It's the finality of it all that propels me to run away,
and in my distraught cowardice I ponder,
just how many masks must I wear,
to masquerade my hatred, to hide my tears, to disguise all the fear?

Angels, and Demons lie in and around every thought,
and in my wrath, denial, and loathing,
I chase them away with the ferocity of a demon
rampant within a fog of ****** induced madness,

and yet that demon which remains; knows just the right words.

Her venomous static pierces the softest remnants of my heart,
the mask cracks, and my hatred erupts like knives, razors, and ropes tied in nooses;

I want to **** your daughter in front of your eyes,
I want to ****** everyone you love; while you watch in agony,
I ******* despise you.. humanity is filth, a virus, and a ******* disease.

I pour gasoline on my own humanity, and watch god's crinkled face
as I scrape a razor across my skin just to spite his entire ******* existence,
just - to - spite - my - own - existence..

I slowly burn it all away, burn away all that matters, and all that I love..

I ******* hate it all!
I want to destroy it all!
I want to consume it all!
I want it all to end in a fiery blaze!

I want humanity to writhe in the same diseased agony that engulfs my heart
piercing it like millions of red hot razor blades..

I want to destroy every last bit of compassion,
every last bit of purity left in humanities already blackened hearts,
and as I watch as it all crumbles to the ground in it's insignificance,

I can only laugh.

Sitting in a darkened room,
Hacking at your wrists,
It seemed you thought to slice them,
Would also sever your connection to reality.
But little did you know,
The pain was mine.
My heartbeat got fainter,
With every new scar,
I began to hate myself,
For not being able to help.
And as you got lower and lower,
It felt as though I was trying,
To lift you from below.
And as I fought,
To give you more time above water,
I drowned.

I saw galaxies in your eyes.
But all you saw in mine was your own *reflection

Do we truly listen
Or do we pretend and move on to what we have to say
We say 'Yes, hmm, but, I...'
And we go on
Speak of ourselves
And move on
And once again pretend to acknowledge the words of another
Does anyone ever truly listen?
Does anyone actually care about what I have to say?
Perhaps that's why we write poetry
We've lost the connection...
Or we are so struck by that one moment
Where another truly acknowledges what we had to say
So we write it
About that mere simple moment
Where they actually cared
Perhaps we write so someone will hear our thoughts
Someone will care to listen
Not put up a facade
With a fake smile and nod
But someone
Who actually listens
To this poet's heart.

here we are
chest to chest
wandering slowly out of the untold world of
immeasurable addiction
he's done it again

heavy breathing, messy hair and sweat beads formed on the top of your brow
reveal our very true tale
of The Dance with Two Backs

you lay in absolute silence
so peacefully and elegantly
that
I feel urged follow in your lead
I can't help but begin to admire every crevice and beauty mark
painted across your skin
taking in the moment

your fingers are now interlocked with mine
your eyes are closed and your naked body revealed
I see you clearer than I ever have before
and I am unsure if what I see is even my reality
our reality
it is just too good to be true

why is it that when he gets his satisfaction
he still will not stop until my body shakes with joy
why is it that even after we finish
kissing and caressing each other until day break
he takes a second to grab a hold of my face
to ask if I am okay
really okay

he does not scurry off or make haste to leave my presence
instead
he holds onto my hand
and falls into the deepest sleep
ensuring that our body heats combine into one effortless force of happiness
and while our high is coming down
the love we share continues to rise

The terms and conditions of loving the unloveable:

Participate at your own risk. The problem with loving a dream is that it is a two player game and you are the only one with dice to roll. 

1 and 5. They will tell you they love you in black and white, with mottled colour on ivory skin.

3 and 2. They will tell you that you are beautiful and then let you go.

6 and 6. Your face met with the devil’s fist. You will give your love to a loveless being and they will say thank you with a few broken bones and muffled excuses in only an emergency. In case of an emergency please dial 4. Please dial 4, please dial 4. They will smoke cigarettes as your shaking hands reach up for their face and they will tell you to clean up the blood in the kitchen, in the kitchen, “get in the kitchen”.

You roll again.

6 and 6. Your face met with the devil’s fist. Your hands bound and blood running down your wrists. Please dial 4, please dial 4. He will change, of course he will.

Roll Again.

6 and 12. A third dice to make the game and he will hurt you again and again and again.

The unloveable.

They are not made for lovers hearts or lovers eyes or the morning kiss of a weary child. They are made to hurt and they are made to bleed through the look in their eyes and the names they call you, through the destruction of skin on skin and the idea that anything pure in life must be a ******* sin.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs  
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.  
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots  
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots  
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! –  An ecstasy of fumbling,  
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;  
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,  
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .  
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,  
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,  
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace  
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;  
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est  
Pro patria mori.