There's a place for those
like you and me, kid--staring
through this window pane, at odds
for hours. Conversations even out
these nights 'til a year's passed.
A smile of glass that dies too fast
ain't all we're sharing; just the
loudest thing we're sharing, staring
through this silent frame.

There's a place for those
like you and me--where we can go
when seasons roll
               around our guts
               and come back up
in boiling years.
          That place is here,
in this square frame,
with our smile of glass that breaks
           too fast
when dice cast cry out snake eyes;
          ours are blue,
and some are brown.

But she looks pretty
                         happy
                           now.

So it's back into this mirror frame
for debates had through window panes
and scrubbing hard with scalding water
          rinsing off our name.

You see me as a land of horror
A land of misery, a land of terror
But you should know I am much more than that
You should know that you're at error
The beauty of my mountains and
The vastness of my meadows
A perfect peace for those shattered
The bravery of my soldiers and the stories of my martyrs
A perfect example for those cowards
The hospitality of my people and the love for the visitors
A perfect happiness for those gathered
The four weathers and the mirth of seeing a clear night sky
A perfect trip for those who visit
There's much more but I have to end it here
I want you to come by yourself and discover!

a sharp razor
an outstretched arm
a sudden darkness



When she dumped you
It should have been on top of a bed of cow itch
Unfortunately, for us the seven-year itch continues



A Steep Hill
Your silver motorbike
Why not take it for a test run

I felt free and light
Like I was made out of air, or feathers
Then I was slapped back to reality
With a tube down my throat
Now there's this break in my eyes
A white flag, announcing my loss
I have given up

Can you see it, my deadly love?
Can you see what you made me into?
A living corpse, an off tune symphony
A torn page off of a book, lost and incoherent

I, as a cat
Have nine times to die*
I have given up three, and I would give up the rest
In a heartbeat, or a slit of a wrist
The sadness of the world, cries in my head
And the happiness that you once laid in me
Is now slipping through my fingers
I am made out of air

You broke me into a million little pieces
And stumped over each one of them
Over and over again
You can't feel anything
For I should have known
My heart is made out of paper
And yours is made out of stone

I lost count, of the times I cried for you
I lost count, of the times you killed me
My poems are my tragedy, and so is your love
I'm a poetess of death, or near death
The penalty of my half written dreams
Half written books
Half written poems
And our half written destiny

Won't you come, and pull the knife out my back
And bury it with my remains
Dust to dust
Loss to loss
And air to air.

The pain is having *** with someone, yet again,
who is not interested in anything more.
The suffering is pretending that it doesn't bother me.