My roommate snores so loud the entire room trembles. For I am left to stay awake the rest of the night instead of tasting the sweet paradise of forbidden dreams. Its the casualty of brotherhood I guess...

I drink your cup of poisen every day,
In the hope that one day I will survive
A full dose of your toxicity

I am not a poised person
| Nor am I a delight to hear
| But I am a truth warrior
|a knight for deeper meaning
|and a contender for reality
|So I speak my restless mind
|on the matters that matter most
\ and for this I am sutured.
| my mouth sewn shut
| by the red and yellow tape;
|political correctness
/ diminishing the truth
|until nothing is ever said
|And I weep
. Silent tears

They are stacks of mud--
Splattered filth on the curb
slowly rotting away
like debris of our own path.
Trampled upon leaves
and roadkill rabbits
that pass by our eyes
like the birds of the sky;
Forgotten people of time
and tragedy's aftermath.

Yet these wise wise fools
are happier than I,
the higher and mightier
Begotteb of a son.
Whom dwells in depression
Chained to a society
that feeds off of misery
and regretful deceit;
The comfort and contentment
perceived as luxury and success

For I see them smile
almost a daily occurrence,
as though a new sunshine
is enough of a reason to live zealously.
For I have not unwithholdingly
smiled in countless years,
yet these pitiful souls
have the ability to surpass my own
and thrive in the freedom of their hearts
whilst I suffer in the mundane of wealth.

Death is the only little pleasure
Left in this sullen world
For all things have their own
attempt at death.

M
    y
Att-----ention
S        p         a          n
Is.      SdeOpleted
Th      writ         is
     at          ting
Foo                     lish

Everyday I muddle through
Meandering the waste land, a
Plethora of subsatisfactory
Tasteless apathy
Indifference to the bottomless
Nothingness that thrives
Existing to die
Sleep walking in ---
Silence

I can pack all my belongings into a single bag
But I cannot condensed my thoughts into a single universe

I ponder death often,
And he scoffs at my folly

Sleeplessness is the Gift I ask not for
But grants my imagination a vivacity
That thrives as a plethora of drugs,
And I see thee as a painful love
That I simply cannot return

I have a sentence to life
And the warden is Death.

We all have our mystery and worldly ties
But here lies our gravestone, alone in the skies

Sweet cherry blossoms
Are drowning in your eyes;
Drifting out to Sea

There are 7.6 billion fools to this day
and I build an understanding to stand among them.
I came to the haven of insecurity to find the unknown
and to worship the word of my Professors like a slave.
I bow down to the, end all be all, grades of disappointment
As if these C's will give me the edge one day;
the sway over everybody else to secure my existence.
I yearn to matter in anyway possible,
In a society that wants to ***** out my contributions.

Thus far,
I can not compare to the greats in their sepulchers,
Nor can I circumvent my disposition of miniscularity.
But one day when I know what those fancy words truly mean
I will reign down from above
And hopefully take my place next to the others...
Dead and in a grave of my own.

Where the darkness goes
I will follow endlessly
Into the abyss

Today is cloudy with a chance of Death

Fervent warriors come upon a field,
A trickle of men storming the grassy abyss,
prepared with shields upon their hearts
and weapons ready at the finger tips.
Their hearts oscillating to the war cries
and to the sounding drummer's march.
A prevalent threat casting shadows overhead;
Awaiting the freedom bell and the open air,
the men charge with their pens cocked
and their ink basins filled to the brim.

I lay awake to the sound of sirens,
the morning bustle and calamity.
Busy people among relentless lives,
breathing in their first breathes of the day,
Echoes of the coffee stirring and pitter patter
Of footsteps leading their way
But I remain here, stubbornly in my bed,
With an unwillingness to start.
For the curvature of the bed,
made by my own brutish heft
feels as though a valley to climb
has begun to steapen
The reluctance to clamber my way
Out of these walls
Has devoured my will to move
And I will remain stuck here
Until I am yanked with force
By someone who cares

I just need to be more creative
Have one thought that clicks in everybody's mind
Something  that makes me more special than the rest;
Something that inspires,
That requires those who read it to sit and ponder.
A stir in the air that shipwrecks your mind
On the island of my imagination.
I just need something more.

But what for?
The clicks and the views,
The stars in the night sky
Or the "i love you" (s)
O' nothing that really matters anymore

Death tempts me with a chance to finally fall asleep...


And I chose to decline.
O' the regret.

