You don't know love till you've felt the pain
You don't know love till you've felt the pleasure
You don't know love till you're running down streets to find your love
You don't know love till you're begging for a second chance
You don't know love till you've met someone like me
You don't know love till it's gone
You don't know love till it tears your heart apart
You don't know love till it has chilled you to the bone

You who have made one false accusation on me
You who have blamed it all on me
You who refuses to see
You who refuses to know what's in me
You who refuses to understand
You who refuses to know.

I now see.
I now know.
Everything has changed.
You don't know me & I don't know you
** You don't know love

My sorrow,
Silent, unexpressed,
Burns me alone.
Expressed,
It burns millions.
We relieve nothing,
Share nothing.
Mere words,
And on gadgets
Having no feelings!

demons and monsters

whether personal
    or sprung from  Hollywood creations
    in that vein

seem to be a little bit like gods

you can
     believe in them
     blame them
     adore them
     fear them
     pray to them

but

     or because

you have no proof
they exist

Buzz lady mosquito-
aim your black and white
stripes and settle on
my arm but please
sweet blood loving one-
refrain from the ****-
restrain your maddened
appetite and rest awhile-
rub your legs against my
little hairs and drink a little
wine coddled sweat and
fly and whine next door
to brighter red.

Vast orange disk we see-
awed- you slip into the
purpling sea-expecting every
eve stupendous hissing and
steam but no- noiseless
our saviour creator and and
great sustainer sinks-
her sky in gorgeous raiment
kimonoed shapeshifting
and irridescent momently-
Dancing into dark.

Past each ear in turn the
swoosh and glide of black
aerobats to pluck insect from
the infinite void of the
flying darkness or hustle
through to feast on fruits
succulent and sweet as nectar.

Blood of bat or snake, of night
crawling, flying, running hunters-
loving the night
to death.

I wrote a poem on my wrist, I used a razor as a pen.
I know I will die someday of me hitting a vein when I self-harm.
When I leave this world would you miss me?

I have no friends,
and all of the ones that I do have
don't like me very much.
Maybe it's because I go around telling all of my friends that I have no friends,
which is probably a **** move.