I've lost my poem
Now I'm finding another
It's too painful to...

The Satan residing in the cornea,

Tries too hard to insist

And the continuously contaminated

Clockwork fails to resist.

The ***** of the aces – Corrupt

In a while it will erupt,

And puke out disrupt

****** emotions outburst

Of unbearable lust.

The pubescent plaque

Haemorrhages seeds of deeds

Culminates all over – the wicked weeds.

Seductive seas

The mind browses

****** ***** the louses.

Engulfed in the trap of crap

Cornea turns Pornea.

.It's 4 a.m.A hotelbibleisspreading thegood newsto a local wino,as ***** childrenof intimatestrangers areplaying X Boxwith addicts.A young girlis learning toinhaleup on thegravel rooftop,scribing poetryon her armin the sparsemoonlight.Razor writingis sucha wasteof type O..

. ~I just wanna touch the sky--to grab the stars that dot your eyes.A shooting star's light tends to diminish,but I thought of you todayfor twenty two minutes.~.

What would it be like,To be a raindrop?And your only job,Was to crash?

The workers say his eyes light up, Like headlights on their cars.When he talks about painting pictures,They share their dreams with him.They ask him why he took this job,Long nights and bright lights.He tells them life isn’t free,They know how it goes.Numb fingers from endless tasks,Dry eyes strained and distant.Aspirin soothing sharp headaches,Leaving the factory as the sun rises.Arriving home exhausted,Glancing at the easel.He never sleeps right away, First he paints his dreams.    

(War Time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.