Crimson red, and glorious gold.
Two vibrant colors, of a tale never told.
A king and his servant, rein 'til they grow old,
though the price on this kings head,
would leave his whole kingdom sold.

A man with a knife,
aims to take the kings life,
and with it his wealth,
his honor, and health.

An impossible task,
he who endeavors won't last.
For none can hide through a mask,
in a crowd of men, so vast.

Countless numbers have tried,
and fell where past bodies have lied.
While others remain tied, if they haven't yet died.
This king hasn't cried, only laughed and sighed,
at the men who give their lives, while he waits, and abides.

Bloodshed that won't end,
til one man, has the kings head.
Who will go where others will not tread,
perhaps a servant in the kings stead.
As royalty lays down in his bed,
he won't wake in the morning, for he will be dead.

The only guard with a key,
to the kings chamber, you see,
killed the king in his sleep,
so his life, he could keep,
and so all of the servants,
could live happy, and free.

its a discontorted reality birthed from the mush of what is and could be´s but wasn´t and won´t yet still carries the presence of that which should have been what hadn´t seen before.
its a cold beer getting warm, one of three put in the fridge next to the cheese and butter under the liver across from the milk and the jelly who wanted to be eaten but only saw the hot get cold, I´ll drink you slowly tonight.
its this little fly that keeps landing on my left arm as I stare at blue capped deoderant canisters wishing for the year 1995 video game joy as I shake a shake and eat coconut tasting cookies with no coconut anything listed in the ingrediants.
its the warm night slipping his fingers down the back of your pants as you inch forward resisiting what you secretly want, a bead of sweat runs over your lips as you cry out and find your own hands reaching where warms ones wont.
its an unfinished pool that needs five truck loads of sand, three of rocks, five of dirt because the dirt can´t touch the sand and the the rocks can´t touch the pool if we want to swim while the sun is high and the clouds are sparse.
its that feeling you get as your walking up dark steps and you run you run and you never know why, its the listening without having to know, its the yes to your goodbye, its the I can so I will move on, its the no longer a boy I finally feel like a man, its any pants are too tight with a *******.
its life.

Lusting to grasp what is, fulfillment.
Without any desire to escape, thy cruel confines.
Your blood grows thinner, with each insatiable sip.
This is, a poison, a man made addiction,
That replaces common sense, with each desired drip.
Each glass may aid you, but each glass, won't fill you.
It may help you to forget your life,
Now you're saying it helps you live..
Over time, it has become the entirety of who you are.
It appears you are no longer alive, to me.
Your vision is now too blurred to see,
And I, will no longer show you mercy.

If I had a spare heart
that would beat just the same,
If I had a spare heart
to replace one in pain,
If I had a spare heart
to make everything okay,
If I had a spare heart,
I could love you.

If I had a spare heart
after you'd destroyed mine,
If I had a spare heart,
I could place it inside.
If I had a spare heart
that could erase the pain,
If I had a spare heart,
I could love you.

But the one heart I have
is too fragile to break,
and, with none to replace it,
I won't make that mistake.
If I had a spare heart,
then I'd have one to lose,
But I don't,
so I cannot love you.

Give to the ears
of he who will listen
a rhythm
that beats with My heart.

Give to the eyes
of he who will see
a vision
that expresses My love.

Give to the mind
of he who will think
wisdom
to know I am just.

Give to the tongue
of he who will speak
words
to declare what I've done.

Give to the hands
of he who will work
strength
to build My home.

Give to the feet
of he who will stand
courage
to stand alone.

Give to the arms
of those who will comfort
compassion
to show towards all.

Give to the spirit
of all the believers
faith
to keep them strong.