Here we go again.
It is 6 AM
The morning has begun its rise to power
And I have yet to fall asleep
I'm ready to die now
Someone tear the brain out of my skull
Please!!!!

Its 4 am
Ive been up for 52 hours
My brain feels like its going to explode
Someone save me from my misery
I cant even write good poetry at this stage

I am just a nobody.
An absentee on a list never made.
A shell of goodbyes and forgotten names
I dont even speak loud enough to hear
Nor do I leave a memory to be worth
Just here nor there
Maybe in the backround of some photos
But nowhere specific nor important
You will not like me
Because you will probably not notice me
And if on the off chance you do see me
It will be too late

I treasure these stone walls that keep me warm at night, when I know its other occupants share no spark. The bitterness and filth of the night hold no triumph over me when the darkness of these baren walls hold me tight, bundled in their sheet of black silk. Walls are so inviting, they make a home and a fortress for my dreams to spindle into webs of mysteries and delights only I can fathom. For there is no need for windows nor doors when I do not intend to leave and there is no reason for me to depart. The moon has broke my heart, and the sun has crisped my soul far too often. My mind is all that remains intact and must be protected. No rabid creature can disarray my beautiful mind again. It must be kept sacred  in these beautiful stone-cold walls.

Two ravens are perched on a tree,
One speaks to Death
And the other is never heard

I admire death,
Although he but a vessel to the nether;
He is the great divide
That humbles the egocentric
And gives peace to the fraught.
Yet he cannot grasp anything but ash
And still brings mortals to their knees
In plee for a life that he cannot grant

Death sits on his perch and watches with patience, as the dwellers march on and his masterpiece develops.

Its having air but not enough
Its writing a story without an end,
Its a present left unopened
Its a love kept to one's self
Its a hope unfulfilled
And a dream left to die

This world is celebrating a new found existence while I'm just calculating the distance of my head falling to the floor.
Its a new year, a new hope for the hopless
Theres a casual affair with the maiden next door
And when that doesnt work i know where the dope is.
Its Underneath the floorboards, next to my crushed heart and broken dreams,
Washed up fantasies and unstitched seams.
Because Ill be incapacitated this new year
Kept away from the pain and the fear
Of being sober enough to face my own reflection
Hidden from the complexion of my stone cold eyes, the consistent mellow stench that looms around my scars, and the blatant mistakes in the shadows.
The heart breaks and callous hands
That are both held together by shackles and brands.
I will not remember anything,
Plunging down into a new year.

Death stands at the edge of the valley of man and slowly claps his hands...
Clap...



Clap...



Clap...



"Nice try, my friends."

The real subjectivity of life is overwhelming;
Prospective consumes our frontal cortex
But there is no escape from this vacuum seal.
We see the faces of our own delight,
The know how of the here and now,
But we are too blind to look past our own perspectives.
Even when we fathom the hearts of others,
Our understandings are predisposed  to our own Identity.
Objectivity is a fleeting notion of reality, of truth
and its as though the ground we hold so dearly
Is constantly fleeing from our grasp.
Today we call this individualism,
a disconnect between one's self and society.
But I so selfishly and foolishly believe
that this chasm stems from being lied to so often.
Am I lying to myself or am I being lied to I do no know,
but it is important to understand that it does not matter
that nothing matters, because everything exists in my field of view.
The only question remains: am I correct
Or has the devil made me a fool?
But  this does not confirm nihilism
only hints at its initial potential.
Yet there are common truths that are irrefutable
no matter who you are, real or not:
The reality is the here and now,
No matter what ghosts or demons there may be.
They affect the consciousness constantly
indifferently to whether or not they are fraudulent or true.
And my experiences are true, the emotions are radical,
and even if everyone I know is a figment and interpretation,
they still hold a grasp onto my withering heart.

A girl sits beneath a willow tree
alone, pondering the branches,
embracing the cracks of the bark
while the scenery around her
flutters away in the bitter wind.
The secluded still point she had
built for her own protection
peaks at the last drop of breath
and roles off of her bottom lip,
but does not completely vanish.
Her thoughts of then and now
pile up onto an abundance of polluted
picture books, stacked beneath
the leaves of the tree. However,
they too flutter away with the wind,
lost in the sea of empty desires
and leave her to ponder the tree;
Only the old willow tree remains.
Her eyes trace the the divide
between the willow and the nothingness,
and she could feel the weight of nothing
pressing down on the branches.
The abundance of absence tugging
each limb closer and closer to her feet
and yet closer to the edge of nothingness.
The willow is now her pondering home,
the place where her free-most self
is trapped under the convexity
of her dearly beloved willow tree.
She sits and sits and wonders the beyond
of nothingness, but feels no inclination
to leave her familiarity, her home.
The bark forms her armor, the grain
becomes her fortress, and the trunk
is her best friend, whom keeps her warm.
She sits and sits, and will continue to sit,
forever more, forever less.

