It was named after the bodies that lay below,
whose tombs stood close by,
whose families still cry.
It was for those that had nowhere to go,
those who let out a sigh,
those who wouldn't cry.
It was where the days felt the most slow,
but still we all said hi
and still we all gave it a try.
It is called Home, for those who got to grow,
for those who didn't die
and those who made it by.

I long for your essence
The smell of your skin, your hands on my hips.
I ache for your presence
The look in your eyes before your lips meet my lips.
I despise the reminiscence.
The hurt in my chest when a beat my heart skips.
I learned about patience
Trial after trial, fifth and then sixth.

And time after time, we met yet again,
How could we not?
When ourselves we couldn't refrain,
And all of our hope still remained.

I love you, the way flowers love the sun
The way the night needs the stars.
I ache for you, like a wound from a gun
But gentle, like slow burning cigars.
I want you, the way that kids want fun
But harder, like a love that leaves scars.

I love you, with a desire that burns like the sun
I ache for you, inside me like a bullet from a gun
I want you, and what we share when we're both having fun.

The way the night needs the stars,
But gentle, like slow burning cigars,
And harder, like our love, that's left scars.

I crave dissection
Anatomical perhaps, but no.
Just a peek
The slightest glimpse of the glow.

Take me far beyond any other
Start gentle
Then build this further.
End hard.

I crave the soft brown
Your eyes
The way you held it down
My heart

Caress my body whole
Leave
Keep from my soul
Physical

I crave the world I found
You
Bring me far above the ground
Love.

Hands and hard breathing
Moan
No love no meaning
Lust.

I write best at two a.m, or whatever time is less convenient.
Irksome really, why only these hours my words become brilliant.

It could be the hour, or just the bottle I've picked.
Or on one of those nights, maybe the **** I ripped.

Whatever it was that sirred up my thoughts
Whether it was the drugs or the tequila shots,
It's always two a.m when the process starts.

I'm in midst writers block.
I don't want to stop writing but you might want to stop reading.
This will be senseless.
This will be repetitive.
My brain creates no patterns.
Maybe I am not a writer.
Maybe I can't write some worthwhile.
But maybe **** that "poem"
THAT POEM THAT ****** MY MIND.
And **** that poet too.
I am a writer, and I have writers block.

She looses her mind on a daily basis
Leaving it behind in a formation of scribbles.
She carries stories woven in the dark
Like uncoordinated patterns of light.
Sounds that move as graceful figures
Simple symbols, nothing but scribbles.

Endorsed across these hollow lines
All you interpret are scribbles.

But these "scribbles" are her aim
Her far aspiration; everyday devotion.

Do you not see the avidity, when she takes creation?
Are you that ignorant towards these "scribbles"?

DEAR, THIS IS SOMETHING BEYOND THAT!
You see, words are a weapon against those you resemble.
You see, this ink is her weapon, and how she adores it.
You'll be aghast! When her passion, her "scribbles"
Prevail.

Bring those hopes back down to reality babygirl, you're as own your own as you've always been.

It pains me to say, it's brought me nothing but joy.
That you left by choice, not any form of force.
That it is not I who is blamed, for this is the path that you chose.
And by will you've returned the peace you once stole.

Friend of mine in heartache,
Devour the muse you enstress
Make your hands shake
With the words you harness.

Take your mind to wander,
For the comfort of the soul.
Let your physical ponder,
And create sound per vowel.

Hey friend,
Let me know
If your heart still aches
Once your soul creates.