Rickety old bones,
carrying my frame,
dragging my corpse,
around in the rain,
flickering candles
dance in the dark,
where ghostly whispers
alive you do hark,
through the shadows,
where people do sleep,
pray to your god,
your soul shall he keep.

That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and beautiful words captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.

Silent tongues scream out,
Proudly begging to be heard,
Distorted grins hide ignorance,
Sanity wavers from a beautiful word.

Heavy thoughts burn minds,
Shadows hide the sunny day,
Sweet pain releases frustrations,
Endless suffering fades away.

When you realise that everyone else’s poetry is amazing,
And yours is of course just **** mixed into a muddy puddle,
Because you defy the teachers,
You do it your way,
Without making sure to use all those literate techniques,
After all, this isn’t Romeo and Juliet.

now close your eyes,
and please understand
that you are still young,
and the universe is endless,
and somehow,
everything will be okay

I'd like to be to you
as the sun's rays,
shimmering through the mist,
are to the souls who
know life
for what it is.

Friday night
Used to bring delight,
Revelry
Now only stings
with loneliness
You, swimming
In your lover's arms
As I break.
Let it out,
They say.
Why?
It only pours down
the drain,
Rushing like doom
Dragging me further
into darkness.
Each morning
I wake to find you gone.
Pain circling,
Hungry to feast
Upon me
Again.