Doubt not, I am coming;
I am coming soon.
Believe,
and prepare the way,

For there is great reward
for those who'll
listen
and obey.

i.

  truth is clever
  when you underestimate
  him,  the moment you
  are sober he will
  excavate the flesh
  from your
  fingernails, grazed
  out with
  his fugly ones,  

  and while you wail
  in this agony,
  this soundless saliency,
  you will seize
  only for
  this fragile moment
  and only then will you
  cultivate what is true,
  the truest and the truest
  fallacies.

  it is only
  like this  
  when it hurts.



ii.

  i like the smell of
  rain because it smells
  of absolutely nothing,
  and it reminds me that
  nothing
  can really be everything
  because nothing is what is real
  and nothing is good,
  and nothing is better than
  happiness,

  but really, nothing is
  the only nothing,
  the nothing that
  can surrender
  this theoretical emancipation,  
  this sugar that tastes like
  cardboard and crack,
  this chemical that
  is white enough
  to bleach away
  sins with cold
  fire.  



iii.

  i'd rather believe
  in the bruises
  around my neck,
  lynched by
  the metaphysical ribbon that
  ties me to reality  

  than to believe
  in the bruises
  that appeared
  on my brain,
  raw from the world that
  is fabricated by a
  *******logical
  malice derived
  by a mind  
  like yours.



iv.

  am i merely a nudiustertian,
  and the monsters before that
  and the carcass after

  or am i simply a demonised mother,
  of 'duplicity' and 'profanity'
  or any other piece of lexicon that
  defines a rapture between
  the word 'human'
  and the word 'sublime'.

You're the words of love
with every turn of the page
of my life, that burns
bright in the night,
and sets the day's scene
just right,
for the love you
bring, starts the story
to sing, and the melody
drifts through every chapter
like mists surrounding me,
and you continue the tune,
with every page
that I view,
from the beginning,
until the end,
and then I re-read
it all over again,
the book that you've
entitled, "I Love You"
-because the story is true:
"I love you, too!"

__
the book:
http://beautyineverything.com/5092820337

"                        "
      !            :                  ,                .
              ,            ,            ,                .
      ,              ;                              !
                    ,

i'm going to die here, i know i will,
they change their scope of helping me,
every time i slide farther down the hill,
"you can have this pill at a certain time,"
"NO! Wait! We've changed our mind,"
"you can have it at this new time, how kind!"
"just make sure there's someone on who can tell the time.."

and if i lay here waiting, for what i may or may not get,
my hands will slowly tremble and my mind so deeply frets,
all alone in this wrinkled bed clothes, no one sees me yet,
but now the nurses have come to me with a little more regret:
"the doctor says you'll now have to wait 7 more hours for relief,
it seems he doesn't like being awaken at nighttime when he sleeps."

so, i get to feel my tears build up behind my bloodshot eyes,
no one is here at all to help me understand just why.
you should see me now alone trying so hard now not to cry,
all i feel is stunned, cold shock and this feeling that i will die
--i'm going to die here, bit by bit, inside out and all alone,
i don't know what to do or say, or how to make last atone,
for all i've done in my life, that has brought me to this place,
to compose this death-wish poem to read as tear-drops paint my face.

but, for now with nothing else left to do in my hospice room,
i do the last thing that i can do the best, just write and wait for doom.

is there anyone out there?
help, help, help me, i beg and try to plead!
will anyone please come here,
hold and hug me in my need?

i'm  going to die here,
and i'll be all by myself,
left alone like a broken knick-knack
on a dusty shelf.
___

From out the dragging vastness of the sea,
Wave-fettered, bound in sinuous, seaweed strands,
He toils toward the rounding beach, and stands
One moment, white and dripping, silently,
Cut like a cameo in lazuli,
Then falls, betrayed by shifting shells, and lands
Prone in the jeering water, and his hands
Clutch for support where no support can be.
So up, and down, and forward, inch by inch,
He gains upon the shore, where poppies glow
And sandflies dance their little lives away.
The ******* waves ******, and tighter clinch
The weeds about him, but the land-winds blow,
And in the sky there blooms the sun of May.