The Birds in the dark love to clap
they do not sing under the shadows,
but revel in their calamity
and clatter throughout the echoes

The Birds in the dark see all,
yet are blind to the sight,
but see everything they want
and stumble upon the branches

The Birds in the dark know best,
they understand the understanding
but search ever so superficially
and do not find the burrowed worm

The Birds in the dark never rest
they flutter 'till the world's end
but never discover land dry,
and remain in the haul of my arc.

The Birds in the dark will die.

How can i take the monetary subtance, a miserably deceitful good, from a brother a shy less than flesh and blood; Whom gave me more than i could ever imagine. her name was hope. Her maternal twin is love. And our brothership is intensified by both, as one truly trifled heart could ever gleem. He slaved over brick and mortar to provide for himself, for i cannot steal his earnings when i have no right to any fortune. He gave me shelter when i lost my path. He fed me and clothed me when i lost my life. His arms wrapped around my shoulders when the tears trembled down my face. Death, I and he, faced eachother and nothing felt closer. But I, a devil in sheeps clothing, could never accord such heartfelt care in a multitude of life times to come, netherless todays nor tomorrows. Thus, i leave him my belongings, my manmade tinkerings, and all he may ever need. As i depart,It is the least i can do for a brother. O' brother.

I looked in the mirror this morning
but I swear I didn’t see anybody
There was a body but no one to fill it
Flesh and blood set on auto pilot
aimed for six feet under;
Black rings wrapped around my eyes
with a straight face
I Plunder to get to the shower.
Semi-awake to fill up empty space.
Because getting out bed is relentless,
I do it every day like clockwork,
but every time it gets a little harder.
Like someone adding weights to my hour hands
'Till one day I won’t get up.
I can barely make it to 9 O’clock
… in the morning
I look at the sun and start mourning
Because it means I must heave myself
Out of bed and pretend that I am living,
When my bed knows otherwise.
It’s smarter than I because it knows to lay still
And let the world pass by.
Humans are supposed to fake it 'till we make it,
But all I want to do is make my bed
So, I can go back to sleep and let the world pass by.
Sure, I’m a stand-up guy
But I probably only held the door for you
Because I fell asleep on the way out.
And if you say thank you
it will remind me to wake up
and keep me pretending to live.
No doubt I fall asleep all the time.
People think I have bad hearing
But I’m just sleeping with my eyes open.
If I don’t respond just give me a little nudge
And repeat everything you just said.
I’m not deaf …   or dead yet.
I just can’t keep my mind open
For too long before the demons crawl out.
Thus, I fall asleep and fight in dreams
To wake up to your next sentence
More exhausted than the last.
It’s not my fault
I’m just a little bit dead
And a little bit sleepy

Look -- O’ look
The books we could be;
Seas of lumber
Slumber in dusty sleeves.
Thieves of the night
Write on our eyes;
Lies in the form of words,
Worlds in forms of home.
Some call it fiction,
Imagination calls it sanity
Gravity of our own two feet
Meet to stay alive.
“Strive” it tells me.
“Be all that you can and more.
Doors lead to windows,
Intros to the Galaxy.
Actually living more lives than one.
Undo the restrictions-
Dictions people have over you.
Few are even close
Most will never get there.
Here there is only you
Through the woods behind the books

What is your poetry, my friend?
Is it the cool spring day that bounces
off your clothes after a long winter mourning;
the spine-chilling defrosting session
you have when the sun finally rises
and the forward look to the light of a new day.
Or is it the morning silence of a library,
hot teas, and warm crumpets, that carries
your imagination far far away
after forgetting the chaos of yesterday.
Your poetry is your happy place,
your depressed face, your angry taste,
and an exhausted out space...
Your race to the moon and back
before mother tucks you in
and turns off the lights.
It's the bad blues news
and the good old days' anthem
that hums on long to the Sunday tunes
without a care in the world.

