Mirror, mirror, on the wall-
**** the man that lets me fall.
Cupid had it wrong,
I was never really all that strong-
'till now.

Dear love,
You don't exist.
Signed,
A silly pessimist.
An optimist on saddened days-
Contradictions always my way.

Life exists!
On the other side
Of the drive-thru window.

If you can
look both ways,
before
you cross
the border.

You could
just be a
Bandit,
racing along
the highway to hell.

Diving a pick-up
truck
with black
angel wings
painted on
the back.
Windows.

To Trend-Set.
Just Jet.

Set.

Yourself,
up
with the sun
&
incinerate.
/
Re-Create
yourself.
Out of the ashes,
you once called your own.

It seems so unfair, to think.
     The thoughts I misplaced in a blink.
                          The momentary lost. The temporary cost.

I am not a poet
Because I don't have the
Vast vocabulary of most
And I can't tell you the
Difference
Between haikus and acrostics  
And I don't know
How many stanzas make up
A "good write"

I am not a poet
Because I'm a psychopath
And I sip my coffee
From the wrong side of the mug
And I open my banana
Upside-down
And I tangle my heart
Into knots on purpose
Despite it's resilience

I am not a poet
No, I'd like to think
That I'm the poem
But I'm not that either
I'm more of a chaperon
For life's chaos
I watch over the panic attacks
And I coddle the over doses

No, no,
I am not a poet
How can I be?
When I've been tipping
And tapping
My shoes in the hall
Just waiting for doomsday
I've just been hoping
Praying
For this to be simple
For the sky to come crashing down
Because then I can say
That the bills
The rent
The schooling
The mainstream *******
Was all meaningless

I am not a poet
Because I can't make a good
Rhyme
And I'm not as clever
As I used to be

I am not a poet
Because I often succumb to the
******* of others' words
Because I know that
They said it better
Than I ever could

And I am not a poet
Because I'd rather quote
Those before me
Than find strength in my own
Broken syllables

I am not a poet
But I am the raw
And deep
Bleeding sore on the side
Of your mouth
That you can't help but chew at
That you could never possibly
Ignore

I'm not a poet
Because these words
Really belong
To the wind
And my pulse rests
In the Earth's crust
And my emotions
Connect in the sky
And my fingertips
Are made from stardust

No,
I am not a poet


*Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements - the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life - weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today.
—Lawrence M. Krauss

The days stretch apart, no recollection of the last.
I guess that's how it goes, living young, dumb and fast.
I show no anger to the past that has molded me, but regrets I still hold with greif.
Still hold belief that dreams can really happen, their picturesque beauty understood...no need for any caption.
An everlasting passion bleeding out of me, I'm not sure what else I can do to make you see, this nostalgic feeling still haunting every breath I breathe, every step that I take toward this sea. I can almost see your heart, equipped with a windchilled lining and snow to patch the holes from where your fear seeps, before you sleep...convincing yourself that love is dead, with every beat.