There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.

I’ve never received a flower
Or even a rose
But I’m a guy
So it’s acceptable I suppose
No kisses
Or sweets
No treats
That signifies ones feelings for me
No token of ones love
But I have gotten
Disappointment
Watered with hate
Planted in betrayal
Fertilized with lies
And maintained by fakes
Roses are Red
But my roses are dead
And crumble beneath my feet

If I could turn back time
I would hit Backspace all day,
Id put on Caps Lock
and SHOUT what I say.

I'd use the whole Alphabet
To tell you hello,
Press seven Numbers
Til you picked up the phone.

I'd Tab through the comments
I didn't want to hear,
And use the Arrow Keys
To drag your body near.

I would Delete the harsh words
I didn't mean to speak,
And Insert the "I love yous"
I before couldn't leak.

I would use Ctrl to
Keep reigns over my heart,
And I would Escape lies
That tore us apart.

I'd Print out your photo
And kiss it goodnight,
Use the Calculator
To check that we were right.

I'd Paint you a picture
of us, you and me,
Then I'd hit Enter
Just so you would see.

Those are the things
I would do in my strife,
If only Backspace
worked in real life.

Dear You,
My mind is white, almost like a blank canvas waiting for one to paint such art on it. I do not know how to think, what to say, or how to even breathe. I've noticed the harshness of life pass directly through me and my blank reaction almost as if it was nothing, almost as if i've never been hurt.
This isn't a poem, but a letter to my parents telling them that yes i might be young but i know the feeling of numb, yes i might be young but i know what the want feels like when all you want to do is drown your sorrows in a drink, a smoke, a person.
This isn't a poem, but a letter to my family, telling them that what i've taken interest in, isn't wrong. This is not something that i've just learned from television or the thin air, this is my heart and the way i feel, i've figured i can love him the same way i could love her, forgetting their different looks and parts, they both work the same so why can't i love and treat them the same?
This isn't a poem but a letter to my first love saying that i know what intentions i have and i know the tender heart that lies inside of me for you. I know that you may not believe me or ever see me with you again but the love that i feel for you remain in every word i've written to you because only when i write, my real feelings come out.
This isn't a poem but a letter to my mind saying that it's okay to overthink but it's never okay to forget to breathe. You can't live without the adventures and the love you earned. You can't live without fights and hate, you can't live without crying and breaking. This all makes you, you. So why change it?
This is not a poem but a letter to my heart saying why are you acting as if you don't care? too afraid to come out of the shadows, too afraid to be hurt. Why are you acting as if you can't love and as if you cannot change the world and follow those dreams that move behind your closed lids.
This is a letter to them asking why worry about who to love so young? why not wait till it comes? and once it goes, why do you break? hurting and acting as if you won't make it today.
This is a letter to society wondering why do we have to fit a certain image to be beautiful? why shouldn't love win and hate die deep within? why shouldn't one race be the same as the other? and why when we try to change the world, to change the ways of life, we die?
This isn't a poem but a letter, a letter to you and your heart and mind. A letter to everyone who's thinks as they lie, their cries drifting off into the night.
This is a letter from someone full of hope and change.
--
Sincerely, Dom.

The keys have never lied to me;
They really only sing
Echoed notes to my favor:
Utmost passion, pain, pining.
Four worn walls of floral
Patterns once were vibrant.
Torn and tattered blossoms of
Pastels in alignment.

There is a view of the terrace,
But my song cannot be free.
The sill is chipped and window locked,
Sun’s outline halos, mockery.
My hands don’t shake across my board
Nor tremble ruined red lacquered.
Composing now my newest start
Arranging how I want to feel and
Fill my place with hopeless heart.

Serenade my soul, please,
Even with my mistruck keys.
The shadows grow so long here,
Dear, they always frighten me.
Dark hair turned amber gold,
Iridescent,
So I’m told.
But I’ve only love for which I cannot hold.

I do not play with another,
Lest they feel the need.
No one else can play the same;
My jumbled notes? Your misread.
Regardless of me all,
The dust collects around.
Yet shimmering like diamonds
As they catch the sunlit crown.
But silently they fall away,
Hiding faded footsteps where no one stayed.
And so I no longer wait for them;
Press the pedal yet again.
Find their portraits on the porch—
Mourning sound my keys had then.

I see you’ve gotten the old brass doorknob to finally let you in,
But you’ve disturbed the patterns on the water-damage within.
Come and sit beside me now on this wooden bench
Creaking gently through my chamber with no chance for French
Exit as you’ve entered now.
The warm light
Cascades on my
Ivory.
Touch on me your melody.
It may not ring as it once did,
But I shall share it as we wish.

i wont tell you
that you remind me
of the stars.

i wont compare you to something
so vastly different.

you see, darling,
the stars will never
be closer to me
than they are now.
i will admire from afar,
but the stars dont
feel like home.

you feel like home.