Because trying too hard is a ticket to Hell,
And the Devil won't take the soul you would sell.
If you walked from LA to a Jupiter moon,
You'd realize that it is not quite yet your doom.
It's something much worse. You are where you're at:
Caught in between peace and a heart attack.
Heartbeat was racing, but the gun did not shoot.
Intent versus action, the argument's moot.

Blues, blacks and purples
Soft sobs and falling rain
The taste of salt
Is it someone's fault?
The soft scent of fresh water-droplets
Beautiful, silent dying roses
The heart is in painful agony

It can make one bend over backwards
Lost little words spin around in haze
What one says may differ from what one does

These strange new emotion are simply-
Something you don't mess with!

"This" and "That". How can an outsider comprehend?
Unusual events follow through.
Is this bizarre-ness worth fighting for?

Rose petals float gentle with the breeze.
A warm passion shared between two.
Heart racing, palms sweating-
How can one think properly?

Love. A single and final word that can mean so much.
Yet another love poem quietly drips on this page...

Ever since we parted ways,
My body didn't know how to feel,
my heart lost beats
Now I'm filled with chills and creeps


When I was alone and broken
You took my hand and I awoken
When the chains of torment wrapped around me-
you deserted me,
in fact-
You could only flee
You were a coward to all
But I pretended you would never let me fall

I should have known better
Three steps from life
I could only clutch to a knife
I bled, needing only you
Shinning nobility-that was you

The cancer of hatred, took hold
Once again I'm alone in this cold
My trust wasted, now dust
I don't think I can be relieved
There's no reason to ever have believed

Thanks to you,
Whenever I spot the rain
I'm reminded of all this pain
This dismantled being-
has no faith
Thank to you,
I've lost all there is to *gain

Though poetry does not know me
It's fair to say I know poetry.
The kind that poets used to write
With simile and metaphor,
Onomatopoeia, and much more.

When every stanza had a rhyme,
And poets always took the time
To smell the roses on the vine,
To know the rules
And toe the line.

But now I fear it's not that way,
There are no rules to know today.
Poets now write lit'rature,
The kind that's really so obscure
The reader's left with thoughts impure and meter doesn't count for much of anything at all.

Hell is other people
somebody once said
this
but i don't
think it's
true
hell is
you