What is our poetry, my friend?
Is it a couple of pals laying waste
to the grass below our restless bodies
as we gaze up into the galaxy
and pronounce what is your and mine;
the grass clumping together in our hands
and spilling all over each other's hair.
Or is it the strum of your guitar
and the beat of my hands clashing
against each other to make a sweat
Yet miserable lullaby for our hearts
to pour our into the beach we set camp at.
The waves matching our irregular beat
with its own casual style
that loves to ride up onto our toes mid-chorus.
Our Poetry is what we make of it.
love letters dabbled back and forth
across the classroom get caught
just to share the love we have
with everybody else who doesn't have.
The glittering looks we give
when everyone bursts out laughing
because we know they know
they will never come close to us;
not even second place.
The tear drop memories of what was
and what coulda woulda shoulda been
but now isn't there for us to even cry on;
just cold shoulders and salty whispers
about the past, that should never have been
because it makes up too much pain for the present.

I do not know what it is about a bed that compels us to longevity,
to slumber eternity in our wildest of dreams.
Might it be the warmth of its sheets that invites us to prolong our stay.
The wholesome tenderness that hugs us tight in its cover.
Tucked into our safety net, a mother's arm to a child,
where we only live to love and let die.

May it be our sheer will to live the day that chains us to our bedside,
a slave to time, a ***** to work.
We are but men comprised of exhaustion and sacrifice.
A time set aside to pamper ourselves for a while more.
A longing to heal a little further, to rejuvenate our spirits a little greater.
To fix the dark parts in our lives with black sunsets underneath our eyes,
hollowed willow trees in late night dreams carved into our flesh.

May it be for a better life, one less bitter and sour,
sheltered from the chaos upon us these years.
Tyrannies upon our souls, bomb brigades and racketeers.
A shelter, a feeding frenzy of tranquility that keeps us grasping onto life.

Is my bed but a place where my monsters hide underneath,
maybe we sweep our pain underneath the covers
and rest shame and guilt on our pillows
hoping to bring a rest to our demons of the dark
when the sun rises the next day,
soldiers forlorn to leave our post till day breaks.

Or is our answer, E “all of the above”.
Our will beaten till death pulls us apart in our night gowns
and whispers “sleep thy will, eternity”.
And temptation rages beyond our control
with a red flag glued to our hearts
tired of the ******* life charges at us.

O' bitter timber
Set there--his limber
And blighted eyes.
Thou old timer
Belched in ember,
Set to keep my eyes.
Midst shallow December
And falling November
come forth your rise
of notorious power
In the last man's hour
his splinters shall rise

I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

My first memory I told my momma that I was the ugly duckling from her story,
she whispered “goodnight son”, and rolled her head back chuckling
She must have known for a long time that it was truth
But she insisted on tucking me in so I showed her my pearly white tooth
Because I thought she made the world all better
But when she kissed my head she told me a lie, and It was all to stop the bed wetter.
And it worked for that moment of time
I was too young to understand that other people wouldn’t be so kind

And when my daddy read me stories the next night it was no different
I told him that I was the black sheep that cried wolf, but he was indifferent
He just told me his stories even louder to stop my interruptions
From breaking the perfect bubble they wrapped me up in complexions.
My father told me about the three little piggies and how I was the strongest of them all
Because the big bad wolf could never blow down my bedroom wall
But what he didn’t tell me that all along he was the wolf in disguise
He was eaten himself, and I was next to be gobbled up; a pig who won first prize

However, I never got the chance to go weeeee weeee weee all the way home
Like every six-year-old kid dreamed of on their first day gone.
Within ten minutes of being in reality, I was told that Santa wasn’t real,
That stories were just fiction, and broken hearts won’t actually heal
I ran home that day fertilizing the grass below
It felt dead inside the kick to my reality was low
The grass I ran home on had been bone dry for six years
But I never really knew what to name crying since Elmo never really showed any tears

I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

From the crib to the high chair, from the training wheels to the big boy seat, I was off
Off to meet talking trains, dancing zoo animals, and bright smiling people lit like Rudolf
I wanted laser guns shooting at me, ninja stars whizzing past my face
And everyday boys like me saving the day from bad guys that I'd have to chase
But nowadays criminals are for the news crews, and fights were for action scenes,
Adventures and joys were six planets away in Pluto’s playful puppy dreams
But I distinguished reality as fake because your fake was my reality
That I so desperately tried to hold onto since it was more lively than gravity

I was told the easter bunny had died and my cat didn’t go to the vet to rest;
the Superheroes were just drawings on a piece of paper destroying the forest
Not fighting the joker nor galactic alien ships; not even raising a finger to save a cat,
But I watched thousands of people die on my kindergarten screen in a concrete grave.
Superman never showed up to stop either of the hijacked planes,
And Mrs. Burger, the only teacher to ever give me a red light, cried for at least an hour in pain.
Before this, I had no idea what death was, but it had become blatantly clear to see
That whatever it was, where ever it took people, I swore up and down It would never take me

Because I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

Let me tell you about how I run
There are a couple of ways but none of them are fun.

