I do not know
if things will be okay,
but I know
that things will go on,
and that's enough
to keep going.

*—w.b.h.

As I read your poetry
I wonder if it's true
Do the demons that help in rhyme
Really have a hold of you

And is the one you say you love
Not returning you the favor
In the poems that you pen
Is this all your life's behavior

Does your father really raise his fist
While your mother screams
As alcohol flows freely in your life
Or is it just poetry

Are you on the verge of suicide
And do you truly cut yourself
Do you feel that worthless in your life
Is what you write a cry for help

As I read your poetry
It often sets me off to wonder
Do you write about yourself
Or do you write about another

Because I want to be strong I am weak
Those fickle petty rules by which we live
            Have made me sick
I'm not immune to having dreams and desires
When every better part of me
            Has been seduced
By the velveteen swans that flash as images in my mind
And on the plasma screens for which I bleed

And really I have grown
Grown sick and tired and exhausted
From breathing the air I need to live
The toxic vile air
Causing cancer
From drinking from the well
Which has been poisoned

I like my poison undiluted

I like my poison clearly marked
By sinister skulls and crossbones
          With the worst of intentions
I would actually enjoy the knowledge
That this poison in my blood
           Is going to reach my once enamored heart
Which used to beat with the hope for tommorow
And now is a rhythmic device in a song full of sorrow

And really I have died
Dangerous oderous chemical sand timers
I've died a thousand insecure lives
In a false world
With fake meaning
And my arteries and veins will attest
This disease is a foe that never rests

I like my poison undiluted

he loves adventures

you are not an artist you just have big emotions