the mirror is a ghost
that reflects black eyes
brought by your own hands.
tiny pupils in an iris of badly mixed paint.
you are a ghost
without the desire to haunt.
no desire to *****.
or creep up to the boy in the dark hallway
and yell 'boo!'.

every breath, he takes as your own.
his every move could be your demise.
he gives you your flesh back when
he holds you and kisses you,
even when you know he doesn't like to kiss.
he is your pale skin,
your fat thighs and freckles.
he is everything about you,
from your strange secret habits,
to your most embarrassing
**** beach runs, that can
only be remembered
through the tales of others.
he is all of you now
and you know it's a terrible
                                                  terrib­le
                                                              ­  terrible thing.

but the mirror never lies and now you are dust.
ashes to ashes.
your tongue covered in residue from the 70mg
of ****** taken.

but through the calm you wish you had his hand
to brighten your eyes and flesh once more
with just that crooked smile and deep blue eyes
that will never, never, never cease to intoxicate you.

but every night as his soul leaves,
to adventure planes in dreams you could never imagine,
that even by his side, without him there,
forever will you remain but the dust form of an empty human.

i am tired of being
scared to fight for
what i want, but i
am too tired of
being rejected
to fight for
you.

liturgical language of wind whispers in the pines.
the sky filled with the pearly puffs of Her word.
the hymnal call of the mountains.
angles rise from the depths of lakes.
the taps of rain on the ground proclaim the Almighty.
cavernous churches entombed within the minerals
of Her love.
upon Her watery canvas She paints portraits
of Her ardent, blue dreams of eyes, and erases them
with each passing kernel of time
repainting them just as fast.
paradise.
pinnacle of unselfish endeavors.
untainted beauty encapsulated in Her smile
She is good; She is infinite; She is yes.
my only escape,
ever-faithful,
unchanging beauty.
all is held within the womb of Nature,
waiting for birthing death into the ethereal.
thank god for Nature.

I sit on my bed
With words and prhases in my head,
How to connect them, I don't know.
I wish I had the lyrical skills of Poe.
What words rhyme with 'December"???
Remember, dismember, glowing ember,
Its like a puzzle, trying to make words fit
This is a good line, one I cannot omit.
Oh yes!! That rhyme is perfect!
Now I must make the line and poem connect.
Word rhyme, rhyme to prhase, phrase to line,
Line to poem, and now I must refine
This page, checking my spelling,
Will they like this poem? There's no telling.
Why must I rhyme?! Can't I just rage out in prose?!
Oh, but I'm too quiet to do that. I know, everyone knows.
Oh well, I need another rhyme.
A rhyem to rhyme with rhyme,
It's like a paradox to find this rhyme of rhyme,
A-hyme
B-hyme
C-hyme
Wait, "chime"!
No, it doesn't fit, and it's a dumb rhyme.
There no rhyme for "rhyme" I bet,
Oh well, I continue down the alphabet,
Q-hyme
R-hyme
Got it!
Oh... duh.
S-hyme,
No, that is it.  
There's no rhyme for "rhyme"
I guess I have been just wasting my time.

In my trench and freezing cold,
saw a guy get his helmet shot when he stood up a bit feeling bold,
still alive but has a  wound,
I should be back in hometown with mum and pop,
eating turkey,
but instead I get this slop,
My adrenaline has been going for two weeks and its starting to wear,
but sleep I do not dare,
no man's land is all I will see,
and my dead friends welcoming me,
I start to nod into sleeping fright,
but again I fight,
I start to hear singing from across the field,
delusions I yield,
but again I hear,
and every now and then a cheer,
all drained of fear,
I pop my head up and see the Germans singing,
Christmas carols ringing?
A mate next to me starts to sing the same tunes,
so I pick it up and more do,
we must be loons,
but the singing together goes all through the night,
British and Germans, ever the hard ***** are singing too,
in the morning a brave chap gets out of the trench,
walks across the field that has the death stench,
no fire comes upon him nor gas,
but a man from the otherside gets up and rushes to meet him fast,
I dont see what they are saying but they exchange cigarettes and matches,
then the peace hatches,
we all get up on both sides and go talk with our enemies from yesterday,
we only smile because there is nothing to say,
except today is Christmas and we both want to go home,
but tomorrow we will both be firing at each other alone,
a football game break out and our commanders are even smiling,
no order to pour into filing,
just smoking pipes and waiting for it to end,
we show each other pictures of our girls and what they send,
no longer two side,
but two humans that needed someone in to confide,
we shake hands and go back to our trenches,
sit on our poorly built benches,
and wait till tomorrow when we are no longer a son,
but enemies trying to **** each one.

With a split of a second
A million thoughts travel our mind
Few are the ones captured
And framed on the wall of our memory
It all just comes down to a game of sensations
Some thoughts please us with their parody
Others scare us with their complexions.
Used to choose the easy way around,
Tossing and turning till we fall apart
Because the mystery of imagination got us under its spell
Thus control over our silly life is hard
Imagination gives us the power of creation
Coloring each and every corner of this world
Wishfully writing scenarios to be heard
While the fight against temptation
Turns into an overwhelming war
With the worst and strongest enemy of them all
Just look in the mirror and you'll see
The fire in his eyes burning you to the core

No one can deny the tenderness,
the feeling of such wet-friction,
those intimate-motions meant
to feel the genuine soul of another.

O the warm embrace,
face-to-pretty-face,
lip-to-luscious-lips acts,
the attraction of pheromones!

It is one of nature's truest gifts,
not to be abused as some do,
but to be savored, to be inhaled,
drank like the finest wine,
written about
by lonely romantic odists
who love such things.

surrounding forlorn sun-cursed flora
pulled by the teary eyed sky;
stars tantalizing them from on high
  with promises of a heavenly aura.

never satisfied with their strata,
always pushing against their time
until the death-bell for them chimes
  and they wither to kernels of data.

encouraging drops sent to their aid
from their lake and river neighbors;
within the dirt, they do their labor
  and at their end, to the dirt they fade.

we are but flowers in a grassy field,
reaching for the suns radiant hand, and
like the flowers strewn in "our" lonely land
   to the omnipotent dirt we shall always yield.