Would you rather
Have to shout all the things you want to whisper,
Or have to whisper all of the things you want to shout?

You're like that really old brick building,
From the sixteen hundreds.
The one covered in vines and flowers.
It's so old, and beautiful.
But I feel that,
If I look too hard at either one of you,
You'll crumble to the ground.
And all of the history will be lost.

I haven't driven out to see either of you in a while.
I hope you're both still okay.
I think I just want to remember you
The way you were.
I want to shout this,
But I can barely manage a whisper.

I remember the red lips
Blue eyes
The old songs
Petty lies
Snow flakes
I will not cry
Red lyrics
Words can fly
Hello-goodbye
Again again again
Words lost in the
Voice of the wind
Everyone's broken
No one is ever the same
But I promise I'll never forget the boy with the blue eyes
And the one syllable name

She dreams in scarlet, of far away lands;
Of heroes muscled, impeccably dressed.
She dreams of a charming Renaissance's man,
and murmurs sweet nothings into my chest.
Her perfect lips quiver; red as her face.

Fan blades mock me as I stare into space.

She dreams of torn bedposts with shattered frames,
Broken by passion released uncontrolled.
She moans in her sleep and whispers a name.
My lips start to quiver, matching her own.
That name gifts my ears such discordant tones.

Were I its owner, my heart might be whole.

Slowly, my pulse commences to waver.
I ask, fearing what answers might portend..

                         If I were to move, perchance to wake her,
                         would she regret her dulcet dreaming's end?

Bring me back to life
Liberty is my final right
Seeking souls and breaking light
Winner's love is loser's strife
So look at me through those pretty eyes
See through my mask see through my lies
Silence as a final cry

My life's going to bits, but you people make me smile.
That's all that really matters, when I think about it.
Also, I'm a bit of a bibliophile,
and I don't want inactivity to make my poetry sh*t.

I think I'll stay a while.

My morning is simple; It always starts the same way.
Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, repeat as many times more
as I need to repeat; 365, 24, 7, I can take it. Because at the end of the day,
I hit the sack, and then like clockwork; like a broken needle record on replay
Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, and I'm out the door.

I work hard all day; when I'm not on the clock, I clock my punches at the gym.
I measure a punch-card for holes, or a punching bag for holds,
and I take pride in either; I forsake neither; I breathe in the aether
and breath out blood sweat and tears... but mostly sweat, truth be told.
My sweat is a constant, and I'll tell you; sometimes that gets old.

That's me though. I'm a fighter on the mat and in the cubicle. I write words so musical people say "That's beautiful," and it fills me with pride.
Words, fists, ink.
It doesn't matter; I give it my all every time and never stop to think
about the consequences it takes on my mind and my body; I don't blink
at the cracked knuckles bad punches provide.
at the cracked mirror that I look into after a bad review.
at the crack-*** asshats that talk down to me from their penthouse view.
at the minimum wage pockets full of pennies and dimes.

I don't blink; I don't think...
because if I did, I'd realize this is it. This is Hell.
But... I still wake up,
and put on my leather shell,
and then take it off when I hear the factory bell.
And I fall into bed with a smile on my lips;
Because one day life is going to be better than this.

The voice in the back; the one I don't listen to...
The cracks; the cynic's view, it screams "Life isn't fair! Life is just this!"
But I don't listen. I close my eyes and I make the American wish.
Life and liberty; with both I'm blessed.
But the second ones the one to bring a smile to these chapped lips.
Pursuit of happiness: Hell yes! I can get behind that wish...
So I'll Alarm, shower, brush teeth, eggs, as long as my clockwork heart ticks.
Because I trust in justice,
even if it's only injustice. **Even if life's only just this.

I*             wasn't born in a hospital like most children are. I
am         made of soft thoughts, but too of hard muscular rivets; steel bars are
not         nearly so malleable as my arms. So far, so good, no need to be
afraid,    no need to be alone. There's no need to cry in the dark, wishing for

home      and a soft bed and warmth and food for my soul. My soul thrives; it
is             the howl of the wind on the mountain top; My soul lives in hardship.
Where     others tremble, I will not walk alone, because My soul lives in pain
The          pretenders; the snakes; the cowards do not sway. Because My soul is
Hard    Like my muscles, like my heart, like the place where I was born. It
is...              funny actually. I wasn't born in a hospital; I was born on the way.

I
Was
Born
Moving
Forward.  and I refuse to move back. Because **I am not afraid.

He falls to despair.
In his mind, his foremost thought:
"Today... what to wear?"