There's a "move the **** out of my way" kind of run
Shot at by some man with a gun
Running over old ladies and children
To get the hell out and save my own skin
Kind of run...

And there's the "cliche blonde running through my head all day"
Where I don't get exercise, but she seems to sweat away
The pounds of brains until I'm dumbfoundedly dumb
And I find myself passed out on the couch with a bottle of ***
And a headache that makes me want to blow my brains out
Cause I can't get some Aspirin and a good woman to ******* out
Kind of run...

And there's the angsty little man that runs from home
Fighting his abusive dad and his best friend "hormone"
When he gets a kick in the nuts named reality
and a left hook to the face named puberty
by Mike Tyson riding a bison
Who leans over and whispers "you lost the fight son"
Kind of run...

Then there are the times when I run my fingers over the typewriter
Making more mistakes than a single stared wasted waiter
Running my imagination that nobody wants to hear on a page
A ******* that nobody will ever notice on stage
Lost in cut out hearts and origami cranes
and on washed out newspapers on old broken trains
kind of run...

However, there is a time when I actually get off my *** to run
But It hurts cause I'm a beached walrus with my *** in the sun
Flopping on land and trying to swim through concrete
Unable to see that I have 2 feet
cause there are 2 feet of fat that is constricting my view
Of who I am and what I'm really able to do
Kind of run...


And this is the part of the poem when I run away to Spain
Clearly, I can’t run that far so I guess I’ll take a plane
And I’ll bring the beautiful blonde with me in a first class spa
And I’ll walk into Spain saying “Su casa es mi Casa
But it will never be the other way around
Cause if I see you on my property you’ll be six feet underground
Kind of run...

We celebrate annually a time of new.
Like time itself is a new concept.
Millions of people celebrating one moment
to hold the rest in our sweet memories
As if this one party could capture life's wrath
and life's breath in one glimpse.
Why celebrate now?
When every gasp of breath
is a feat in itself worthy of kings.
When time ticks every other precious moment
we mope around and wait till time ends
for us to spill out our gratitude for what was.
In the end of time, we list what we could fix about the past
when the past has gone into the void of the nothing.
I challenge you to a new resolution,
a revolution of tradition
worthy of breaking.
Embrace each hour
each minute and second
with the same exuberance
as the first, the middle, and last
like no other moment before.
With all the moments you breath;
as the sun rises and sets
and loved ones descend into the darkness.
Do not wait till next year.
Party like no other celebration ever to come,
for no celebration is inevitable.

She doesn't know me, nor recognize me anymore,
as if the trees have changed shades of blue they never were
and dandelions have melted into an orange color.
She stood back in a shocked unacknowledgement
a painful stare right through my flustered skull
taking notice to every little ant but silly old me;
the chilled sizzles in her passionate eyes
passing by my attention seeking debonair,
easier than skipping stairs on her way
out of work every Friday afternoon.
she sometimes speaks to me, but the tides are shallow,
and our depths couldn't even bathe a babe.
Red flakes of the greatest nothing
incapable of breathing the slightest spark in her mind,
but her blazing hair has caught my attention.
Flaking embers that have sprinkled thousands of burnt marks
upon my coarse skin
like freckles stained to my body unable to be brushed off.
Her burnt heart is on my sleeve but I'm afraid not in my arms;
a fire pulsing through my veins like a slightly more addictive ******
because she is my little red, of course, from afar
and that is all I could ask for
no more, no less
because she is my little red

The world stood still,
our time we had to ****
lives dropped years
like hot wax on chandeliers

splattering our day to day
with matters of silver gray
of red, browns, greens and gold;
the sort of rainbow nobody ever told.

Not in fairytales nor magazines,
hot topics nor fresh cuisines
But in the eyes of trees
and suckle sweet honey bees

Day to day in the wood
where people wish they could
live out their troublesome ages--
freed from their pen and paper cages.

As if a god stopped each pedal drop
each bird's chirp and bunny hop
to be heard on trumpets high
in a day to day look at the glorious sky

a soft second when all is still
birds, babes, and a fawn, frozen at will
lifeless yet has utmost potential
delved in a growth exponential