is this really it?
locked away, the pain is hidden
from all's sight.

she stays away, not meaning
to demean,
but to spare.
spare her friends from pain.

she sits, not lonely but alone
and her thoughts consume her nights.
her skin's pallor grows ashen
as snow blankets the once vibrant life outside.

sleep doesn't come, but she sleeps so much.
eating isn't pleasure, and yet she does.
she functions to function.

that is it.

A deadbeat father
Is not just the one that up and leaves
Its the one that allows his woman to have an abortion
And never takes a moment to grieve
Its the one that
Comes around once a year claiming he cant afford child support
It doesnt cost a dime to 'support your child'
Its priceless to make them smile
You'd know that if you stuck around for a little while
Its the one that stays in their children's life
Yet allows their seeds
To watch him strike his wife 'til she bleeds
Its the one that
Punches his daughter in the face
Then expects a gift and a smile
On father's day
Its the one that
Forms a search party when he realizes his child has gone missing
But he's been slowly killing her on the 'inside' so
Do you really think he cares if her 'outside' is breathing
Its the one that
Kicked out his 15 year old daughter for coming home 2 minutes too late
Now her period is afew days late
So changed are her life and her babies fate
Its the one that
Snooped through all the rooms in the house and found a gun
Then instead of asking
Made assumptions and punched his son
So violence plus violence equals silence
For the next few years
Til Mr. Father hears the doorbell and brought to life are his greatest fears
Each detail that started years ago in darkness is brought to light
On how his son was brutally murdered in an 'unnecessary fight'
See the definition of father is
A man that 'raises' a child
Not one that brings them 'down'
Im speaking real truth here
Its time you started acting more like fathers and less like clowns

No one cares, they're just pretending,
They can't stop the pain, it's never ending,
They don't know who you are, they don't know your life,
They don't know a thing, about the razors or the knife,
They don't want to know, they're just lying,
They believe your fake smile, but inside your really dying.

I have no dance partner.
It's just me and the mirror.
My rhythm is a little off.
My towel dropped.
The air is hitting my naked body.
The music is slow.
My hair is wet.
It's just me.
Dancing.

Here, where the lonely hooting owl
Sends forth his midnight moans,
Fierce wolves shall o’er my carcase growl,
Or buzzards pick my bones.
No fellow-man shall learn my fate,
Or where my ashes lie;
Unless by beasts drawn round their bait,
Or by the ravens’ cry.
Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This heart I’ll rush a dagger through,
Though I in hell should rue it!
Hell! What is hell to one like me
Who pleasures never know;
By friends consigned to misery,
By hope deserted too?
To ease me of this power to think,
That through my ***** raves,
I’ll headlong leap from hell’s high brink,
And wallow in its waves.
Though devils yell, and burning chains
May waken long regret;
Their frightful screams, and piercing pains,
Will help me to forget.
Yes! I’m prepared, through endless night,
To take that fiery berth!
Think not with tales of hell to fright
Me, who am ****’d on earth!
Sweet steel! come forth from our your sheath,
And glist’ning, speak your powers;
Rip up the organs of my breath,
And draw my blood in showers!
I strike! It quivers in that heart
Which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the ****** dart,
My last—my only friend!

I adore the evening still,
Though not as dark as it used to,
Nor as dark as her eyes.
I guess...the shadow of the world has forgotten me.
And I have no stars for her.

Well, she's asleep now.
Novels, stuck in her favorite pages.
Her bed longs for her sweet weight just as I.
And the weak rain outside was a long-playing record.

The playful wind dodges her hair,
As if to search for new strength
In the coming dawn of her waking.
And my hesitant arms drifted elsewhere with them,
To look for the finest of roses,
So that in the morning she may be reminded
Of the touches I long to give.

Such is the beauty of this night-
Somewhere she's asleep and somehow
I think of her.

And so,
I am writing these verses now,
Before I end them...
...with 'I love her'.

© 2010 J.S.P.