I saw everything
from A to Z,
love,
hate,
honesty,
deception,
intelligence,
dreams,
reality,­
wantonness,
kindness,
sunshine,
smiles,
laughter,
angst,
calm,
a­nxiety,
piety,
my reflection,
unborn children
& a million other things
I tell you
I witnessed
in her pretty-eyes.

all roads lead to somewhere.

where?
that i don't know.

barefooted thoughts,
how will i deal with loss?

Mary, Mary, quite Quant
Do you like the font I'm using?


Said Mary
First pausing
Then musing
As was her wont


Now you mention it
No I don't.


How Quantrary.

Pretty girl starts the year not knowing what to do
Pretty she may be,
Yet she doesn't have a clue
Pretty girl, though shy she feels okay,
With a smile, she makes it through her first day.

Months go by, time doesn't stop,
She finds her way to the top.
No longer shy, loved by all
Such a shame to see her fall.

It starts on a day like any other
This time pretty girl disobeys her mother.
She lies to her, sneaks out at night,
And finds herself neath pale moonlight.

She meets new faces she hasn't seen before,
New they may be yet they influence her.
Taking their word that everything is alright,
She doesn't scream, doesn't cry, she doesn't even fight.

She takes everything they give her
With a smile on her face
Now pretty girl doesn't see the mistakes that she makes.

No longer perfect, she is undone
Bags under eyes, yet she still has her fun.
Her parents notice, her friends do too,
She tells them "leave me alone, its nothing to you!"

She runs away from school and from home,
She is feeling scared, pretty girl is alone.
Walking the streets every night and day,
Selling her love thinking everything's okay.


Tears in her eyes, a man by her side,
Beer in hand,
Packets of ******* she tries to hide.

This wasn't what she wanted from life,
Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the knife.
She's had enough, she slits her wrists and falls to the floor,
Closing her eyes with her last breath, pretty girl no more.
-V

Once hailed poets were like little gods of society,
built on pedestals of bronzes with praises.
Now, a few hundred years later, poets are seen as
moody idle under-achievers, who can't even commit
long enough to write something of little worth.

As a child, I used to run.
Across golden fields in summer's heat.

As a child, I used to climb.
Crimson trees painted in Autumn's bliss.

As a child, I used to taste.
First snowflake born from winter's kiss.

As a child, I used to hope.
A start of a new year with spring's birth.

As a grown-up,
I did none of these.

I am a collection of scars.
Each tells a story.
Some from a childhood of laughter and a carefree attitude,
others from lonely nights in the shadows with anxiety riddled thoughts pressing down on me;
as I pressed down on the blade.