This is not poetry, this is pathetic.
This is not heroic, this is cowardice.
This is not real, this is fake.
This is not me, this is you.
This is not a dream, this is reality.
This is not life, this is death.
This is not anger, this is hatred.
This is not love, this is a lie.
This is not great, this is satisfactory.
This is not me, this is a ghost.

Remember the time when I was alive, not broken and bleeding,
Left in the streets to be eaten by vultures
Remember when I was not a ghost,
Drifting around hoping to be found, transparent as usual,
Remember when I made the right decision to walk home that night,
And not get in the car with the drunk driver,
Only to get hit by the same person I was avoiding.
Remember when you could say how joyfully I lived, and how you can no longer.
I find life is not fair, you make the right decision only to get burned in the long run.
It makes me wonder are there really such things as a good decision,
Or are we ultimately just passing time until the creator gets bored and kills us of.
I do not find this fair, I wish for answers.
So I will remain in between, watching, waiting for my moment.
I will get my revenge, I will get my honor, my dignity, everything you have taken from me

I am Ghost

This is not over, this is just beginning
This is not the first, this is the last
This is not fair, this is compensation
This is not glory, this is vengeance
This is not me, this is who I used to be
This is not life, this is death

I am a ghost remember me, like I will remember you.

In my heart,
a violent sea rages
full of tears and emotions
that threatens to consume me.
So fraught
that I will never be able
to reach the surface again
nor see the light of day.

But through the growing darkness,
a small pin of light glimmers
and slowly grows.
Obscured by the ashen rocks
and burnt-out tree stumps,
it slowly sheds light
on this forgotten wasteland of obsidian
that I call my own.

Even in this forsaken place,
there is an essence of serenity
- a ray of undying hope
that fills my thoughts
with the fond memories of you.
My soul is filled with anguish
and my bones crack and grind against each other
for the fear of never being able
to touch your face or hold
your hands in mine again.

I can neither let you go
nor let you fade away
into the mists of time.
So I choose to endure this torture
in hope that you will love me
in the way that I love you.
For that one chance,
I would gladly endure ten times this agony
to know what you feel.
So I wait,
in my darkened world of fading shadows
staring up at the small pin of light.
Waiting…
Waiting for morning
and the day.

So,
You want to be able to write beautiful poetry
Some say it’s easy
“Put a few words here and there. Hooray! A poem!”
Well that’s all well and good but
If you want to be really good at poetry
It’s harder than that
That stuff previously mentioned
Is a brief gust of wind that catches you off guard
Real poetry, words that hit
Or like speeding stones crashing into your temple
It’s gonna hurt because the poem hurt to write
To be really good at poetry
You have to lose
The only thing you’ve ever loved or felt comfortable existing around
Anyone can write good poems
Once they lose the reason their heartbeat fluctuated
***** up the feeling of being whole
Pealing off the skin to shed a new persona
Burn their bodies as a sacrifice
Paying homage to the only person who could control both heart and mind

You gotta watch your soul mate drown right before your eyes
To write good poetry
Like fishing with your Dad and you got the big fish on the line
He’s excited for you and you really want that fish
Till the line cuts lose
And everything feels a whole lot simpler
Also your father also looks depressed

Whether it’s for the Summer or two years
You have to meet your soul mate
Both of you recognize that you two were meant for each other
Then He/She has to leave on His/Her own free will

Only then will you write good poetry
And with a little more tragedy
You could write better than me
But don’t get your hopes up

That’s how you write good poetry

I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.

Ever thought of those moments way back in time you regret,
Ever tried to rectify those grave mistakes?
Ever stopped by the road looked at those little hands,
Puzzled how God drew a different set of lines on their palms
Stretched out to you,
In hope for a coin or two..
Ever stopped to think that the problems we face and cry about,
Are nothing compared to the overwhelming magnitude of those who live hand to mouth.
Ever valued true love, been selfless and given some back?
Ever realized you’re wrong and made efforts to get back to the right track?
Ever wondered where you stand in a crowd of a zillion?
Where you think you’re good but proved just okay
By a hundred others who surpass your “excellence”,
Ever thought of how credits to your achievement are just not enough?
Ever realized to be recognized, to stand out is way beyond tough?
Ever considered working on it or settled on giving up?
Ever put some one else before your selfish needs?
Every wrong that you do, does it make your conscience bleed?
Go, get up and introspect,
It’s time your existence commands some respect.

I want to tell you all these things,
all these things inside that hold me down.
The sinking stones, the thoughts that
I can't even begin to understand.
But I feel it when I'm with you,
the feeling you get when the sun rises
and the moon is full.
I feel it when I'm with you,
the only thing that is consistent.
It's not like the changing moon,
the seasons, or time on the clock,
I love you, now, and through every change
that will occur.

Everything I touch turns to flies.
He called me Magic Eyes,
but didn't hesitate to forget
and get scared like all the rest I've met.
Who wants to be a fly anyway?

Everything I touch feels like gun metal.
Cold and deadly
This expensive paint brush
is a trigger I crush
everyday:
A sharp accessory medley.

Everything I touch enters my blood stream
and feels only like a dream
where you made me scream  
and drive away.
My cells thrive on bribes anyway.

The heart is a machine.
It has valves and pumps, little tubes and wires.
It pushes life roughly through my veins, scraping by along my insides,
too full of something barely contained.
And I feel it yelling at me constantly, a day to day screech in my chest.
"You must carry on! You must feed me oxygen and suffer while I beat the life into you!"
What cruel joke is this?
This machine betrays me so.
It betrayed me to you.
It sold me out, all my secrets and desires barefaced in your hands.
And all for a smile. And then a laugh. And then a kiss.
That kiss was the end of me.
I dared it to go, I told it
"Once you go down that road, don't you dare come back."
It never did.
I've been without my machine for quite sometime now.
It ran headlong into your arms and I have no thought of how to coax it back.
Every day I struggle with these invisible strings,
tugging as I walk to my classes,
tugging as I stumble up stairs
and say hello to people I know.
I'm fighting you. I'm tired of fighting you.
I just want my turn.
Let me fall in your arms.
Let me have you.

Nothing.

Blank.

Unwritten.

For now.

All that is seen is unreal. Or perhaps unrealized.

Shadows in the forefront of my forged habitat do not reflect the foreshadowing of my future.

Being so heavy on my heart, like an elevator car hanging wildly from my bruised shoulders.

Home.

The serene canvas that cradles the impetus of all my sudden impulses of comfort.

Now.

Trusted by the heart to hold itself, the frigid sound in the air surrounding, grips tighter than imagined.

Unable to catch a breath, but unable to fall out of reach.

Pushing up with hands, so much my own, they are hardly recognizable.

The world trembles while I stand.

On my knees, and as always, on my toes.

Balancing on the cracks in the Pavement as if I was but a child.

Alas.

For now, a child but I am.

Unwritten, a man.

Blank, a new canvas to count time.

Nothing, will stop me.

-A.B.