Nature has no poverty, wanton destruction or hatred
For she is nature
Man rips out the beating heart
With every saw cut and bite of Axe
With ever searing brand
That lights the fire of mans destruction

Humans, with their materialistic ways
Slowly draining away my beauty
It's almost the end of my days
Can't they see,
What every flower, river and tree,
Means to me?
I'm the mother of all nature
And my loves flows pure
But soon my love for life
Will no longer endure

You are the rain forest
The beating heart of life
And yet how long can you take the wounds
Caused by my lust and greed
Your heart, your beaten bleeding heart
For every drop of your precious blood
Humanity must die

You purposely destroy me
Use me
Cut out my heart, bleed me dry
Leaving me bare
Then walk away as I cry
Without a care
This is not new to me
Been happening for centuries
I think I've had enough now
I'm bringing a flood to watch you drown
Then a hurricane to bury you underground

Nature was placed here to serve me
You are neither master nor lord
And you serve in humility for the betterment of man
But I, I'VE
Chosen to use and abuse what you offer
It's not for me, the delicate surgeons cut
More the slash and hack
Of the untrained butcher
Me, oh me who drains the life blood from this earth

You deserve no more of what I can offer,
I will rain hail of fury upon my precious ground
Simply to watch you suffer
With all living things, I'm naturally bound
But I will destroy the soul of me
Just to watch you die with no mercy
I AM MOTHER NATURE
You will fear me
Bow down to me
Respect me
Care for me
Or you WILL all DIE in misery
Maybe next time, humanity,
You will choose how you treat me more carefully.

You think it is about the money
That this thin green slip can fill the dark void you left in my heart
Well newsflash, baby girl
Money doesn't buy love
It doesn't replace pure emotion,
And I loved you
That I could put upon my grave
How could you do this to me
Break my heart I mean
I wanted to give you everything
Make you feel as if you were a queen,
But you just dethroned me
You took my heart right out of my chest
Then ripped it to streads as if it meant nothing
Was it worth it
Do you feel accomplished
Stealing my very essence then just simply laugh in my face
I can't even be mad,
Should of saw it coming
But I was blinded by your mere beauty
I hope you pleasant life is hell
And I hope you burn there as well

The box that pumps my blood has four,
Four chambers,
One holds all the light and airy facts of love along with the dark and heavy,
Another holds my memories,
The third and fourth are queer indeed, I never know what in them I’ll find,
Whether they’ll be full or empty.
The third is reserved for what I give to others,
The fourth for what I get.
The first and second display my lifetime,
The third and fourth: a day.

Let these words
Slip of my tongue
And hang in the air
Like smoke
Let them
Become something you crave
More than the nicotine
That poisons your body
Make them your addictions
That thing you need at two in the morning
The thing you can't stop thinking about
Let these words off my tongue
Hanging in the air
Breath them in
Let them take over your body
Get your high
Off my words
Let my tongue be your addiction

It's kind of cold in here,* I think as
I leave my
Laptop on the chair and
Pick up the last pair
Of wool socks my late
Grandmother knitted.
Spoiled from spending time
At my girlfriend's place, its shell being
170 years younger than that of
Mine, I suppose...

Old houses breathe.

The cat is balled up on the sofa;
Sleeping within its own
Body heat, only responding
With a flick of an ear to
My patting it.

I light fires in living room and
Kitchen, and
Recall how I used to sit at
Four in the morning
Under a blanket with a cup
Of coffee and tried to

Shiver less as I waited for the fire
To take. My parents' living room,
Having had to move back.
Late twenties. Divorced.
Undergone heart surgery.
Declared bankrupt
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

The ****** Months, I used to
Refer to them as. When it all
Came down.
The following years -spent working,
Saving, drinking the weekends
Away and lying to my doctor

About it- I got to know my parents
Again. My father would knock
On the door to my room and make
YouTube requests; recalling songs
From decades ago he never thought
He'd hear again.
He still brings up those nights
On occation. It was good.

Mother's knock meant room service.
She loved waiting on me like
That. Feeling useful.
Having me there. After all that
Had happened.

I had all I needed up there. Guitars.
Weights and a bench. Decent
Internet. Sometimes I'd just sit in
The dark in silence, hearing nothing
But the ticking of my St. Jude aorta
Heart valve, feeling the soreness of

My fresh scar fading, tracing the
Uneven bones of my rib cage
Where they's sawed me open.
Gutted
(On most levels of Life, in fact).
But it was good. I was
Aware. I was still here.

In the mornings I'd get up at 03.55,
Light the fire and sip my coffee,
Watching snow land on the
Windows, or stars illuminate the
Fields of white outside, perhaps even
Dancing northern lights
Above the pine tree tops.

Winter. Summers were summers.
Bird calls preceded my alarm.
Coffee on the stairs outside.
Sunrise streching her hands above
The horizon as I awoke.
Nothing I could see wasn't home
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

Three years until I moved out again.  
It got quiet for them, I know that.
But I had healed.
Trained.
Grown.
Smiled.

Three moves later, and I'm back in
My home village.
Neighbouring farm.
Countryside silence.
Home.

~

The room is getting warmer. I place a
Piece of wood on the embers and lean
Back in my chair by the fire.
The cat is now completely outstreched
In a full feline smile of fur and limbs.
I see movements in the trees outside in
The corner of my eye, but the winds
May blow as violently as they want.

I have four walls and a roof.
A belly full of salmon, a job that pays,
A wonderful woman who
Loves me as much as I love her, and
From my bedroom window, I see the
Lights from the
House where my parents live.
Where I grew up.
Twice.

Some might say that poetry is a beauty
An artistic masterpiece
Crafted by a person with magic
Flowing from their fingertips
Others might say that poetry is the sky
Dark at times
But always beautiful with something new each day
And each cloud having its own story to tell.
To me, poetry is my soul.
It's the journal
Of my journey
Called life
It's my outlet
My way of expressing words
Onto paper
Rather than from my mouth
In the most elegant and graceful
Way possible.
I am not a poet.
I am poetry.

Nothing tastes quite like a
Freshly stolen apple from
Outside a very expensive house

After someone you're in love
With has just laughed into
The first bite of it,

Hands it to you
And whispers
*Thanks. Thief.

I think I have new scratches on my shoulders, bruises on my neck, I’ve just made it to hell, And ******* came back