We reach out to one another,
Grasping at all the wrong hands
What lonely creatures god has made
In a lonely, godless world

Oh wind, take me away from this place
Bring me sweetly to death
My one and only friend
And sing to me softly, gently,
So that I may sleep once again

I would never
Refer to myself
As a
Murderer.

There's no blood
Stained on my hands,

Except my own.

The whole poetry thing is horse crap
I've read better words on receipt backs
Prescription Pill Bottles
Labels Billboards Words
Spilling out in a constant horde
Fire Please light it all on fire
I'll watch your words pour black smoke
A burning tire
Some people wake up
To automatic gunfire
Primate, your environment constantly spins
Living in holes smoking crack with your
"Friends"
Tuned out I step from a third story window
Leaving two daughters and a pill head widow
Tired of seeing my pack torn apart from within
Alcohol sleeping pills its fun to pretend
Just trying to be alive! But
My poetry comes out so cheap and contrived

Red is like rain.
Okay, wait, hear me out.
Red is the color of heat
Anger
Love
Blood.
Love is like change.
Like, spring or something, right?
This new, exciting landscape of ideas and principles
And freedoms.
Rain is like change.
Rain rinses away the ***** parts of the cities
Like love for our hearts
So red is the color of love
Anger
Blood
Change
And, surprisingly,
Rain.

I hate sleep.
I hate dreaming.
I hate wanting things I shouldn't and I hate the word hate.

I hate sleeping and missing so much that goes on.
I hate dreaming and waking up in the same situation.
I hate wanting to sew my mouth shut and never speak again.

I hate hot summers and I hate damp springs.
I hate being nervous and I hate being unsure.
I hate the color yellow and I hate not crying when I need to.

I hate making decisions.
I hate white walls you can't paint.
I hate being alone and I hate having people know.

I hate that people don't know how great they are.
I hate that I miss my mom, even when she hates me.
I hate walking in the dark and I hate using an umbrella.

I hate hearing people sleep and I hate cold fries.
I hate falling asleep holding a pillow, wishing it was a person.
I hate the sound of chewing and the smell of melted ice-cream.

I hate the color my skin gets when I tan.
I hate not being able to help anyone, ever, at all.
I hate having to act like I know what I'm talking about.

I hate when there are people on my early morning walks.
I hate that my best friend is so much better than me and I don't want her to realize.
I hate how quiet the room gets when I walk in, because, what do you say to that weird kid?

I hate not writing stories and I hate not sharing them.
I hate that I hate so **** much and I hate that I write poetry.
I hate when my head itches and I hate when it doesn't rain for a long time.

I hate losing people.
I hate being left behind.
I hate that I deserve it, all the time.

I hate my inconsistent style and I hate rhyming.
I hate getting my nails painted and I hate wearing makeup.
I hate not being enough for anyone other than me and feeling like I owe them.

I hate being lost in a boring town.
I hate not having internet.
I hate me.

Oh, I wish
That when I wake,
Your ******* nose,
I could break.

But if your nose
Were saved, instead,
I'd also like to break
Your head.

October days are thin, you said,
like a shirt worn through at the elbow
so that your skin shows.

Then you smiled, and your stomach so full and swollen moved beneath your sweater.
We can’t move out of the city before the twins are born. I know that,
So I spend a weekend peeling wallpaper off the walls
of the back room.

It is slow work most of the time, though occasionally
a large section rips off quickly, revealing the bare white
wall underneath. I run my hands over the newly revealed surface

looking for bits of paper that I might have missed;
small bits, almost invisible.
In a few weeks it will be Halloween and children I do not know

will crowd around my door in cheap costumes
and cheaper masks - many will have none at all-
Naked faces emerging from the shadows.

Jack, they say, one autumn day did fool the devil well;
And then and there, did make him swear, to keep Jack out of hell.
But when he died, he was denied his entrance into glory;
And so he roams our streets at night and therein lies the story.
To see at night, he has a light that comes from hells own flame-
Which burns so well in a turnip shell –and jack-o-lantern is its name.