Here I stand again in this broken town
Where my face turns up and I turn down
Here in the streets of home I'm bound
Tracing our names carved into the ground
You I see under each streetlamp's fire
You I made a crown from copper wire
Each gust of air whispers into my ear
Your name; I write it with every tear
I wanted to be your strength, your queen
Yet for all those mistakes I made unseen
You paid in full, though I tried to give
Myself for you-my life so you would live
I wanted to remove your pain and sorrow
For I felt it too, and it stripped each tomorrow
Of the hope felt in our endless coast
Where once life was what we made most
Little I cherish what has happened to me
I've endured such you should never see
It matters not, and naught that I care
Except for making these days you bear
Less difficult, and much I will find
To do for you, to make clocks unwind
I will spin you those lost ribbons of gold
The little worlds that went untold
I know them all, my memory's treasure
Though my sadness comes from pleasure
I will always remember what was true
All our moments and our failures, too
And the night when my lips faded to blue
I realized, there was no me before you.

A cigarette
Feels so warm
Like a hug from a friend
And you feel like you belong
Finally
I found where I belong
Cigarettes,
Memories kept
All my secrets
Are left on cigarettes

Dark to dawn, dawn to light, piercing rays combat the night
Dipping moon drawing nigh, floating, trancing, tracing by
Yawning morning beckons still, willing sun against night’s chill
Clash of forces, voice of wills, call to victory ever still
Shades the night, lumens the day - tendrils and spirals to strip away
Entwined in struggle, surging forth, seeking the coruscating flow
Darkness snared, one final blow - finally ending the blight of night
Out of the darkness and into the light, conflict restored - enjoin the fight
Dawn to dusk which can we trust, both sides are found in all of us

if girls are so good at painting their faces
i wish we could turn them loose on a real canvas
see what they really mean
when they paint those black lines
every girl is a painter
she needs a real canvas
da vinci is lurking behind those sultry lashes
trapped in the eyeliner-barbed wire
a concentration camp of cover-up
clipping their own wings
willingly
with eyelash curlers -
every girl is a painter.
i wonder what faces they would paint
if they stopped focusing on their own face
i wonder if they would still have clown-smiles
and slanted eyes

i am looking for the next van gogh
but he has camouflaged himself
and is dying in front of an empty mirror.

Autumn leaves
Are a trick of the mind.
An illusion of beauty,
That mask the harsh reality
Of what they represent.

Mesmerized by their colors
People mistake them for beauty.

But what are autumn leaves really?

They are leaves
Changing
Inevitably changing
With no control over the matter
Loosing what they once were altogether

And then
When the cold fully encompasses them
And it becomes too much to bare any longer,
The simply fall away,
Completely forgotten by the people who were once
Infatuated with their beauty
But have lost interest now
Because they are no longer
appealing to the eye.

I've been good and working hard
Doing my best to get noticed for the right reasons
There's a ******* my mind
We are both goal oriented
I've been focused and ambitious
Id like to do more for myself and other benefit
Lots of of ideas bouncing around
Id like to make them a reality
Instead of asking what if
As of late I've been asking how
Id like everyone to be happy but that's on them
In over lowering myself to be accepted
Majority of the time I'm rejected
Being sober and straight edge
I like to read use my mind not let tv influence my reality
Writing is my expression so I could be heard and understood
I'm hooked on good vibes not fueled by negativity
Avoiding ppl who don't understand
Praying to be understood

Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb—
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:

And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing—nothing at all.