Dear baby, your mother is a drunk.
I have tried in every way possible to show your mother what good lies in drinking water
But she prefers to take drinks that can make everyone responsible end up in a gutter
I have also tried to make her understand that both of you are like bread and butter
But safety is a word that makes her blood boil hotter.
Dear baby, your mother is a drunk
The nasty smell I have to put up with is worse than that of a skunk
But to get a chance to feel you move within her, I'd stay with her in a dunk
This is evident with the way I sleep on the top bunk
I have tried severally to tell her that drinking with you inside is wrong
But I honestly can't tell if the love she has for you is strong
As perturbed as I am, please note that I have enough love for you at the long run
Even though I pray for her to get rid of this thorn
Dear baby, I have a little favor to ask of you
Is it possible you pinch your mother a little whenever she takes that slow poison?
Just so she knows what danger she puts herself in
Do not forget to hold on tight if the alcohol ever tries to melt you,
I only hope you will not develop strong affinity for it that you would beg to have your first bottle filled with it.
But in all sincerity baby, your mother is a drunk.

For those days I was cold and annoying,
For those nights I turned my back on you,
For moments when you saw different shades of me
For times you begged me to drop poetic lines
What you really value is what you lose, not what you have
Who would have known we would be over this soon?
I hate that you nurse ill thoughts towards me
I pray we both find peace as we go on in life.

I've been living my life like I'm on edge
Being on the verge of tears every single day
With this darkness around my heart how could I feel the day's ray?
I feel broken and empty, lost and dejected.
How could I give up something so real and beautiful?
Allowing sentiments and "what ifs" to define me
I found love when I least expected it
**** happened, it left me and I became wrecked.
Depressed and miserable! The tears stopped flowing.
I took a bolder step and immersed myself in alcohol.
Not even alcohol could knock out the pain gripping my heart.
Or this constant pang of guilt that I couldn't fight for this love.
Family is important. I lost this fight to them.
But in the process, they threw me to the wolves.
For the warmth and love I used to get from them grew cold
As my heart stopped beating when they made me quit.
Vengeance. To hurt them i'll hurt myself first,
Don't get it twisted I'm not suicidal,
Though it's become really hard living without him.
No words of comfort can mend the walls of my broken heart.
Some broken hearts, Don Williams said never mend.

As Poets we tend to find beauty in the horrid.
We put fear in love but still
fall for it.
Far from the beauty and the beast
we find beauty in the beast.
Like a double homicide, suicide
And a love letter left behind;
  
"How could you! if I love you even now when I contemplate our deaths I still want to be laid a rest by your side. As for him, his body can burn and be turned to ashes. Or should he be buried in a open casket thirty feet deep so the heat can moist the skin and help it rot  away. The stink for the filth he is. Let the dirt cover up what the worms and the magets will eat. God please for give me for the actions I will shortly take, yet these are not my sins. You showed me the path of peace but today the devil over took me. If you can't find it in you to forgive me then then you're not righteous.  She is my wife and not even in death we'll be apart."

That love is so deep it cut through the skin swift like a samurai sword. No pain as the blood gushed from the neck like it hit a vein. Love so strong it sprung hate... so deep that pierced through the skin with a double edge knife. Not once not twice but thirty-three times as if death was sent by christ. Not one cut was precise.
That's the beauty in poetry
As two body lay a rest
Floor covered in red
Sirens approach
In blood he writes
If Picasso would had never displayed his art the world would had never known him
A bullet in the magnum
As he laid next to his wife
kissed her with trembling lips one last time
Digged the gun deep into his mouth
So far deep he gagged then
plaow.
Last bit of blood splatter

The beauty of love and hate
A poet a artist master-take is finding beauty in death as in life.