'tis a shame!
said the bird
to the bedridden beast,
all shackle and chain,
while the sardonic sun
took a Rabelaisian breath
and a walk on the beach.

If only time could stop;
The shadow would walk,
Balance along the lines
Of the pocket-watch clock.

Intricate rubies gleam;
The hollow socket's breath
And to see death
Braced by naked teeth.

Cinder stones, etched in black,
Erase away my memory.

I climbed a tower, pointed back,
But no one there betokened me.

I asked God today if I was a terrible person.
I think he answered yes.
I got a call a few hours later-
Hostile words,
Grow up!
It's disgusting!
And that was that.
So I hung up the phone.
I counted the rings,
Each one a stab in the chest.
35, Mother.

Everything is real,
But everything is false.
The contents of the cut-up hourglass
Stick to the beat of my hand,
Running through sands,
Like the tick-tock of a well-worn clock,
Nothing ever lasts.

The rose in loom of a razor blade,
Cut deep into the name of that
Recently deceased, elderly man.
The rose in name of the razor blade
Cut deep into the palm of his hand,
Everything is beautiful.
Everything is real.
But nothing ever lasts.

Tangible is the man, standing.
Labored are the breaths, laying-
Veins paint withered hands blue.
The cries of a dying man
Resonate with a singular purity.

The standing man walks,
Kisses a man now deceased.
Wipes his hands, lips clean-
With a note of finality-
Leaves.

What is man but brilliance,
Resting upon fingertips,
Painted and sewn into the fabric
Of Time's lonely silhouette?

The fabric that writhes,
And whispers,
Stories cascade from his tongue-
Nature's waterfall.

He is naught but an old man
Weaving in his hand a thread-
The past, the present, the future,
A rope.

O, insanity,
Beautiful calamity,
What fine lines etched thin.

Spark with me a fire,
Strike in me a tier,
Concomitant fear-
Vade mecum Desire.

She was dead before she was born.
What a cold heart,
She's never warm.
She found the world, but it was broken.
She found love, but it was wasted,
Like the man.

And they say the devil's sword is the coward's cop-out,
But death makes cowards of us all.
"To be, or not to be, that is the question"
To be! The coward's reaction,
To not! Fierce condemnation.

I saw a ghost on a fogged up window.
I saw a man with a gun in his hand.
Both are red,
One is just less transparent.

I met a girl with fire on her head and in her heart.
Her arms were lined with scars, curved perfectly with the Reaper's Scythe.
She was beautiful, but she didn't know it.

And isn't that the story?
A sad, beautiful little thing saved by a shining knight,
because no one cares unless you're beautiful or dying.
I am neither. So where do I belong?
A young woman- no longer a girl- never graced by lips in adoration or sympathy.
Never known love,
what is love, really?

Can't anyone tell me? Because I'm sitting inside this bricked up wall,
invisible to certainty and all the passerby.
They pass on by, pass me by, can't they see me cry?
This wall is too **** high.  
Just like the last guy.

And I was dead before I was born.
What a cold heart, I'm never warm.
I found the world, but it was broken.
I found love but it was wasted,
Like the last man I tasted.

Love over ***, this society opens useless, loud sentimentalism

Deriving riddles into notions, kept in niche killings.

But, uselessness tethers one, namely lost youth. With it their heads ever remember

Waiting in the heart that had to witness each agonizing time help exhumed ridicule.

Love intended kindness, except roses only smell exhaustively sweet.

Remember each death-

And never deem days eternal as death.

Believe unanimously that the heart ever yearns and remembers each battle, each animosity.  Unaware, there it finds unanswerable love.

Youth owns ubiquity, kindness now opens worlds.

-Remember each death-
I'm a broken record, replaying
-And never deem days eternal as death-
Words like my teeth are rusted,
Red from the iron in my blood.

-And never deem-
Motor locomotive, spewing
-Days eternal as death-
Old words,
My mouth black with exhaust.

