A river between two worlds
Of concrete, sometimes lava
On one side, a happy child
The other, a boy beat by Papa
They come together on the river
There they walk on water
They meet without knowledge
Of the other's father
Bruises aren't seen
Just play between two friends
Mothers play different roles
And lives will meet different ends

Cataracts in her eyes told her differently
But the world continued to lie
"My dear, my dear
The world is so much better when you can see;
all you have left to do is cry."
For a good time, she believed
What she heard
Her blindness meant she was lacking
That she was lesser
She fell to self pity
Fell to self ruin
And on the brink of despair
She tried to knock on Death's door.

She's lucky Death doesn't like solicitors

Instead she walked back to herself
From spirit back to flesh
And with a gasp of life, she realized how precious
The things around her were
Not the "things"
Not her possessions
But the people
The life she can give
And that people give to her
She has cataracts, sure
But she sees so much more.

Noble ways, dear sailor
Your brew is not as clean as your tongue
Which is to say, dirtier than mud

She will recognize you have no claim here
But you barter against that;
Praying she'll never be wise enough to know
That you were never by her side in the first place

Here lies X,
Presumptuous isn't it?
A little bit of pomp in lieu of starting a poem
Written for everyone to see;
Nonetheless, here I lie.

This isn't a suicide note
I'm not dying tonight
This is a desire note

A desire to see the man I am die.
This isn't a pity party,
This isn't a threat to me, and please don't worry

This is religious.
I won't claim it as any other.
I wish to see me die.

Me
The "man" who sees a cross
And looks away
For fear of changing what I'm doing
Because, honestly, it makes me feel good.

I look to a crucifix on Sunday
Believe in Transubstantiation
But I still can't get enough of women fornicating on the web.

It hurts to write this down
But to those of you who read it,
I want you to know
I'm drowning

This is struggle.
Day-to-day
Hour-to-Hour
I don't want this
But everything earthly about me does

There needs to be a look
Outside of self
But I'm happy in this cottage
I need to get out
It's burning down
But the fire is what's keeping me warm

I'm not trying to play
Like I'm really ok,
Because fact of the matter:
I'm not

The absolute worst part:
I've said this a million times.
A million and one.

I was told to write a poem you see,
A poem of Suessical proportions
I was told to write a poem, just me!
So here's my verbal contortion:
A cat on a mat
Is quite silly
But the cat
Chose to name the mat "Billy"
Billy the friend,
There till the end
Until the both
Left for Chop-Suey
Chop-Suey for Billy and Louie
(The cat, with the mat named Billy)
On a weekend in March
Both felt quite parched
And afterwords, felt rather "flue-y"
"This won't do," said Billy to Lou
As they sat inside the house
When all of a sudden
Cute as a button
Out from the wall, came a mouse
Zip-Zop-Zibbidy-Bop
The furniture came a crashin'
As Louie chased the mouse
To a shop in Manhattan
O me, O my!
Said Billy
Starting to cry
For he was all alone
"Do not fear,
O mat, my dear
For I can call by phone."