A waif on this earth,
Sick, ugly and small,
Contemned from my birth
And rejected by all,
From my lips broke a cry,
Such as anguish may wring,
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


By Wealth's coach besmeared
With dirt in a shower,
Insulted and jeered
By the minions of power,
Where — oh where shall I fly?
Who comfort will bring?
Sing, — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


Life struck me with fright —
Full of chances and pain,
So I hugged with delight
The drudge's hard chain;
One must eat, — yet I die,
Like a bird with clipped wing,
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


Love cheered for a while
My morn with his ray,
But like a ripple or smile
My youth passed away.
Now near Beauty I sigh,
But fled is the spring!
Sing — said God in reply,
Chant poor little thing.


All men have a task,
And to sing is my lot —
No meed from men I ask
But one kindly thought.
My vocation is high —
'Mid the glasses that ring,
Still — still comes that reply,
Chant poor little thing.

Get some sleep, if you can.
It won’t be long before you have to start up again.
Go through the motions.
Smile when it’s expected.
Speak when it’s appropriate.
For a moment yesterday, you contemplated running away.
No, not running, walking.
For the only thing worth running from is yourself,
And darling, even you know better than that.
Leave.
Drive north until you feel like stopping.
With music loud, tank filled up, and a heart unchained,
You would drive.
Until you found beauty.
Until you found purpose.
Until the map turned blue.
Save it for a rainy day?
But the only difference is water, baby.
Cause you’ve got dark clouds aplenty.

Maybe it’s the weather.
It is raining.
Or maybe it’s the futility of life.
Maybe it’s the losing of friends.
The pressure to evolve
Into a carbon copy.
Maybe it’s the realization that everyone dies alone
No matter who you meet along the way.
Maybe it’s the lack of ambition
Mistaken for a lack of purpose.
Or perhaps the lack of purpose
Mistaken for a lack of ambition.
Or maybe it’s the weather.
It is raining.

She doesn’t move
when she thinks about him.
His thoughts consume her thoughts and
render her motionless.
She can’t cry when she thinks
about the time together they will never have ,
because how can you miss
something you don’t even know?
How can you lose
something you never even had?

I want to be inspired by something
I mean really inspired
To change something
Make something better.

I want to care about something
I mean really care
To know what it feels like to love something
More than anything.

I want to have great ***
I mean really great ***
To lose myself in someone else
In pleasure and placidity.

I want to feel something
I mean, anything really
To assuage this suspicion
That I don’t have it in me.

Your lips
Were the first thing I noticed
Gently parted
Breathing in and out

Oh to be your words
Conceived within your mind
Born upon your lips

Poetry.

Your lips are ******* poetry.

I'll *******,
If you want.
Cause I want it
Just as bad as you do.
But I also want to hear the rustle of the sheets
When you turn over in the middle of the night.
I want to feel your hot breath on my neck.
I want the stubble on your chin to graze my cheek
As you kiss me gently on the forehead.
And when I whisper "goodnight," you don't have to reply.
Just nudge me with your knee
Or poke me with your elbow.

When you said you liked me,
I smiled.
And when I went home,
I smiled.

When you said you liked my poems,
I smiled.
And when I went home,
I cried.