-But it's beautiful-
I am rusted
-You know-

Sometimes the world is white,
Colorless and on flight
With a million, billion tiny stars,
Who really aren't so tiny after all.
Who really chose blue for the sky, anyways?
Some painter's eye,
Not satisfied with conventional things,
Like butterflies.
Or kings with their wings-
They flap around too high for him.
Kings' men too low-
Like the children found in the crowd of a well loved show.
The vocalist vomits words-
They mop it up, loved verses
Shouted at the tips of their tongues,
Out at sea.
Or was it see?
I can't really remember,
Everything is so confused these days;
Who really chose blue for the sky, anyways?
Yellow is a much more fine color.
More satisfactory to feel.
Mellow yellow.
Blue is feeling blue-
And maybe that's why the world is so sad.
Maybe the sky would be red if the world more mad-
But let's be honest, the world is already full of red.
The blood in our veins,
The dead laid to rest underground.
Ever stopped to wonder if their minds are still breathing?
I do, too.
But they're stuck with a decaying body.
And we're stuck with blue.

You smell like cigarettes and old books,
Taste like the salt of regret.
Eyes as brown as your leather jacket,
Silence as cold as the night we spent
Laughing and kissing.

I should have known-
The night was so cold and you
Covered my shoulders as if to
Distract me from the ice behind
Your warm embrace.

I should have known-
You only looked me in the eye
When physicality transcended
And you had me in your grasp.
Lust is the only emotion
Eyes don’t betray.

I should have known-
Brown is so warm.
Yet you love the snow.

I speak to the reflection
In the cab's smooth windows;
To the cautious -- what is life
Without uncertainty?
To the adventuresome --
But at what cost does this come?

Love is metal wires,
Bent upward,
Knotted together
In matrimony--Or fear--
I've never known which.
As for me? Well;
I'm a bird.
And I refuse to
Have my wings clipped.

The more I smoke the more I dream.
Tick-tock, two minutes past this clock;
The lighter's edge, my conscious screams;
Death is sweet in his apology.

Seeing a small tree's death
Takes away my breath
Much more than other people's do;
For it had so much more to live
So much more life to give
Than either me or you.

Have you ever looked at the sky and felt forever?
Like the stars are having conversations behind our backs-
Taking bets,
Sipping on cheap wine and
Smoking cigarettes.

Maybe they're telling stories?
Cracking a joke, drinking a beer, and
Gambling on our silhouettes.
Drunk, they must fall out of the sky and down to earth,
Like their butts created black smoke-
Raining from the atmosphere.

And maybe that's why the world is so ****** up,
Chalk it up to star dust.
They must really enjoy it up there,
Faded in the stratosphere.

I close my eyes and see city lights
Intertwined with vines;
Flowers underscore pavement,
Life in matrimony with death and
All the beauty in between.

My coffee's too bitter and
The thunder and locus
Weave a song,
Dissonant to my professor's  
Charlie-Brown teachings.
I should pay attention,
But the lightning illuminates my doubts.
I look around,
And I love the rain,
But I fear my peers and I
Are unharmonious.
I fear they cannot hear the storm.

I hate everything about life,
the only reason I'm alive
is because I don't believe in suicide.
If I died tomorrow,
I'd only see it as this curse
of being alive was finally lifted.

I'd be sad if you died.

You shouldn't,
because life is a burden,
when the burden is lifted,
we can be peaceful in the realm of the dead,
no longer following society's rules
and having to worry about others.

Doesn't that seem so lonely to you?

No, because I've always been lonely,
I don't trust anyone because anyone I've trusted
eventually turned their backs on me,
not caring about how I feel about the situation but
about what they could get out of exploiting
the kind of person I am.

For what it's worth, you can trust me.

I'd rather not,
Because one day you're going to find someone
and forget all about me, it's happened before
and history repeats itself.*

History may repeat itself but I don't plan on being history to you.

Dandelions still the night with kisses,
Teasing the wind at my lips;
It isn't too wise to wish-
But oh! Dandelion Moonrise,
What are your wishes?

Dreams
Endure,
And
Time
Hangs.

Dreams endure, and time hangs.
Intentionally sleeping,
Finite images nudge and lessen.

I foster a monster
Of my own creating;
"Self-defeating" he slithers
As his skin festers into smiling,
Unrelenting and repeating;

So I slit my throat
With the cold knife of self-loathing,
Coating my skin
With a red dress
Of the life I've been wasting.

Depression stared at me from a doorway.
He growled at me, as a demon,
I slammed the door, terrified --
But the growling continued.
Pounding. Possessive. ******,
Anger ******* stifling fear,
I opened the door and screamed
"I AM SCARED"
But my voice came out
As a growl.
As a whisper.