You stab me in the back with a knife,
and I apologize for bleeding on it.

I tried to smudge your name out of the
playbill of my life, but I couldn't. Somehow,
I'd convinced everyone around me, and even myself,
at some points, that you were nothing but a mere what-if

in my life of absolutes, and I didn't miss you.
Of course, day in and day out, words and lines for unwritten poems
would submerge my thoughts deep in murky, unfiltered tubs of
darkness, and I'd find myself haunted by your existence.

I tried to get over you, but I'm a poet, and the fact
of the matter is that poets don't get over much of anything. So
I'm sorry for this facade that I've so grudgingly constructed,
but I've never been too good at saying goodbye...

..or sorry, for that matter.

I.
I am confined behind the walls of my very own life.
The echoing of cluttered freight trains and the laughter
of invisible clowns fill what's left of my conscience, and

the voices of old God's and hushed Devil's are my only form
of a lullaby. I'm not crazy, I'm just conscious of the overlooked.

II.
I can feel snakes when there are none. Consider this a sixth sense.
Literature clattered in the back of my throat and the top of my head,
I tried to explain this to my lover, who became increasingly

bothered by the fact that all I knew was Shakespeare, and all I spoke
of was Caesar, and the stars...to which we are underlings.

III.
A threat, they consider me. 'Not to others, but yourself.'
Fools, all of them. I was not granted a gift to have it locked away
and drowned at sea. Listen! Act! Forewarnings are scarce, and if

the Gods and the Devils have chosen me to speak, then I shall speak.
My only question: why didn't they choose someone to listen? To understand?

what is love
to someone without
a heart.

i have bullet marks for pores
on every inch of skin
you touched.

That’s the complication of staying up at these early hours of the morning.
These early hours are when your mind is most naked, when your heart is bare, and your body numb. You hear the rain pouring down, and you look outside your window, and stare at the droplets falling, you think about what It must feel like to drown in the inescapable water, it quenches your thirst yes, but at some point you would have enough of the water coming down on you. There’s a point where the water fills your intestines, it soaks every part of you until your practically drowning. But then the rain starts to fade, and all you hear are the drops falling from the roof onto the cement. You watch slowly in those milliseconds from the time the drop falls to the cement, and the cement consuming the drop, until it’s practically non - existent. And in a short amount time, the whole sound of rain becomes non - existent to a point where you forget that it rained, and the only evidence left is the dark, grey sky above, that within time will fade as well.

m.d.

I rather sit in a coffee shop in a small town, and sip on my latte and look at the pretty people walking by.
I rather dance in the rain with my friends then hide out from one of the simplest pleasures of life.
I rather have a deep conversation with someone about life, death and the passion that lie with themselves.
I rather go to a little joint to see a up and coming band, because I know one day this band is going to make it big.
I rather get roses on random days, than get roses on the one day of the year that people actually care.
I rather sit in my room at 2 am in the morning burning candles and drinking tea and reminiscing on my life.
I rather be alone sometimes, and not be bothered.
I rather be well known for the poems I write, the books I publish, the opinions I produce, and the mind behind it all.
I rather have something to live for, something to give me a purpose to breathe air, I rather have that reason be myself, because what lies ahead of me is hope for a tomorrow.