This isnt a poem
Its my emotions
Poured into words

I could no longer contain
The pain I'm feeling
Allow me to share

It hurts
Its painful when you get left out
When people forget your existence

But I cannot blame them
For it might have been my fault

Have I unknowingly built a wall
That no one could climb?
No one, not even me

I cannot escape from this place
A fortress I built from peace in solidarity

But as time passed by
the peace came on too strong
The peace felt turned into screaming loneliness

But still I cannot climb this wall...

So let this poem be my memory
Let this poem leave a trace of me
So that when the time will come
When the time have passed to much
That the wall is old enough to be fragile... and break
Maybe that time people will see
The traces I've left
That proves in this world there was me

The snow stopped.
Thin veins of white lay
in the cracks of pavement,
melting.
The smoke moved out of chimneys,
drifted lazily and without direction
a few seconds before it
faded senselessly into
invisibility.
The sun will not show his face today.
Thick gray blurs the line
between sky and stone;
concrete and cloud sift
through each other noiselessly.
The flag falls stale against the pole.
Ants litter the cold ground
on two legs, stagnant,
opening doors, talking,
gesticulating without urgency.
Brown and gray paint landscape
impressionist against the
thick glass of the window;
everything blurred, everything
intangible, graceless, sluggish.
The world is a cold, dead place
from twenty stories up.

Your presence is tangible
Across the vast expanse
Yet, I hear not your voice
I feel not your longing
Mine, is the only heart I hear
Alone, for the first time in eternity
Alone, wrapped in your essence
Just a whisper of warmth
A choice all your own
To be alone
A choice that you have forgotten
Includes me
For we flow throughout each other
Still, here we are
I feel you trying not to feel me
And I close my eyes
Praying death over a life that begins here
And ends without you
'tis not a choice could I make
'tis not a life...alone

Our country ridden with mental and physical disease
To stop another beating, begging "Daddy won't you please"
Clothes too tight, fabric too thin
Gain acceptance from your classmates by showing more skin

Hatred is thick in the air, you can cut it with a knife
Children screaming on the playground yelling "end your life!!!"
Cutting each other in line for an entrance into heaven
What happened to the unity after the Boston Bombing and 9/11?

Bashing our forefathers, in liberty we pretend
Behind closed doors little girls scar their wrists again
We are balanced through imbalance, choosing looks over school
Repeating ugly words thinking this is what makes you cool

Crazy is no longer subjective; it’s either black or it’s white
Ignorance is bliss but it isn't ignoring what's right
Locked up by these chains, “My country tis of thee”
I'm staring at a sick corrupt page, better known as society.

Go ****** your eyes over a photograph, it won't be enough to bring her back
Push your fingers through her heart, it won't be enough to make it restart
Tear your teeth into her cold hand, it wont be enough to make her feed you again

...
"She is indeed the happiest Oracle of Leo the Lion,
            born as his innocent prophet
                                     of divine sunlight~
tumbling~
                  spilling;
                 ­                  "eternal flower."
                                                        ­        :to recite the amber
                                                           ­      prophecies with
                                                         the lions ~fire'tongue~
                                                   in showers of orange rain.
She was the king's candle;
      a starlit lantern of medallion grace.
She wears a dress of violet promises and peace
              that tickles the wind to knock on the sky.
Asking the nightfall of questions in sleeping stars~
                                         "Why do I miss her?"
Her words were fused with kindness and marigolds;
                to cleanse the darkest infections within
                                                              a lion's soul
                                               and his injured pride.
                                             
You are so lonely, Leonie.
With your heart forgotten in the lions cave.
                   Loyalty is built on your visions and bones.
Yellow masks that paint the walls of your prison,
              and it's a sadness that the king cannot mend.
              So this isolation becomes the voice of reason.
and freedom is the voice of treason.

Deep within the lions den, the ceiling fell at 2 a.m,
twisting~
             buckling;
                        demolishing,
                  ­                      :stones falling to their knees.
With hope and reckless saltwater dreams
                    she fled with ember feet to see
the moonlight showering in.

Notes of silver plucked the wind,
         as ink and blue stirred the rubble
There stood a girl, on cracked stone table;
with a white rabbits' mask and metallic hair.
         Willow vines weeping along her arms
dress as deep as crow feathers;
                         and the hush of a dragon's wing
swinging from her neck;
                        crystals throwing light in her wake.

"My prophecy said you would come."
futures that unravel at a white line in the dust;

                           And the darkness pulled on her robes of silk;
                                           while she took off the mask
                              and blue eyes met golden windows
                       Descending to meet the oracle in wisdom;
                               a warning whispered to her
                                         ties with solitude
        The moon spoke with a thousand tongues that night;

"You have to roar Leonie; So the heavens can hear you."
...

It started with a passing thought,
and soon became a word,
and then a series of words
that led to action,
and then a series of actions,
that let to an event,
and then a series of events,
that led to a situation,
and then a series or situations,
that led to life,
and then a series of lives,
that led to history
and now it's too late.
Sorry.
That's just the way
it is.

Whispers of yesterday
Soulful eyes in a frame
Forever loved

My father always
taught me to
pick my battles,
physical
or otherwise.
To choose
very wisely
what exactly was,
and was not,
worth fighting for.

Years later
I still struggle.
My eyes are black
and swollen
while my father
sits back, laughing
in his sales pitches and
stock options,
bartering cubicles for
candy bars.

"Keep it up, son"
he says,
"keep it up.
You’ll
win one,
eventually.
Keep blowing chances
and closing doors,
don't worry,
you'll grow up
eventually."

Yet I’m still here.
Street cornered with
broken bones
and gutted pride,
late nights spent
throwing fists at
passing shadows.