Sometimes a sadness comes over me.
And I drag myself under the porch  
like a wounded dog,  
injured and ashamed
ready to die, alone
I never let the rest the world see me like this.
My friends and family,
What would they think?
probably the worst,
Maybe they wouldn't think about it at all,
It didn't make much difference.
I howled and moaned and wept,
And sooner or later,
when I built up the courage,
Usually, after a night in a tall glass,  
drunken spit,
and flickering cigarettes,    
I drag myself back out.  
I shake out my bones,
and start all over again.
I know one day
I wont have the strength to crawl back out from under the old porch ,
But that's  okay.
We never really had a shot anyway
did we?

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display

Your existence is keeping me alive.

Is the mind usually a place that will darken your soul?
Or are poets simply looking through the wrong places?
Why is it that death trends more than life.
Why is it that depression trends more than happiness.
Is there really something wrong with sleeping at a bed full or roses
and a cup of tea?
Why do those roses always have to have thorns,
and why does that tea always have to be poison?

"The problem is..."
he drawls
"that it is'nt us who see people differently from you,
but you see things different from us. We are not the problem you are.
You see the basest humans when we paint majestic creatures,
we tell stories of superheroes with no faults,
we expect our boyfriends to mirror night skies in their comfort,
and speak like Kerouac. Kiss our scars like white girl tumblr pictures."
"People like you," he says;
"...Dont ever **** yourselves. You're used to the disappointment. Your used to kissing your boyfriends sweaty upper lips and smelling...just that. You clean up the puke on bathroom floors without complaining because you know what people look like from the inside. That's why your art will never be good. Thats why today in class when I asked you to paint a human body cut open, you drew a colorless man with his organs splaying out of him, and *******" he laughs..
"I have to fold petals into my boyfriends armpits just to stand the sight of him
our ******* is'nt *******,
its *******. Supposedly.
When I tell this story later,
I'll leave out the spit and saliva and how the human body
aint that pretty, especially *******. Even 6 ft 3 chiseled muscle of it, ill write metaphors about his eyes and similes to his fists,
you will tell us about the humaness of his breath and how
it annoyingly kept you up at night,
you will speak of storms but not of the ones in his eyes.
The ones in your belly
when he farts during *** and you will
describe every putrid detail, like the fact that waking up in the morning aint so pretty,
morning breath is something we dreamers leave out in movies. And, it must be exhausting
living here seeing things how they really are, but atleast when you expect disappointment, theres room for surprise.
People like me expect the good and are disappointed when its ****** on."