If given the chance;
Should we not be better than our parents?
These people who live like the earth is theirs;
Like tyrants.

Patricide beneath us,
Grace taught from our disgrace
Peace made from grief,
Strength bonded through the clench in our teeth.

I thought us a different breed,
As childish as it may be to hear or read,

But I thought us different
A bloodline of heroes forgotten to times passing.
People who's sole reason was to bring out the soul in others.
That honor was doing the right thing when no one else was watching.

I know god has pried his eyes away when we needed him most.
But should we be so willing to do the same and give way to suffering and pain and just raise a glass and toast?

It was a child's dreams,
Borrowed from books on our grandmothers shelves with loose seams.
A book about us,

That we would rise above our parents and be the things they couldn't.
That we could stop history from going to the future where it shouldn't.

I thought we were different
but maybe you're right,
life is indifferent.

Little known is the thought we throw to the side.
inside insidiously we tried
to hide the being with the wish I hope to confide.

Let alone the disillusioned idea of property or love owned by the self.
let alone the thoughts we've left canned on the shelf.
Like a man with no remorse I open those cans with a thought in mind.

I hope I can find your love inside of at least one, with empathy of my task in kind

A wise man once said,
"To write poetry is to capture a moment."

To tell you how I felt,
was to show you my intent.

To me,
you are Brunhild.
I wish to be Sigurd.
You are Artemis,
I wish to be your faithful hound.

You are my queen,
I only wish to see you crowned.

You receive pros,
I empty my cup.

You crinkle your toes,
I can feel my heart erupt.

You are scared of who you are,
I am brave because I know your potential.

You are beautiful like a star
I would kneel to you, I deem quintessential

But alas,
My beloved lass,
I am not essential.

You told me if you'd buy me a flower, you'd rather grow me a rose bush and send it to every other man you can think of. but i'd be on the end of that list. at least i'd be on the end of that list. all i've ever been is at the end of a list. It hurt more than when we kissed. let alone when i felt your hands on my wrist.

When I asked you what I should do. you told me...
"Yeah, I guess it would make sense to end it now."
I could feel a crippling cold in my lungs mid summer
my heart is no stranger to a strangers lack of care.
It's just a summer ******.

At least when left alone, let alone the thought of being lonely, I never consider taking my own life before its meant to be taken from me.

At least when I talk to you, you remind me like your reliquary for lost tears, you tear through me unraveling my armor to all my inner most fears.

Giving myself a gift of agony inside of antagonizing images of my self.
Ambition and bravery give way to craven humility. disguising howls towards the moon as laughter laughed to soon. I dug my grave today just to give prayer to the future,

I piece myself back together with my words like a surgeon who's done this a thousand times.

He who is practiced in the way of emotion suture

His hands never getting steadier operating on the child inside him with his rhymes.

It never gets any easier
it only gets worse.
After all,
how can you do your job,
when you run out of thread
and there's a thundering in your head.

When you've got twenty-five to thirty for life to become death.
You kind of want to be in control of your last breath

Through moments with silent trepidation
One another was filled with accusation
The wren flew with the prestigious
The rat scurried with the gregarious

She was filled with torment and fear that she fought to quell with flesh complacent, bodies in motion, always feeling indecent.

He was bound by his wrath and fear, swallowing pride just so others could get near, trying not to lose control, always trying to steer.

little known to these two indigenous creatures of my heart
that they both formed at my elementary start.

The rat as my inner love, the wren as my auxiliary love.
A beautiful tight rope of masochistic devilry

There is beauty in resolved emotions.
Storms quelled and waters without motion.

There is beauty in unresolved conflict.
the matter of misunderstanding because of instinct.

I have dined on cadavers of my broken memories.
I have whined at the intrusiveness of tragedy

My dignity denied and pulverized pride has left me thirsting inside.

Left to my own design I twist and turn into an image more stern.

In turn I can feel my match stick burn
I yearn.
I burn.
But i carry myself inside of nesting dolls that falls at the sight of you.

I can only wish you feel this way too.