The people attend funerals.
They visit the mausoleums.
They frequently go there
With flowers in their strong hands.

Who hears the cry of the beleagured?
Who wipe tears from the soft cheeks?
Who look into the broken lives?
Who prepare the path for walking?

There has been a routine,
A habit with black gowns since long.
Who will erase the word War
From the walls of their minds?

We are the might.
We must take arms against injustice.
We must ride courage and bravery
And **** the devils of thoughts.

Its sad really
Because the only reason I haven't killed myself yet
Is because I don't want to hurt anyone
But the reason I want to **** myself is because everyone is hurting me

REMEMBER HOW IT FELT WHEN HE DUG HIS FINGERTIPS INTO YOUR HIPS UNTIL YOU COULD NO LONGER FEEL ANYTHING BUT HIS ROUGH TOUCH ON YOUR SKIN? HE WAS ALWAYS SUCH AN ADDICTIVE DRUG YO YOU. YOU COULD NEVER GET ENOUGH, KEPT GOING BACK FOR MORE. YOU WEREN'T EVEN ASHAMED OF IT. THE PROBLEM WITH THAT WAS THAT ONCE HE LEFT, YOU DIDNT KNOW HOW TO FUNCTION. YOU NEVER KNEW WHAT WITHDRAWAL FELT LIKE UNTIL HIM.

Some of my best poems
are ones about you
and I am not sure
if I should apologize
or thank you for that

I'm just a young man
With big dreams
And a heart that keeps growing
In size for his young lady,
Who has her own problems-
Dreams notwithstanding.