One feverishly feigned embrace
And struck with hand, dagger graced
Though the votive venial
It precipitated the coup de grace

Ignorant stood captivated,
Discourse evaporated
As conspirators followed suit
Silence serenaded the orchestrated,
Symphony of treachery accentuated by sovereignty's strikes, resolute

Although he knew the fate awaited
And pain he could not substitute
The fight he would not forsake, and so suffered mute
Until his soul was devastated by the visage venerated...
The coda extricated,
"Et tu, Brute?"

its your decision.
whether or not to take me seriously.
to take my words.
and use them.
Tell me, when did you begin to care?
meh.
don't tell me.
What i want to know
is why i'm crazy.
Why i am not normal.
I can be seious.
reallllly dam serious.
But i dont wanna.
No
nope.
Nein.
Whats scary.
is when you take suicide prevention classes
and see yourself in every sign.
but are still living.
breathing.
.........
a-b-c-d-e-f-g
tell me what the **** is wrong with me.
Please?

I guess you can call it lying
saying you’re fine when you’re not.
But it’s also a way of protecting
the dark spots on the mind that one got

suicide.
It seems like its a hot topic around here.
Around there.
Really, around everywhere.
The sound of it makes some sick,
but it also makes some grin.
See, what i think,
is what if I did it.
Would I be missed?
Would anyone notice that I am gone?
because, it seems like no one notices me anyway.
If I **** myself,
how would people find out?
would they hear the truth,
or would they be told a silly little lie.
After all,
I wouldn't be around to prove it's a lie.
If I died today,
who would point fingers at who?
Who's "fault" would it be?
The abusive father?
The dismissive mother?
The supportive girlfriend?
Who would they blame?
How big would it get,
OR
how small would it disappear?
How would my fellow poets know?
Would they notice that I stopped writing?
I'm afraid to see,
what the world would be like
without me

the day she died,
I felt the absence.
The second she pulled the trigger,
i fell to the ground.
She was my inspiration.
She rose above drugs, and alcohol
by the age of 15.
By the time she met me,
she had gone through more than most will in their life time.
She gave up.
She let go of her life.
And for that, I mourn.
But I rejoice to her life,
and what she did,
who she was.
I wish she was still here,
maybe I could've met her unborn children
and become the best uncle ever.
But I know she was in pain.
I give her credit for the hell she conquered.
So I say now,
I cant wait to see you again,
someday

1268

Confirming All who analyze
In the Opinion fair
That Eloquence is when the Heart
Has not a Voice to spare—