decipher his words and symbols

The final product was too mad for the casual observer

It's pages made scenes of unspeakable horrors and unlimited joy

We buried him next to his dog

He always claimed she was the only one who gets it


"Great poets die in steaming pots of sh*t." (Charles Bukowski)

the gold flecks in her eyes
are so much like fire,

he doesn't remember what it felt like
to have my icy fingers on his spine.

the gold flecks in her eyes
burn so ******* bright,

he is forever blinded
to all displays of my affection.

my ice, my burning charcoal eyes,
my dark, dark, dark.

i needed his light,
i needed his warmth to melt my walls.

but he needed another fire,
to burn like hell,

and feel like heaven.
what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

and what he doesn't see is not there.

I am so tired
And it's the kind of tiredness
That no amount of sleep or rest
Can ever cure or ease
World weary is what I am

All my life
For as long as I can remember
I've been fighting for or against
Something
Anything
I only knew the fight

Bodies become battered and broken
And minds become anxious and paranoid
But both of these can be fixed
However
When a soul becomes worn and diminished
Medication does not help

                                            By Phil Roberts