If there's a way to dig a little deeper into
       a new layer of skin, tap into
something in our bones that hasn't already
       been analyzed and speculated by
doctors under bright white lights on cold
       impersonal tables surrounded by
an army of masked, gloved and
       sanitary conscious individuals-
a method of existing that hasn't
       been romanticized and isn't cliche,
I'd really like to know.

       Because in vicious turbulent cycles I'm falling head first
for things that have been worshipped
       so many times in trance-like
moments of adolescent anguish and
       pretenses of solitude seeking introverts that lie
to themselves cause they don't have
       the guts to do it to others.

Who the hell is alright behind a smile masking a cringe?

       And all the tropes idolized and hymns
murmured by Sad folk
       don't really make you feel special anymore
cause you've lost your individuality
       by stepping into yet another trap.

But then again hating all things has long ago been branded as
       valueless, when in fact
values are the only things you're really searching for.

All I see are painters
Every person there
Painters with intentions
Consequential but fair

1.
When I see you paint
It's beautiful, but yet
Your path oriented format
I fear you may regret

You paint it like Picasso
You effort surely shows
But strikingly, of painting
You really do not know

Thought wonderful and unique
And more positive words
The paintings true potential
Is quite often obscured

You paint not from the heart
But solely from the mind
You paint based on the model
Of those who you do find

Every word is merely advice
Add some more red, more blue
Before you know what's going on,
Your friends have painted you

So even if you hold the brush
When you follow advice
You might become one of them
And then you won't think twice

And if you do, you'll come to find
Female name and male name
Just modeled for you, all the while
You traced them, such a shame

For it was you who was the painter
And you were also the model!
At least you have a bunch of friends
For whom you did not coddle

All is not lost, for in the end
You do look just like one of them!
And by surrendering to their fear
They are never far, and you're not weird

2.
When I try to paint myself today
I can see the results are true
But when you see me paint myself
I've made a giant out of you

I paint not for myself, but yes
It is just what I seek
I paint so I can become strong
And your advice will never tweak

Fancy myself a model too
For those who can to glance
But what's the point if beyond a moment
I don't have a second chance?

Should I have painted you instead?
Well it wouldn't have worked
The only doubt I have right now
Is do I fit, or do I irk?

I love to follow my heart instead
Of modeling after you
But what's the point if I am one
And you often have two or more?

For acting so independently
I'm reaping what I sow
If I painted myself away
How would anyone know?

Well it's not that I can really stop
I can only lament
It's great, sure, but in the end
I am here, and I vent

The road to peace is narrow
But still, it must be wide
My efforts are not private
But even still I hide

So though I love to continue
Sometimes I feel to stop
Would allow me to find others
And then I'd be on top

Your painting was obscured but now
You have a lot of friends
My painting is so clear and here
I am at my wits end

I will not stop, I love myself
I'll paint until I die
And though I feel alone today
We might eventually know why

What am I for?

When Poe leaves Kingdom and hails the sea
And absence wins to ecstasy
Seraphs dwindle in their clouds
Never minding Annabelle Lee.

When Cummings follows floating bells
And someones and everyones reap their tells,
spring winter autumn summer
the snow of children swells and swells.

When Rosetti ventures in the day,
and golden hair shows not one grey.
Sisters wander, sisters stray
And can't keep Goblin fruit away.

When Frost forgets to watch the trail
And takes the worn path most preferred.
Keeps walking til his footsteps fail
The leaves are trodden, black, stale,
The road not taken, undisturbed.

When I wonder what poets say
When they turn their truths away
And venture into the unknown,
Do they leave well enough, alone?

Lullaby of the city, bright and strong,
Serenade the masses of the sleepless,
The tossing and turning, troubled tense throng
Of our kin bubbling over with stress.
Ink covered fingers flowing like water --
Pouring o'er paper in sharp curvatures.
Lips like verbs, eyes like green glass he'll shatter;
Like an open book with a hardcover.
Ballad of beautifully broken notes
Ringing through the chilling autumn air
Gathering the hearts and the tears of most
To bring the sorrowful much needed cheer.
     Like the steam from her black cup of coffee
     Not quite here; she's warm, hearty and happy.

Rest in peace, my darling.
                            Sometimes I feel that we should wait.
                            Just a second, hesitate.
                            One more moment, contemplate,
                            The inevitable that is destined to us.
Rest in peace, my darling.
                            I wish I hadn't, Pain, invite
                            Freely in a fiery thought
                            A life anew, a love, ignite
                            In that first new friend I sought.
Rest in peace, my darling.
                            Before we plead and seal our fate,
                            Let memory briefly resonate.
                            On others, lost at last, too late.
                            To deter our hearts from another's future.
Rest in peace, my darling.
                          But then, I think no new regret
                          Could wish your existence never in mine.
                          For though there is pain, newly beset,
                          I cherish the happiness since whence we met.
Rest in peace forever, my darling.